WG Sebald, a writer I hugely admire, has written at length about this part of the world, including several disorienting pages on Dunwich and the surrounding heathland, in The Rings of Saturn, his book that appears to be about memory, destruction and deterioration, guilt and exploitation (among, no doubt, much else) and that I seem to return to again and again. I suppose I'm just trying to understand the blasted thing, but there is also something in the long, melancholic, meditative sentences that continually spawn subordinate clauses that I find endlessly hypnotic. He's definitely a writer who slows me and encourages me to notice more, which is necessary and welcome. We find so much within its pages: the endless silk references, often as a handmaid or silent accompanist to disaster; the impossibility of ever really disentangling landscape from history; the impermanence of, well, everything; the human compulsion to dominate, exploit, destroy each other, other species, and the surrounding environment; the labyrinths, mazes, disorienting heathland paths which stand for the endless mental tracks through individual and shared memories. And the characters: eccentrics, melancholics, obsessives, victims of tragic circumstances. Particularly in early readings, these often wonderfully drawn people are what pulled me in and provided, along with the journey through the landscape that I know very well, an anchor for all the long distance ranging through streams of thought, of digressions, of mental travelling.