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animals—said Mary.
    â€”intensive farming is the price we pay for not wanting to pay the price we would have to pay without it—said Tom—& its very rare that the wind is in a quarter which wafts the aroma into Sandytown—
    â€”indeed no!—said Mary—which is why Daphne Brereton spent most of her time at her first husbands house—even after shed married her second!—
    Yes—I know—mysterious!—but all will be explained later. Meanwhile we drove for a mile or more alongside a high wired fence through which I could see rows & rows of concrete buildings with all the charm of a concentration camp. Finally we reached the main entrance to the site—with a huge double gate—& a sign reading HOLLIS’S HAM—THE TASTE OF YORKSHIRE —except that someone had been at work with a spray can—& it now read— THE TASTE OF DEATH.
    There was a man up a ladder with a bucket & scrubbing brush. He paused in his work as we passed & gave a wave. Tom wound down the window & called—Morning Ollie! More trouble, eh?—but Mary didnt slow down enough to give the man time to reply—& Tom closed the window again but not before wed got another near fatal dose of the porky pong!
    A few minutes later Mary signaled to turn seaward as we approached a sign saying SANDYTOWN VIA NORTH CLIFF .
    Tom said—my dear—why dont you take us round by South Cliff—& through the town—so Charlotte can give us her reactions—first impressions are so important—
    Obediently Mary switched off the signal & drove on.
    I didnt correct Tom about first impressions. Diplomatically I hadnt mentioned the famous excursion. Now I began to see for myself what Tom—of course—had already told me—that Sandytown—originally just a fishing village—is situated in a broad bay between two lofty headlands—North Cliff & South Cliff.
    A loop of road runs down from North Cliff—through the village—then up to the coastal road again—via South Cliff.
    Got that?—or do you need a diagram!—
    As we approached the South Cliff turnoff—I could see the headland here was dominated by a complex of buildings. One of them looked like an old mansion house—green with ivy—with a long extension—in keeping but definitely recent. A couple of hundred yards away was a modern two storied building—the stonework brilliant white—broad reflective glass windows catching the drift of small white clouds across the bright blue sky. Alongside that—a long single storied building—in the same style.
    We turned off the coast road—but before we began the descent proper—at Toms request Mary pulled in by a gilded entrance gate—set in a dense thorn boundary hedge—bit like the entrance to heaven in that Pilgrims Progress you got for a Sunday School prize—remember?—we used to tear pages out to roll our ciggies!
    A large elegantly designed signboard was inscribed WELCOME TO THE AVALON FOUNDATION . There was a small gatehouse from which a man emerged—his face breaking into a smile when he recognized the car.
    â€”Morning Mrs Parker—Mr Parker—he called.
    â€”Morning Stan—replied Parker—How are things? Family well?—
    â€”Yes thank you—all middling well. Yourself?—
    â€”in the pink Stan—said Parker—which was either a bit of an exaggeration—or Mr Godleys healing hands really had done the business.
    As they talked—I studied a site diagram beneath the welcome sign. It indicated that the main two storied modern block was the Avalon Clinic—the long single story was the Avalon Nursing Home—& the old house was the Avalon Convalescent Home.
    A phone attached to the gate mans belt bleeped. He excused himself & turned away to answer it.
    I said to Tom—how do the locals like having the clinic on thier doorstep?—
    â€”some initial