Out in lonely east Leicestershire is a lane that leads over to the little village of Owston. I often go there just to wander about in the churchyard, looking at the lettering on the Swithland slate gravestones, listening to the constant racket of rooks high in the beeches overhead. On my way there one afternoon I saw this signpost pointing down a bridleway. Just as I was ranging it up in the camera a white horse serendipitously moved into the background.
