First; wet, black rock. Blue plastic flapping fitfully. There must be a wind. Floodlights on tall posts, or maybe security cameras. Huge plastic sacks full of trash. So much trash. Museums of it. Graffitti painted over in a colour approximating bare concrete.
Below are roads, then a roundabout. A big sign says, courage, in capital letters. Everything has a coating of limp soggy brown dead leaves. The cars look balletic on the wet tarmac.
Torn scraps of blue sky. Black. Dark. Yellow light.
Obsolete brick sheds with blank windows and extinct chimneys, men in high-visibility vests, housing estates, blackened hedges, lumped fields, sagging parkland, empty barns, ragged fallow, serried conifers, saturated mud, burst banks.
Trees standing staring.
Then; acres of wet, empty rails. Another sign says, the snooty fox, in italics. Pylons. Pyramids of gravel. Industrial units, portaloos. Mud. Rubble.
Self-storage. I'd like to store my self. Not needed at present. Will call back later.
An empty football pitch. Studded boots sliding through mud, dog shit. Kwik Fit Waitrose. Industrial estate. Mobile homes immobile. And a portakabin remote in a field of trash. A distant mental hospital. Stockbroker homes.
A huge wet field. One man standing in it. Arms raised wide to the sky. The sun finally comes out. We will shortly be arriving in East Croydon.