About a mile down a narrow, wooded path lies Buckley - an old abandoned slate
quarry, now surrounded by woodland and slag heaps. Suddenly I come across two
battered trucks, parked next to each other but facing opposite directions so
that the drivers can talk to each other. The engines are idling, and country
music leaks out of the radio. I keep my eyes on the path. Whatever they're doing,
it's none of my business.