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The sound of marching feet


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In the summer, out for a late night wander with the dogs, high on them bare hills round here, I suddenly heard the sound of marching, the simple regularity of thousands marching from the east to the west. We stood still as they passed right through us, largely silent, with a few rattles of kit and the odd grumble. They raised a light cloud of dust as the passed, led by men on horseback with shiny uniforms and horsehair crested helmets that shone in the moonlight.

And then they were gone as if they had never been, following a straight road across the hills, from horizon to horizon.

Roman troops on the march, a legion going about its business; I will never know.

What is sure is that the Chaussée  Brunehaut are still there, built long before the Romans and still used by farmers, walkers and ghostly Roman Legions. I know because I saw one!




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