Grassington. Today I gave a workshop for fifteen budding Grassington writers and they have decided to start a Grassington Writers Group. In the evening I experience a moving site specific show by Slung Low Theatre at Linton Camp a home a residential school used by evacuees from Leeds and Bradford in The Second World War.

The coach took us, the audience, from Grassington to Linton Camp (about a half a mile away) where we were given headphones and then led through the camp by actors playing the children of the time. Linton Camp is a regimented set of huts that seem like a concentration camp. Haunted elongated huts with pathways between them and grounds of low grass and a perimeter fence. Dilapidated. Maladjusted.

It's a way of remembering, a way of validating the memories of hundreds of children who’d been there. As darkness fell the performance came to its finale. The children ran from the open field where they had led us back into the camp, the long huts. And as they disappeared the huts came to life with phospherous light, radiance punched through the windows and cracks in the wooden walls out and up illuminating the night sky.

“I was in there” said the elder man sat next to me on the coach trip back to Grassington “we all were…” and I looked over my shoulder down the aisle of the coach at the elderly people, with their sons and daughters.