It’s the same every morning. At the end of the tree-lined bank that used to carry the New River, as you turn vaguely northwards towards the fenced off no-dogs area, the temperature all of a sudden drops. A cold dry wind hits your face, whirling in from the direction of Woodberry Down. Narrow your eyes and try you can see that you’re on the slopes of a very gentle hill.
A can of Kestrel Super lies at the side of the path. A possible sign that a shamanic specialbrew energy diviner has been in the area, mapping the lines between Stoke Newington and Highbury. That or a lazy drunk.