Andrew Conroy

A ring from space grew from winter treks around Haverah Park, a ragged, unforgiving moorland on the edge of Harrogate. Hemmed in by roads that twist and turn towards the opening credits of Emmerdale, and scarred by tracks that meander through decommissioned reservoirs, listing telegraph poles, abandoned experimental research stations and the rubble of aristocratic leisure estates, it’s a place where the conversation between public and private is more squabble than chat.

Policed by stern warning signs, both official and scrawled, grudgingly tolerated rights of way beat a stubborn path towards escape and avoidance, surrounded by corroded barbed wire fences that rise up to eavesdropping golf balls looming ominously on the horizon.

But under a low-slung sun, oblivious to the cold, our underperforming footwear and the wagging finger of the land-owning class, none of this mattered, and on we pressed, mapping territories of our own.