" The sun was blindingly bright and I hadn’t a care in the world until a solitary black cloud twisted my fantasy to gloom and despondency. I knew that I must shortly return home. I turned the other way, attempting to run—to run and escape, but I was frozen. No matter how hard I tried, my legs had turned to stone and night fell upon me that instant. No stars were out. No moon, just blackness. I was suddenly back in that little attic bedroom of Primrose Cottage, with the smell of freshly extinguished tallow just starting to fade away, supplanted by the pungent odour of that vinegary bastard, my grandfather. "

― Martin R Jackson : Running with Finn McCool