The Slow Trail.

Samuel has been following his Sherlock Holmes manual again, or maybe Harriet The Spy’s. Unsure of where the once-magicians of Crosspool were going, he waited at the end of their road and watched them turn right, and drive until they disappeared. The next day he stood at the next possible turning after they’d gone out of sight and stood waiting there. He did this all week until he’d followed them to where they go everyday. There were occasional slip ups, when they must have gone to the shops first, because he was left waiting for two hours and they didn’t show. But eventually, in his faithful disguise as a bloke walking his dog, he followed them all the way to where they park up outside the café and the paddling pools along Rivelin valley.

They put on waterproofs and walking boots and set off along the river. Samuel was able to follow them easily now, but within a few minutes they were wading across the water to the far bank. The path runs on the other side too, so they could just walk round. I suppose they must like doing things the hard way: if they just turned the other way out of their house they could cut their journey down by three quarters. Instead of climbing the bank, they started probing the soil with metal rods. Samuel kept on walking wand doubled back. I know the place he means well, I used to walk there all the time. Apparently they’re going back every day, moving along the river at a rate of a few metres a day. They don’t act like they found anything.