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We are walking along the quiet lane that runs through the woods
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Hawkwind, Stonehenge Festival, 1984. A dishevelled group of punks, hippies, bikers and Hells Angels are gathered in a Wiltshire field.
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I sometimes have a dream, a recurring dream I suppose
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We walk into the woods. The dog is focused, sniffing the ground, erratically moving left and right, pulling at her lead.
