Opt for the path less trodden - allow yourself to stray from it, even - and you might find, buried in the bracken, deep in the trees, a shining modernist monolith. Liquid as a mirror, glinting in the leaf-broken sun, it lies in wait off the beaten tracks of North Yorkshire, South Wales, or the A508 out of Milton Keynes. Or perhaps it is all of these places simultaneously and none of them: an amalgam of the wayside walks of the British Isles, accessed only by the maps of the mind. Heeding the call of the electric clarinet, the crooning song of a frog, you crunch across the forest floor, open the door, and step into the vigorous green, your edges shimmering as you ascend.
