Acrid smoke touched my throat, whilst a pungent smell saluted my nose. Bone dry dust surrounded me, lifted by the heat coming from the buried detritus of humanity. It might have been a surreal landscape, except for the fact that it was populated by my friends from the Brookhill gang. We visited most days crossing the worn planks that functioned as a bridge for the strangely clad men in their beaten up vehicles that arrived most days to deposit more unwanted gems from the community. Gems which the gang recycled. Including old bikes which in time we would refashion into dreams.