I followed B.A. along the route up the hill to where the Romans built their fort and multimillionaires now live behind high 17th century walls. One of them has what sounds like a three-headed dog rushing forward from hell to rip our guts out. The rest of the village is usually tranquil and almost silent
On our way back, the wall along the path loomed in the gloaming, and my heart actually lifted. I do not know why unless, like the Historical House the wall gives a sense of permanence. I don't think it is A-listed, but I very much doubt any of the villagers would permit its maiming or destruction. Thus, billionaires may make coercive plans for humanity, or journalists may write that they do, and plagues may rage, or politicians say that they do, and yet the wall will still stand.
The wall is also an easily proven fact. Whether or not we can believe anything well-meaning, or ill-meaning, people tell us, there is definitely that wall. It was also well-made, and whoever built it is blissfully anonymous. Even if (God forbid), some idiot comes along and scrawls racist epithets on it, no blame will fall upon the mason(s). I hope he or they had a good life, and that he or they earned enough to feed their families.
Finally, the wall is much bigger than my fears, my disappointments, and, indeed, me. Perhaps the wall is a metaphor for God.