At the top of the embankment we saw Doug. He was two lanes across the three lanes, heading for the central reservation. In the near lane, high sided lorries wailed past, hiding then revealing him in split-second still-life shots.
Just like the chapel had a different quiet, the motorway exhaled a different heat. It was a stronger, more threatening heat, more immediate and visceral than that which boiled down from the sky. Here the searing force billowed off the tarmac and suffocated you; you could almost see its fingers crawling down your face and asthmatically caressing your throat.