Walk inside, though, and the warm hum of conversation mingles with the twang of guitars, banjos and mandolins.

On these paths, you walk inside the ghosts of every other person who was ever here: barefoot; hobnail-booted; cloaks swishing.

There's a picture of him in the training ground, a painting of him at the stadium, and pictures when you walk inside the tunnel.

I say drop a mouse into a poem and watch him probe his way out, or walk inside the poem's room and feel the walls for a light switch.

And if you were to walk inside one of the homes, you would be forgiven for thinking that you had entered a funhouse at an amusement park.