And for most of the group it didn't.
But I saw this much.
A room with a black and white tiled floor- as in 17th century Dutch paintings, sparsely but expensively furnished. I sensed rather than saw that I was a middle-aged to elderly man- well-to-do- a doctor or scholar or lawyer or something along those lines- dressed in clothes I'd date to around 1600. I looked out the window and there- about half a mile away, across the valley on its bluff- was Durham Cathedral.
I've never had much to do with the North East. I've visited Durham a couple of times, Newcastle once. But there's something about the region that speaks to me. Last time I was there I found myself writing a sequence of poems- dramatic monologues- in the voices of local people- a monk at Mount Grace Priory, a Roman soldier, a Prince Bishop, the daughter of a medieval man who was scavenging stone from Hadrian's Wall, a Viking settler, a witch, a Victorian mason working on Durham cathedral. I'm not claiming all these folk as past lives- but there was something going on- something unusual. It was like a tap had been turned on- then off again. They came quickly, one after another and then they stopped. I'd never channelled voices like that before- nor have I done it since.