The Windmills Are Winning

Ah yes, a truly legendary clash of minds and metal, as the supremely rational, astoundingly gifted Don Quixote—sharp as ever—heroically attacks a gang of… consults notes… windmills. Indeed. Definitely windmills. Not, say, wind turbines, or anything remotely threatening like giant knights in armour.

From atop Roseberry Topping, the view is tragic. The frontline of windmills now creeps across Seamer Carrs. A blight, obviously. Quietly milling away — lord knows what grain —  destroying our sacred landscapes and massacring birds by the dozen. “They are killing us,” the Don proclaims. Sleep is becoming a luxury. The windmills loom. I am certain they edge nearer each time I climb up here — like the Weeping Angels in Dr. Who.

Naturally, Don Quixote is gloriously aware of the danger. A true master of perception, he confirms—once and for all—the presence of deadly windmills, despite the blinkered scepticism of the dull and unimaginative. Stoking confusion of environmentally sound infrastructure with monstrous foes is, of course, a stroke of strategic brilliance—a triumph of style over substance.

It is textbook the Don: warping reality, commanding the narrative, and marching ever forward under the illusion of divine authority. A performance for the ages.