An experimental piece...
A Walk
Heading out, I turn the key in
the lock and shut the door. I walk to the end of the street and turn right on
to the main road. The sky is as a slot machine toy globe, one half opaque in cloud,
the other clear blue. I cross from the main path to the narrower side, railings
partitioning the goit’s wild weeds from village level civilisation. My raincoat
is a dull olive compared to the glossy green railing spears. I walk.
Turning left, the duck pond and
children’s playground pass to my right. I turn again, behind pond and
playground, hitting the brow of the hill, beginning the steep climb as quacks
and flaps and childish cries fall away beneath me. The country lane is
deserted, nothing but a trickle of rainwater and the remains of an occasional
squashed frog to arrest my path. Woodland dominates to the right, farmland the
left. The climb grow ever steeper. I keep a steady pace as lungs strain at the
exertion of a 45o incline.
I leave the path, ducking under
a swing barrier, crossing the bridge that runs over the stream which cascades
down in waterfall white plumes over rock face. I make for the side of the hill,
a series of uneven steps worn into mud bank. The climb is almost vertical,
bearing me skyward, deeper into the forest, skipping over stepping stones
across mud pools, the path wheeling left then right.
Still the path climbs, heading
towards the back wall that separates the forest from the marshes of the Pennine
Hills. Not so many sheep around these parts today. No sound now except wind
winding through bowers. My own thoughts are twisting. Plots and day dreams and
worries and hopes. Deciduous trees give way to fir and pine. Felled trunks
litter the path side like plans that failed.
Here, at the apex of my climb,
the black mud is thick and treacherous. A new detour must be found every fifty
yards. The tracks of walkers previous and their dogs show the way. Paths carved
into the grasses like a gorge forged by a fast moving river. Copses must be
climbed, narrow channels negotiated like balancing on trapeze wire. The light
is dimmest here, branches conceal the sky, winter’s unrelenting torrent of rain
is till king of this domain, despite days of March sun.
The path turns downwards. At the
corner wall, a single oak on which someone has placed a wreath. Beneath the
branches a miniature graveyard of miniature gravestones to animals that passed
this way. The road down is steep and muddier than ever. More trapeze work is
required to cross fallen branches dug deep into the mud.
A deep ditch blocks my way as
the wall takes an abrupt turn left. Like a dip in a rollercoaster track or skateboard
half pike, the ditch channels runoff water from the hills, dry in summer, but for
now still doing roaring trade in the backlog of winter. The only way over is
via the narrow dry-stone wall, rough and unwieldy. The brave adventurer wants
to cross the wall unaided, but in swinging one foot in front of the other an
unconvinced hand grasps the square wire fence between finger and thumb, trying
not to get clothing caught on the barbed tops. The first section is the
roughest, the second half’s a doddle.
Steeper down we go, the path no
more than a shoe width wide, flanked by bushes, each foot firmly planted before
the next one is advanced. The derelict cottage is passed, no more than two partial
walls remaining. Then we come to the half pike with twist. You just have to run
this bit, the path careens downwards as it turns a full 180O, then
climbs just as steeply. Yet once this is climb is completed, the route joins
the main path and clear path runs all the way down to ground level. Grey
squirrels flit across the path in front of you. The way is suddenly wide enough
to swing a rhinoceros.
I emerge from the between pine
trees, past the passing gate that I will take another day up on to the moors to
gaze out to sea I pull up my jeans in order to hop over the style and through a
horse gate on to the main path of the goit. Follow this path for as far as it
will go and I will eventually come to the duck pond and playground. Instead I
take a detour, negotiating puddles and crossing a field diagonally away from
the path, then through another gate and another narrow, mud filled path to
bring me to a road and past farm houses.
One more half pike, but this one
runs for a quarter mile from apex to apex. At the end is the village. Almost
home. I head down the hill, take the muddy path at the back fields, cross
through the empty concrete football pitch planted in the middle of nowhere,
then back out on to the main road. A little way further and I turn between the
bus stop and barber’s pole to bring me to my street. One last minor hill to climb.
I turn the key in the lock, leave my boots in the porch and greet a cat over
excited at my return.
Get it done.
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