I’m sitting here in the middle of nowhere. I should say in the middle of everywhere. The dogs are loving every minute of it, running through the heather and in and out of the bogs until they both blend into the hillside. The trees below me all curl out at different angles as if each born on a different slant. I bet this place hasn’t changed much in hundreds of years. I wonder who else has sat here and enjoyed just simply sitting with their thoughts. Probably not with their two mischievous dogs. Although maybe. The sound of the stream and a nearby waterfall is comforting. I can’t see it but I know it is below me, amongst the safety of the sheltering trees. I will return here many times.
Things make sense here.
I’m even higher now. The stream sounds distant. I’ve just nearly lost my trainer in a bog but that should teach me to wear ‘suitable walking shoes’. There are two cyclists on the other side of the valley. Their voices travel to me so effortlessly. The sun is warm but my fingers are cold, struggling to hold my pen.
The cyclists have disappeared now all I can hear is birdsong and the occasional tinkling of a dog’s collar somewhere amongst the living earth.
A plane full of people. Where are they going? Who are they and do they have any idea of the beauty that lies beneath them? The dogs are restless. All the smells. They’re so excitable. ‘Sit’ seems to have lost its meaning, their ancestors call them out here. There is not a single sheep in sight. I wonder if I’ll see a stag. A bit concerning really, considering there isn’t a soul in sight but there are often stags, huge, aesthetically magnificent. I’m isolated but it is 125
calming. Who would be more afraid if we came face to face?