Tuesday: Where shall I go?
Anywhere I like. The luxury of an early holiday, a solitary cottage, good boots. Up the hill then, to see the view; winding round the pond and steeply uphill through the peat stacks to the Thinking Rock – a seat in the gasping wind, overlooking lakes and fat rolling hills. Overlooking hundreds of tiny islands, peacefully co-existing in the loving embrace of the bay. A family of them, confident and self-sufficient, calling gentle hellos to their neighbours across the shining water. And beyond that, the mighty mountain.
(Don’t look at the mountain, hideously scarred by the passage of religious men, their desperate pilgrim feet gouging out soil and sweeping away grass in the rush for salvation.)
Think about your own pilgrimage: this, the search for the next decision and whether it is right. The search for the next idea, the next film… letting the wind sweep the clutter from your head. The bad memories, with their nagging and demanding to be heard. The sad ones…can stay. Bring them out and greet them – lost friends and family. Days and dreams gone by. Regrets? No. No regrets.
(stand on the thinking rock and sing Piaf. Sing for joy, sing for courage… sing to mark your place in the wide landscape … your branch, your tree.)
Tears of wind, happy tears, overwhelming and faintly ridiculous. Let them wash your eyes and see more clearly, see more beauty – see…
… the path. From the lane to a bog road, then a flagstone path, to a thin sand-coloured stony line and then a dent in the grass, a darker green that can only be seen form certain angles. And finally, to a metaphor. That runs along the foothills, over crags and down to the bridge.
And at the journey’s end: rain. A community centre, a crafting circle making beauty out of someone else’s rubbish…and a woman who spoke to me earnestly of the need to save the Old Irish Goat. It seemed prophetic.
Fin McMorran, Teesside