Monday, September 6, 2010

The Country Story

***This is the story that Rob told me the other day. The one that he told me to use in case things got stressful or frustrating here. Remember that this was written in chat, I put it into paragraphs, changed the punctuation a bit, but it was actually written a portion of a sentence at a time, so the story reflects that quite a bit. Nothing else was changed apart from a couple spelling errors. ***

The light zephyr of wind blows while the warm sun beats gently down.

Wearing sunglasses shorts and a tee shirt, with the smell of freshly cut lawns, I walk across a deserted village street, over the fence and down a tree-lined avenue of hanging willow trees. A cobbled path uneven under foot, the sound of bird song, green grass brushing on my legs.

The avenue ends, another fence to climb.

I hop over the fence with 2 steps, spring down onto my feet with no care in the world into a field of golden barley swaying gently in the breeze.

I look into the distance, about 400 yards away I see the outline of beauty walking away from me, the silhouette of a dark figure against the golden background: Long flowing hair, shorts and a tied up top.
I think nothing of it and keep walking.

One field passes into another.

This one is filled with thick tall maize about 8 foot high. It smells wonderful the corn has flowered and is ready to ripen.

The pathway gets narrower and the sunlight gets dimmer as the tall corn stretches competing with each other for the sun’s rays.

The surroundings look all the same it’s getting darker and quieter.
A chink of light appears in the distance so I head for that.

Some 10 minutes pass

I appear on the other side, somehow touched by the spiritual sensation gained from being in an alien environment back into the warm sunlight and wondering where the girl I saw had disappeared to.
I look around, there was no sign, so I kept on walking.

Tall trees and wild flowers are my world now. Then down a winding path over a fence and onto the small one-track road that looks like it hadn’t been used for some time. With every footstep a puff of dust comes up making my sneakers dusty.

My throat now dry and beads of sweat starting to show on my brow, I make my way down the small winding road where signs of life start to emerge.

A road sign, a stray dog barks at me and then the road opens up onto a small village green. A bench sits alone on the green where a small brass plaque screwed onto it reads:

in loving memory of Cyril Smith 1935-1994

I wonder who he was and what he did.

I make my way into the village still wondering about Mr. Smith

I pass an old blacksmith’s forge where the old man stokes the fire, heating the shoes for an old shire horse that pulls his wagon up and down the local town.
He collects scrap iron for extra income.

Past the forge there is a butcher’s shop where locals buy their fresh meat.
The fat butcher is sitting out in the sun with his faithful jack russell by his side.

I walk on and spot the village pub. So to quench my thirst I walk towards the pub and push hard on the heavy solid oak door that must have been there for over 200 years.
The smell of fresh hops and old wood greet me as I slide the door shut. A friendly landlord greets me at the bar.

“What shall it be?” he says.

“I’ll have a pint of your coldest larger”, which he greets with a frown because this is one of those real ale pubs where old men drink and compare warm flat ales. They usually have beards and wear sandals. (Of course I think this to myself).

He serves me anyway, and I hand over the money, grab a menu and sit down in the corner on an old wooden leather backed comfy chair.

After a couple of swallows of the cold drink fizzing on my tongue, the landlord comes over to me and asks if I would like to order from the menu.

I answer him: “yes I’ll have the fish”

I look around at the ancient walls, white with black timbers; old guns and shooting paraphernalia adorn the walls, old drinking tankards, and horse brasses: A typical English country pub that hadn’t changed for a hundred years, straight out of a period drama.

I sit back reach into my pocket pull out the paper and raise it to my eyes, shades on top of my head. I read about a woman who put a cat into a dustbin. She had been caught on cctv by a man across the street. After national outcry and death threats, the woman was on 24hr police guard.
I thought it was ironic

Under my paper I saw a small pair of what I thought would be size 6 feet wrapped in gladiator sandals. The feet came towards me and heard the words “you ordered the fish?”

I said yes, looked up and it was the smiling face of the beautiful girl I saw in the field.

Well I think it was, She had shorts and a tied up shirt. She smiled and laid down my food.

I pulled up may chair as she walked away. I glanced across as she left and I was convinced it was her. She looks over her shoulder and catches me checking out her ass. She winks and disappears into the kitchen.

I ate my food, which was ok I guess. My review in the local paper would reflect the quality and price of the food but it would never mention the girl who I saw in the fields. She was mine and I have held her close to my heart ever since.


1 comment:

Advizor said...

That's a sweet tale, and a lovely image of moving through the countryside enjoying the beauty around us. And the last paragraph, of course, captures that special moment when someone comes in to our world and stays forever, even if out paths cross for just a moment.