Found this yesterday while searching through reams of old paperwork for something important (which I still haven’t located). I wrote this in my car when I escaped for the day from the madness of my home life (4 teenagers and a baby) and drove down to my favourite place in England – Exmoor. I’ve not edited it very much, as I want to retain some feeling of what my writing was like then (2007) compared to now, and the feeling of writing in dribs and drabs, in a hurry, as I travelled around. Obviously the character is not me, but everything that happens in the piece is what I actually did and saw that day. It’s also unfinished, as I ended up just enjoying my time down there, rather than spending most of it scribbling away!
Comments welcome!
The day was blustery and showers had been frequent on the drive down the motorway, but now the sun shone and he could hear the birds in the trees. It finally felt like July.
The car park was fairly quiet, and the town seemed sleepy for one on the edge of such a tourist attraction as Exmoor. He had been here before, but too long ago to remember anything much. There was a hotel, where he’d been to a friend’s 21st birthday bash, but even the friend’s name escaped him now. So much had changed; only one thing remained strong about this area for him – his love of where he was headed.
There he could be free again. He was impatient to get there, but also the drive had been good for him. The anxiety wasn’t as bad today as it had been on previous long drives. He no longer gripped the wheel as if everyone was trying to intimidate him or as if the car would do something crazy by itself.
Twenty past ten. He had been on the road now three hours; a leisurely drive with two stops. He hadn’t even been lost yet, a feat in itself given the long years since he had last been here. He guessed he should make a move. Maybe eat something first. He smiled to himself as he looked at his supplies. He was only here for the day, but he’d brought enough food for the whole weekend, almost.
Five more minutes, with the door open, and the warm breeze to refresh him, he decided.
An hour later he was parked on a ridge by a cattle grid, in a spot that felt very familiar to him. On his left, a line of trees and a steep bank showed where the moor boundary lay. In front of him was wide open moor, looking wild and unspoilt – just what he’d come here for. A few cars came and went, some stopping, people getting out to take photographs, just as he had done moments earlier. Without realising, he had stopped near a small group of Exmoor ponies, and had taken the opportunity to capture these beautiful animals as they should be, as he felt right then – free.
The wind had increased dramatically since he’d been in Bampton, and showers lashed down at his car. He let the sounds of the wilderness envelop him, and was glad to be able to witness this place in another one of its many moods. It was still warm, and he was comfortable in a short-sleeved shirt – and he had brought a coat and boots to go walking in. But not yet. Tarr Steps was going to be the place for that.
The sky was silver now – no traces of the blue that had been present in patches all morning. The forecast had been bad but he knew that if he put off this trip he might not get another chance for a long time.
He allowed himself to feel proud of his achievement. Four months ago even getting in the car for a five-minute journey was an ordeal. He would arrive shaking, dreading the drive home again. Or just find excuses not to go.
Now he was over a hundred miles away from home, in a wild and mysterious territory, alone, and that word kept popping into his head – free.
He loved his life, his family, his partner. He missed them today. He knew his anxiety was tough on them at times. But he knew, and hoped they did too, that today was as much about self-therapy, and doing his own work towards getting better, as it was about leisure and enjoyment.
That was why he felt proud. Nobody had pushed him, but they had helped him to do this. So he was proud of them too.
All was quiet now. The cars were gone – perhaps the temperamental weather was driving them all towards their homes. Only he was left to appreciate the darker atmosphere this place had to offer. He felt safe here.
Sheep dotted the slopes in front of him, grazing the sparse grass that grew in between the gorse and heather. He wished he had learned what all this vegetation was. He had spotted ferns and foxgloves on the way here, on the verges and in the hedgerows, not something seen at home. But he didn’t know what anything else was called. Even the odd trees scattered around he didn’t recognise. But, he thought, his ignorance didn’t dampen his appreciation for what God had bestowed upon this part of His planet.
As much as he didn’t want to think about the time, he knew he should make a move now, if he was to take in Tarr Steps and go to Porlock before it was time to go home. He had respects to pay in both places.
With one last look around, he sighed, breathing in the pure air, and wound up his window against the elements – onward he went on his pilgrimage…
Tarr Steps was every bit as magical as he remembered. He vowed to look it up properly when he got home for its history, but for now he was happy just to take in the scene and the sounds of the rushing water around him. A few groups of people passed by now and then – indeed, one man had come to his rescue; kindly donating his ticket when he realised he had brought no change for the car park. But nobody disturbed him here. He had found a comfy stone under some trees, where the summer rain couldn’t spoil his visit too much.
The occasional bird was audible over the sound of the river hurrying through the massive boulders of the ancient clapper bridge. Then the wind picked up and blew droplets of water from the trees onto his bare head. But he couldn’t imagine a better place to help him with his recovery. Here was not only freedom, but peace. A peace he had not known for a long time.
He realised then that all he had to do to find a way to feel at ease was look for the natural beauty all around, even at home. He didn’t need a hundred-mile drive and forty pounds worth of petrol. And he didn’t need to ‘escape’ his family – he now wished they had all come here, to share in the magic. He resolved to put that right when he got home. He would tell them all about it, and hope they would want to join him on his little quests for peace of mind, to make him stronger for everyday life – to do what pills could not. All he needed to do was carry this version of himself back up the M5. Live it. If God was here, then surely he was there, too, if one just looked.
The rain poured down. Children were enjoying the steps, walking in to the shallow part of the river. Their spirits were unaffected by the weather, much like his own.
He was drenched on his way back to his car, but didn’t care. The climb was steep, but a sheep which was practically bald, with horns and a green dye on its neck, eyed him suspiciously and distracted him from the effort. But he wasn’t afraid of it. Fear was no longer his heavy backpack that he had carried day and night for months on end.
On the road to Exford he parked at a spot on the top of a hill. The rain had moved in with a purpose now, and all around him the low cloud obscured the view. The wind howled a tune around the car, and he wished he could capture the sound; almost like a medieval flute, full of life and joy at nature’s gift of life-giving water.
It was lonely there, but he revelled in it, wishing his time there wasn’t so limited.
graveyardmuse 