Short Story: Walking The South Downs

Short Story: Walking The South Downs

These pleasant blue skies; this happy mid-morning, walking the South Downs with the dog running before us. Hither and thither he flows, eddying quietly at our feet as we pause to take stock. The path splits with one route heading off towards a distant Channel and the other running a circular course towards a series of valleys, with villages, pubs, ancient edifices and modern creation waiting in store for the curious visitor.

I have no proposal in mind as she takes a sip of water.

“Are you in this for the long haul?” she asks.

“God no – not with my dodgy knee.”

“Coward,” she remarks, but I can tell she’s pleased not to be dragged too far from civilisation as she describes it. I fumble for the camera.

“Not another photograph….. My hair,” she complains. “Take one of the dog instead – or that view.”

“You look fine.” I click, setting up for another before she turns away.

“Don’t,” she insists. “My face feels as raw as a navies knee cap…., as my old granny liked to quip.”

I raise a grin to snap the sign post instead, using the view finder to scout the location around us for something of interest. Sheep are huddled into a group a long way from us, apart from that it’s just her, the dog, and the marvellous landscape.

“I should have brought the cine camera.” My one regret.

“They don’t call them that anymore.” She laughs, moving off again and taking the path that leads towards a distant valley. Above our heads Skylarks soar, swooping low before settling on the tree tops to mark our progress. We don’t move fast, not anymore, a steady tramp in boots worn possibly twice a year. There was a time we wouldn’t think twice about leaving the house early to return after dark. The world was our oyster with so many paths to explore. Now, with an established routine in our lives there’s a need for meals at regular intervals, pills to pop, the dog to feed, and time required to take a nap.

My wife, my present and eternal companion, pulls me out of reverie.

“Come on, you old loafer – pick it up.”

The path leads towards a leafy green comfortable looking village. The kind of place I once assumed we might end up before house prices skyrocketed. It contains a quaint air, like stepping back in time to the days of Jane Marple with natives who tug at their forelocks. ‘Yessum Master.’ These days they’re as likely to knock us flying with their 4x4’s and air of rancid superiority. Even so, we enter the sacred precinct, pretending we belong. My wife has a well-tested theory that villages of this kind ought to contain a tea shop, but all we discover is a chain pub. At least it’s welcoming.

Analysing prices scrawled onto a chalk board, it feels as if we’ve entered a rarefied atmosphere lending the occasion an air of temporary riches, I am tempted to believe we have stumbled into one of the TV Chef’s kitchen experiments, with £12.50 charged for a basic fish pie, £8.75 for Lasagne or Spagbol, £14.50 for Chicken in white wine, broad beans and mash. And the price of drinks at the counter – City prices by any measure.

“We are in the country aren’t we?” I ask the wife, who nods approvingly.

She believes me to be mean. “Don’t think twice.” Is her perennial advice when faced with situations that defeat common sense and I’ve learned, if I’ve learned anything at all, that life can be a humbling experience and the more a man fights against circumstances the worse it will become. In essence I swallow hard, close my eyes and pay the bill in order to move forward. Thank God for alcohol when it deadens the senses.

“Just one for you,” she insists. “You’ve still got to drive home.

We eat; we drink, with conversation drowned out by an over large, over loud TV pouring out its usual offering of vitriolic horror, reality gore, and the mind numbingly dull. I’m trying to remember why we left the house – oh yes, we came to walk the South Downs before that ancient land slips into the sea. (Only joking).

Suitably fleeced we leave the pub to be engulfed in one of those sudden squalls that fly in the face of reason after a day that starts out sunny and bright turns dull. On with the water proofs for a four mile hike back to where the car is parked. We move at a snail’s pace, but at least the rain let’s up allowing the wife to raise her head.

“Smell that air,” she enthuses, and I do. The breeze carries with it a whiff of ozone and oxygen. I’m full of o’s before I know it, coughing heartily. “Stop making a fool of yourself,” she snaps. I receive a slap on the back to ease my lungs. “Come on,” she says. “Race you back.” And she means it, increasing the pace significantly.

“The dog,” I implore, pulling the bedraggled creature to heel.

“Oh you….” She starts to run, causing the dog to set off in her wake as I’m dragged along.

“What’s the hurry?”

She doesn’t hear, pausing at the top of the hill to allow us to catch up. Whoever suggested walking all this way? God, the backs of my calves hurt, my feet ache in these boots and I’m sure I’ve got a blister coming. But out here the light is so dazzling I really should have worn sunglasses. I know I’ll have a headache before the end of the day. Walking the Downs ought to come with a health warning.

“Isn’t nature wonderful?” she enthuses.

“No,” I complain. “No, it’s bloody not.”

By some inexplicable equation we manage to get back to the car a great deal faster than when we set out on this monumental journey, and thank the God we do as the heavens part to allow a Biblical rainstorm space to stream down the windscreen. Watching, I sigh with a sense of wonder and satisfaction at overcoming the obstacles in our path, such as they were. The wife says nothing, thrown into silence by the effort of beating me back to the car. Or at least I imagine it to be the case as I relax.

“I let you win.” I smile.

She glances in my direction, rubbing the dog’s head with the air of one who has until now been harbouring a great secret.

“I knew it would rain.” She grins confidentially. “I didn’t want to be caught out in the open when it did.”

“News to me,” I remark.

“I could smell it in the air – couldn’t you?”

I shake my head as she smiles knowingly. At times she has a strange tendency to utter complete nonsense, but I’ve learned to contradict at my peril. As a wise man once might have confided, ‘an easy life is gained only through the balancing of conflicting opinion.’ I owe a great deal to that wise man, not least a happy marriage.

The rain is followed by a rainbow that on one side disappears into the tree line and at the other falls softly into an oblivious sea. It’s a simple reward after a splendid days adventuring.

“Worth every penny,” she smiles contentedly.

In my head I’m calculating the cost of petrol, two exorbitant pub lunches, complete with drinks, and the probability we’ll be forced to stop at the overpriced Services on the way home to spend a penny. “No need to eat tonight,” she remarks.

No need to eat? I’m famished, already planning a hearty meal. I say nothing for the time being. Give it twenty-thirty miles and then raise the subject once we’re on the motorway. She settles down to read a magazine, one of those monthly journals complete with inspirational hobby ideas for the curious mind. I’ve advised her to try Fortune Telling as she’s always keen on telling mine. We don’t talk much until reaching the motorway where other people’s driving make her nervous especially as the car in front is hogging the middle lane, and then she lets fly.

“Flash it. Make it pull over,” she insists dramatically.

“No.” I smile. “I won’t do that – perhaps the driver can’t make up their mind. And why not - oh look it’s a woman. She’s got an absolute right you know, to be exactly where she chooses.”

This kind of sarcasm has little effect. We’ve had this conversation numerous times in the past, as anyone listening can probably imagine. I get a look as she flips the page of her magazine irritably. “It’s not a woman – it’s a man. You need to get your eyes tested.”

And it is I notice as the driver eventually pulls into the inside lane. After that, nothing; an uneventful return journey with home offering the kind of welcome only a tired man can appreciate. A hot drink, pulling on a pair of comfy slippers, an old cardigan, slumping in front of the telly to watch whatever repeat is currently playing.

“Don’t get settled,” she remarks. “You need to go out again. I fancy fish and chips. It must be all that fresh air. I feel positively charged.”

I wish I did. All I want to do is fall asleep, but as it was my wish too I can’t complain and pull on the shoes for one last adventure before darkness falls.