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Every long and difficult journey has a delicious reward, waiting
at the end. In the cool English morning, in a tiny town called Devon, Mary,
Ellie, Mom and I set out on a journey that would be much more than we expected. |
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We were armed with an old map, four sandwiches, each neatly
labeled and wrapped in "film," three apples, and a squashy pear.
We walked deliberately along the ever-narrowing dirt farming road, past
newborn lambs. We walked forward though a sparse wood, listening to birds
sing as they flew from branch to branch, their wings catching the clean
golden sunlight as it wafted through the trees, listening to our stomachs
begin to gurgle. |
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We emerged through the wood, after an hour or two of steady
walking into a much less inspiring field of dingy green, covered by deposits
from sheep who had come before us. We clambered onto an ancient stone barrier,
about three feet high, and ate our salty Marmite and cheese sandwiches. |
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Here I looked around at my co-conspirators. Mary sat tall,
but thoroughly relaxed, listening to my mother chatter one thing, then the
next, like a chipmunk moving from one nut to the next. To my left perched
Ellie, Mary's daughter, only eight, peeling cheese off her Marmite, her
hair pulling out of her ponytail in the wisps that stuck to her flushed
cheeks, making her look like a tired angel. |
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As we sat munching contentedly, Mary interrupted Mom's steady
stream of conversation. "We have two choices," Mary proclaimed.
"We can either turn around here and go back the way we came or, "she
paused for effect, "follow the map and go through the Moors." |
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All of us, now happily full and refreshed, we opted for the
Moors. |
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We packed out things up and set off down a hill of dried grass,
as clouds began to gather above our heads. |
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At the bottom of this steep hill, we already began to regret
our decision as we viewed another great hill of windswept tall grass. Slowly
and tediously we plodded upwards, stopping every once in a while to catch
our breaths, or inspect the skeletal remains of a sheep. |
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At long last, we reached "the top." At the top was
a signpost made of wood that the termites must have been consuming for a
long time. We rested for about fifteen minutes, laying out with our backs
to the ground and our eyes to the sky, debating which way to go and watching
the sun creep lower in the horizon. |
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We made our way through thick brush and wet moss, tall grass
and stunted trees, by following fences and trying not to notice how low
the sun was sinking. I didn't know about anyone else, but I was worried
about what would happen when we couldn't see the fence anymore, or when
the sun was completely out of view. |
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Just as I was about to bring this thought to words, we heard
a rush of wind, followed by a silence, another rush of wind and silence
again ... |
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Sure enough, it was a highway that we were coming
to. Ellie and I broke into a run, racing towards the sound of the road,
the sound of safety. It was only a matter of a few yards before we were
able to hop a fence and begin walking once again towards the little haven
called Devon. |
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As we walked, we spotted a small family-run teahouse
– our stomachs began to growl. As all sane, hungry people would do,
we turned into the driveway of the teahouse. |
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It wasn't until we looked at our watches that
we realized it was six o'clock, well past tea time. But still we begged
the kind, blushing elderly lady to serve us tea, and after not much argument,
she did. |
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I ordered the most delicious, indescribable apple
pie. It had a thick crumbly crust that fell apart in my hands and melted
in my mouth, the apples were picked from the family's own orchard and they
were sweet and tender, smothered in ice cream and clotted cream. |
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It may have been the five hours of walking that
made the food so heavenly, but heavenly it was. Now, as I glanced once more
around the table, I saw on my co-conspirators faces thankfulness, not only
for the for the completion of the journey, but the journey itself. |
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Sara Carnochan |
