The village playing field with its broad swathe of trim green grass evokes a peaceful world. Walking with our hiking poles, a boy kicking a ball creases a smile. “Do we look odd?” Eileen exclaims. “Possibly,” I say unconcerned. "We’ll do a complete circle." The sun high in the sky has a gentle beat. The air canters along with an ear to conversation. This stretch of land knows the people who tread here, play cricket, football, take shortcuts to the farm for eggs.
As we walk the motion of the day becomes timeless. Children with their mother pick blackberries from the hedgerows. Old men on wooden seats, smoke their pipes reminiscing. We rest for a while on scruffy cricket club chairs. This high curve of the land beyond the tree-tops has a shallow valley, where the hazy edge of the town melts into the river. Eileen sighs, something has stirred her. “Forty years ago, Jim and I fell in love with this village.” Silence sits with our thoughts. Eileen drifts with Jim.
We complete the circle chatting. “Eileen, let’s do lunch on Saturday.” She ponders the merits of the nearby pubs. Her preference, for the garden centre. That suits me. We amble along the lane to her house for tea. Give grades to the gardens as we pass by. The quirky corner house, with its abundance of red, white, and yellow roses, has the highest.
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