I write things sometimes, and later when I come across them I have no memory of writing them, no context, no idea where what I’ve written was supposed to be going. I sat down to write here, and thought I would check back through my drafts to see if there was anything I ought to finish, and came across something I’d started on June 17th this year. It was as if someone else had written it – maybe it was the boggart, but it was a long paragraph and seemed like the start of a story. I have no idea where the idea of it came from, where it was going, who it was about and why I would have written it. I wonder if it was maybe a dream I had,, although there is nothing dream-like about it. Who is the main character? It might be me, except she’s doing something I could never do, nor want to do. I’m perplexed!
Here are my abandoned couple of paragraphs:
There were clouds, but they were high and pale and I didn’t think it looked like rain. The temperature was pleasant, which was just as well as the track was becoming steeper, the stones more rocky and the dusty way more narrow. I was dressed for it and felt comfortable, not too warm, not yet. My trusty boots were stout and firmly laced, and the Shetland socks kept my feet comfortable – no blisters for me. If I had glanced down I would have seen my tanned legs striding at a good pace, to make fair speed up this hill. I was wearing beige cotton shorts, belted firmly and a paler shirt with the sleeves rolled high up my arms. My backpack was secure, and I grasped my staff feeling like a real explorer.
I kept alert, my eyes scouting the summit above, great blocks and chunks of rock a creamy white and seeming to glow against the grey sky above. From time to time I would pause and glance back for a couple of seconds, looking down the fell-side, but the landscape below was empty of anything except rocks and sheep. If anyone had been there to see me, they would have seen a woman nearing middle age but vigorous and strong; she may have been more used to smiling, but now she was serious, almost grim. Her hair was dark and wavy, blustered by the wind, her tilley hat hanging on her shoulder.
It seems to me that she/I maybe trying to escape something, or maybe on a mission to do something and fear she/I might be pursued. Is it an escape from somewhere? I don’t get that feeling, there’s no sense that she/I am afraid, just rather grim and very determined. I have to say that I’m not a walker, I’m not a hill-climber or mountain scaler – I blame it on being born in the Fens where there are few if any inclines except bridge over the rivers and dykes, and my legs being short and chunky (it’s implied that they are neither in my mystery paragraph)
Will I continue this story, find an explanation for this vigorous ascent, have an adventure? Probably not, but I will tuck it away, just in case!
Lois Elsden 