I often look back on events in life that were solitary experiences. Things I’ve never shared because they seem too meaningless for discussion, knowing others will find less interesting. Some of these events are none eventful, by which I mean nothing of any significance occurred other than, at the time, I was in a place special to me. Occasionally such places are never even visited, they’re simply snapshots in my mind taken from a journey on a train or in the car.
An isolated tree, bent with the wind, or a narrow lane hedged by hawthorn vanishing from view yet leading somewhere. I reach out across the landscape in search of such places, a distant figure walking a dog by the side of a wood, a dark sheet of water drowning the corner of a field which never dries.
Others are visited more frequently, a virtually hidden copse of trees, or the bumps in meadow where a village used to be. Meaningless and unimportant yet they fill an album locked inside my mind, trivia, but still there they remain.
They can be even less so, worlds within worlds, ripples in a familiar stream, or a blackbird watching me dig in the garden waiting for its chance. Moments and places shared without voice or word–unspoken but understood.
Some of these places I yearn when furthest from. I think of wader birds on the Saltholme Nature Reserve when I’m trapped in a business meeting. I remember the chill on Cronkly Fell when surrounded by company I’d rather I wasn’t! Sometimes when far away from home I hear the voice of crows in the Ash, or the silence that fills the crags below Holwick.
I’ll take this journal of thoughts and images with me when I’m gone, never shared
say for this post.