Sue Harris was born in Bradford, but she and her parents moved to live by the North Yorkshire coast when she was four years old. That coastline, the North Yorkshire Moors and National Park and Dalby Forest are the country of her heart.
At eighteen, Sue left North Yorkshire to study, work and live in Oxford, Leeds, Devon and London, but in 1988 she and her husband, Alan, returned with their three sons, William, Edward and Richard. At Larkfield, in Thornton-le-Dale, they hoped to be self-sufficient and to give their children the space to grow and roam,
Sue’s work and interests have always been in education and drama. She did research into folk drama, worked briefly at the BBC and directed community drama in Wheatley, Oxford. In 2016 she was a Community Director for the York Mystery Plays in York Minster. During her years in North Yorkshire she has been head of English at Scarborough Sixth Form College, and a senior adviser and co-ordinator for the European Schools’ Baccalaureate.
The rights of the author to be identified as the Author of this Work have been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.
Photographs by Susan Harris
Typeset, Printed and Bound in 2025 by David Exley, Beamreach book Printing, Cheshire
Seasons
Susan Harris
dedication here?
How have I been since you last saw me?
Well,
I’ve never been lonely. I’ve danced at parties and drunk flat beer with other men.
I’ve been to the cinema and seen one or two films you would have liked with other men.
I’ve passed the time in amusement arcades and had one or two pretty fruitless goes on the fruit machines. I’ve memorized the patterns of miscellaneous neckties. Indifferent, I put varying amounts of sugar in different coffee cups; I’ve adjusted myself to diverse heights of assorted goodnight kisses. But I keep a curb on mind and body. Love?
I’m no longer exposing myself.
Marilyn
The day we heard that Marilyn Monroe was dead Was hot. The dry sand stung The summer’s cracks between our toes And our hugged knees tasted salty On our lips. We whispered About her body lying naked in LA.
Beverley said that nights were hot in California So no one would wear anything in bed. We were comforted, all threat removed, And could again be sad and silent, Drawing pensive patterns in the sand.
We did not dream our bodies Could be anything like hers As our cossies dried across our chests And sand stuck to our bums.
1998
First Sight
The door opened. Pools of light swirled red. What music did I leave unheard, What book unread, as I balanced On the threshold? Two people there –One, a girl, slight and scrubbed, Keen to please, I did not see. The other, you. What happened next I don’t remember. Did you enter, Claim the empty rooms? I know you Stayed, with your Tarot, beads and bells, While I stand in the half-light Unable to close the door.
Haloes
We made an orchard for you in November, Working against the dying of the light. All the short day we hacked and sawed To make a space where new life could take root. Within the week we gathered there again, We four. The cats and pheasants softly joined With robin and thrush in silent congregation. The neighbouring horse hung low its long dark head. We scattered your ashes at the new trees’ roots, And each read poems in requiem.
At bedtime we came back to say goodnight. A cold winter moon cast a harsh white light. We had given you back to earth and air, And the trees had haloes at their feet.
The Cushion
When you knew you were leaving You made a bonfire
Of all the things you didn’t need to take. And into the centre of the heat You dropped a cushion. Flames licked away the stylish Liberty print, Leaving coloured fabric of family and home. The image melted like a changing dream And pillowed in flames lay marriage and first love. Like onion layers the covers peeled: Next parents’ suits and grandma’s dark brocade. In moments all was ash, All the woven memories we uncover When we throw away life’s comforts and move on.
Raspberries
I picked raspberries today, Parting the nettles That grew above my head.
I love the way You have to squeeze the fruit So gently it surrenders to your hand.
‘Why was Daddy picking raspberries With no clothes on?’ Because he could.
Because the air on his skin And the grass around his feet Made him feel alive.
Snow
It snowed today. All day. Big, feathery flakes. Mesmerizing. They settled softly, invading the green And the whole world was still.
January 2013
Snowdrops
Snowdrops arrived for your birthday, Heads lolling on fragile stalks, Unseeing. They have pierced The cold and heavy soil, All effort spent on standing straight, Not looking at the world. Being is all. They promise Joy in life to come, Small and silent and still.
January 2013 and 2023
Pieta
The hand holds me. No need for words and nothing to be done. The eyes, downcast, gaze inward. All space and time is here. She nurses on her knee the naked Christ, Awkward, angular, broken, dull, Slack-skinned against his mother’s cradling hand.
Immortalised by maker’s hand Is Christ’s mortality. Life Has left the marble, While still his mother shines. Her gesture speaks to all mankind: “See what you have done. My son.”
Michelangelo’s ‘Pieta’. The Sistine Chapel. 2014
The Fifties
Brothel creepers
Spats and sneakers
Blue suede shoes
And winkle-pickers.
Pale blue suits
With velvet collars
Drainpipe trousers
Frilly shirts.
Petticoats
With sugar stiffening
Beehive hair
And gingham skirts
Pale pink lipstick
White stilettos
Seamless stockings
Sloppy Joes.
2015
Love
is a temporary madness. It erupts like volcanoes, and when it subsides you have to decide whether your roots are so entwined that they can never part.
Love is not breathlessness, is not promises of eternal passion. That is just being ‘in love’.
Love is what is left when being ‘in love’ has burned away. Roots grow together underground, and when all the pretty blossom has fallen from the branches you find that you are one tree, no longer two.
Birth Day 1977
Midsummer. The night is light. Curtains float like clouds at the open window, In gentle rhythm with the pain.
A sudden cry, dawn chorus of surprise. You sob with shock of sudden rush of air, Fists clenched, indignant, tense and tight.
In my arms you are still, one eye closed Against my breast. Wise and otherworldly Your one-eyed gaze meets mine, and the universe begins. 2018
March
In the still of the evening a blackbird sings. Light, silver and salmon, drifts through the trees, Not yet in leaf, though green is pushing through. Rabbits dart in sudden chases, Wearing tracks in just-growing grass, Welcoming the spring.
The hedgehog, too small for hibernation, A surprising survivor, meanders. Almost invisible, hen pheasants tread, elegant and slow, Dignified in their caution. So day succumbs to night, miraculously, Unique, like every evening for thirty years. 2018
There and Back Again
“Let us go there And share Where I was young.”
So we climbed the mountain That ringed the lake, Golden in late afternoon, And talked of love’s first dawning.
Later, we drove south And walked the pier Of childhood holidays, Memories stirred like shingle.
To London then, lunch with your son On our last day. The talk was of babies and meze and marriage As you went away.
I came back home alone. 2018
Fog
Fog. It seeps through the windows, it sneaks round the doors, trailing dampness, darkness, silence.
In the town lights are hovering, hazy suns. We walk, suspicious, heads down, longing for the light of home.
There is no birdsong, no human babble. By the sea a foghorn hacks a muffled warning to ships tossed blindly in the bay.
The clouds have stooped to kiss the world to sleep. Dreaming, we’re caressed by ghostly arms.
New Shoes
New shoes
Do-be-do shoes
Off to woo shoes
Two shoes
I love you shoes
I’ll always be true shoes
I do shoes
What did I do? shoes
Blue shoes
Need new shoes
Somewhere in the Middle
I don’t want to be left or right. I love twilight, between day and night. I can’t always tell wrong from right, And my answer is often, ‘I might’.
I can’t tell if I’ll be false or true. I still want the old with the new. I can’t leave or say that ‘I do’, So I’m stuck in the middle with you. 2020
Available Now
Today we have lockdowns, Tiers one, two and three. And in the spring We stayed in and washed our hands, But today we have lockdowns. Dolphins In the bay leap joyous and free, Available now for us to see.
Here is the mask to cover our smile. And this Sanitiser to use constantly If we can’t avoid touch. And we must Keep two meters apart. Two meters, The span of the gannets’ wings as they glide, Available now over the sea.
To avoid human contact we meet virtually With no hugs and no handshakes, no extended Family. No big wedding or funeral or birthday party. Camaraderie’s becoming a memory. Cormorants Congregate, black wing nudging black wing, Available now in gangs by the sea.
We are working from home now, with no holiday, No flights away to winter sun. The days are short As summer ends. In jet-shaped formation Geese take off from the lakes. Swallows have plotted Migration and head for the sun, for them Available now.
So today we have lockdowns, lack of contact And touch. We lack celebration and fun. Yet the trees flame autumnal, sloes gleam In the hedge. In gardens apples ripen and fall. Showers bring rainbows in low autumn sun. All available now.
2020
A Breath of Fresh Air
January. The morning air is fresh. Sheep huddle in the field, grimy against the frost, Waiting for hay. Except one. There she stands, distant, alone, unaware Of the morning, internalizing her bleating, Sharing the mystery.
In a trance she follows us to shelter, To warm dry straw and privacy. Through the short day she shuffles And stirs, murmuring
An introduction, instruction.
In the stable we light lamps, preparing A welcome. A long low moan And hooves appear, and long straight legs, Head tucked between, eyes closed For the slow dive into the world.
A breath of fresh air. Surprise. Lamb raises head, opens eyes, Struggles to his feet.
A new-born bleat alerts the ewe, Who welcomes, with a lick, her son.
2021
It cannot happen again.
Each event is unique. Yet life has parameters, confines, Within which variety occurs.
I can’t surrender in my mother’s arms, Fall in love, for the first time, Know my first kiss. I cannot hold my son On his first day, But nor will I feel the pain Of losing parents and partners again.
No first breath, first feed, first sleep, first snow, Music, colours, speech or sea; No first pantomime, daffodil, Christmas tree. Yet all will happen some way again, And be new for somebody. Everything happens again. And nothing does. 2021
Yesterday
Yesterday, I Zoomed with old friends many miles away. Now we have to keep in touch this way. It’s not like meeting yesterday.
Suddenly, I was sound asleep on the settee, With my ipad closed upon my knee. What my body needed was coffee.
Yesterday, testing schoolchildren got underway. I read my emails, let some music play, Like every other lockdown day.
Just another lockdown day. 2021
Tethers
Babies in buggies beam at balloons
Striving to soar in the sky.
A kite strains in a toddler’s hand,
Dipping and diving to fly.
The storm tugs a trampoline
Free from its ropes, cartwheeling over the wall.
A gazebo is giving the grown-ups some grief
As shelter is sought from the storm.
Boats toss in the bay, tents blow away –
All human tethers are torn.
Tether
Is a terrible word.
We tether the creatures we fear.
Strong bulls roll their eyes as they tauten their chains, And dogs snarl for their freedom again.
I prefer the word ‘bond’.
Bonds bind us with love
To family and friends
And together we fly to be free.
2022
The thing is…
I don’t know where to start. So I make a cup of tea. The story of my life. Where would that start be? In my grandparents’ house? In the dark, damp cellar, Home of coal, and a mouse?
The thing is…
We all have a story to tell. My grandfather was a gambler, A serious one, gambling his home away, Always on the run.
The thing is…
Much too late I realised That this enigmatic man Grew up in the trenches –Fourteen when war began. When the call to action came All possessions were pooled
To be won by survivors When the battle was done. The ultimate sweepstake. Every night of his life my grandfather Screamed in his dreams, as he went over the top.
The thing is…
That always makes story-telling stop. 2021
If only I could live my life again
If only I could live my life again
I’d cast my socks much earlier in the spring. I’d remember always, “Be here now!”
Not dwell on what’s to come or might have been. I’d take more chances, dare to make mistakes. I’d have less fear of failure, have more fun, Not questioning the ‘why?’ of being, But remembering ‘how’.
If only I could live my life again …
And that’s when all the old clichés kick in.
Most would walk barefoot through more mountain streams, Have fun, and live out all our dreams. But would we? Would we risk the change?
If only I could live my life again
Each path I’d take would have to be the same. How could I
Risk children, family, those I love By treading on a butterfly?
Hen pheasants treading dignified in their caution elegant and slow.
Deep red-brown maple its leaves aflame in the sun cool silk to the touch.
Hedges doing it –bursting with green leaves, safely hiding nesting birds.
Out of the Darkness
“A piano! There’s a coffee place just down the road with a piano!”
Richard was reading the travel guide as we travelled across New Zealand’s North Island towards the deserted west coast, where we had booked a cabin for the night. His face was eager with excitement and we had to track down the piano.
We had grown accustomed to New Zealand’s unmade roads, but now we wound treacherously toward the coast, down a track whose only reason for existence was to reach the tiny ferry we found down a slipway at the end. The only building was an old fashioned shop on the corner, whose tall windows revealed an interior crammed with antiques. Glass-domed aspidistras shared tables with turtle shells and dusty stuffed birds, and, next to a solemnly ticking grandfather clock, was the grand piano.
Richard and I joined the other two couples at tables in the corner, Rick fidgeting with anticipation.
“Do you think I could play the piano, please?” he said, as our order was taken, and soon the still, dark room came to life with music. Richard had been travelling for three months and this moment’s reunion with the piano was ecstasy.
The afternoon was darkening, though, and we needed to find our cabin for the night, but not before we had asked if we could return for dinner, even though we had heard others being turned away. The lugubrious Norwegian proprietor led us solemnly to his desk and pored over the bookings diary.
“Well,” he said eventually, there really is no space, but we will accommodate you if you can be here by eight.”
Rain was starting as we returned to our car, and by the time we reached the camping area it was falling heavily. It turned out that the ‘chalet’ we expected, the only accommodation on that stretch of coast, was a shabby caravan, so small that a double bed filled the space with just enough room to stand beside it. We edged in, listening to the rain thundering on the roof.
When we got back to the restaurant the track descending to the shore had become a river, and the sea was raging onto the slipway. Yet in the stormy, empty darkness the lights of the antique shop were a beacon of welcome. We abandoned the car and splashed down the slope into the light and warmth.
Two teenagers sat at an antique chessboard near the piano. Otherwise the room, lit by flickering oil lamps, appeared deserted. Soon the proprietor appeared, now wearing a dinner suit.
“Please join us on the sofas in the corner,” he said, leading us to a part of the room we had not noticed before, where, seated upon one of the sofas we now saw a man and a woman. The man, young, thin and restless, jumped up in welcome, while his companion, a comfortable, much older lady, greeted us with a smile and twinkling eyes.
The proprietor’s wife appeared, in evening dress, interrupting her cooking to offer us drinks before she and her husband settled on the sofas beside us, engaging us in conversation as the perfect hosts welcoming their chosen guests.
“Let me introduce you to Celia and Diego, who are visiting from Buenos Aires. And you? I know you are not American or I would not have invited you to dinner.”
I explained that my son was travelling and I had come to New Zealand to spend Christmas with him, before we were ushered to a grand candle-lit table amongst the aspidistras as dinner was served by our hostess. We all sat down together, joined by the sons who had been playing chess.
Listening intently to our conversation but contributing little, Diego sucked on a cigarette throughout the evening, sipping mate through a metal straw from the flask he wore on his back. He was beautiful, with olive skin and profound brown eyes set in carved features. Beside him Celia chatted easily, explaining that they had come from Argentina for an educational conference in Wellington.
“This is our little break,” she smiled. “We have been working really hard.”
“Are you teachers in Buenos Aires?”
“No.” she said. “I am the Minister for Education.”
And so we ate, and discussed learning and nationality and travel and emigration, the darkness beyond the rain-washed windows reflecting us in flickering candlelight as we talked.
Much, much later I asked for the bill. Our clearly affronted host finally demanded a pittance and bid us goodnight. Celia and Diego climbed the dark staircase to their room as we left.
In the relentless rain we ran to the car and negotiated the flooded track in total darkness. As we drifted to sleep, rain hammering the roof, Richard said,
“I feel that if we went back in the morning that place would not exist.”
A Different Way
The way there was different from what they had expected. Once they had turned off the road they were on an unmade track which perched precariously on the cliff side. Zig-zag bends hid the way ahead, so that all they could see was sheer barren rock above and impossibly azure sea below, waiting for them.
They were heading for a taverna said to be nestling in the tiny bay beneath the mountains, but the perilous journey was a surprise. The woman, driving, focused on the moment as she edged them forwards, while Chris found himself, not for the first time, calmly entrusting his life to this woman and allowing himself to be dazzled by the sun. He did not drive now, since the stroke. And more, he had lost the driving motivation of his adult life, the business which had contributed to his ill health. It was a surprise to him to find that life went on without needing him to be in complete control. And a surprise to find himself on a holiday, with no responsibilities.
The taverna was a wooden shack balancing on an outcrop of rock. A well- tended shrine had been carved into an indent in the cliff, and around it chickens pecked desperately among the stones. There were no other vehicles, and few other signs of life. Yet it was much too soon to contemplate the return journey, and with a smile and a shrug they left the car.
Inside they were welcomed by a young woman reading at the bar, who slid from her stool to guide them to a table on a balcony reaching over glittering sea. Her partner appeared, bringing retsina and languidly cooked swordfish doused in oil and lemon for them. Then they were left alone.
The afternoon drifted by to the rhythm of the waves lapping the rocks below. In the shimmering sunshine she saw Chris watching her through half-closed eyes, this man who had come so late and lately into her life, about whom she knew so little and everything.
As their gaze shifted to the blue blue sea a small boat became visible out in the bay. As it neared they saw that it was being rowed by a white haired old man, and two children were with him, trailing their hands in the warm water. For the first time, then, they realized that a man and a woman were swimming just below their balcony, and now the pair turned to paddle gently towards the approaching boat.
Chris smiled at the realization that this was the couple who so recently had prepared their lunch, and that in the boat were their children, being brought from school by their grandfather. Soon all were playing together in the water.
‘I’ve just realized,’ he said, a little sadly, ‘that there is more than one way to live your life.’
Covid Chronicle
A bear lives in my garden. We tiptoe round its lair. One day I’m Mr McGregor, another, Julius Caesar or the Queen.
My grandchildren are with me during lockdown, their family escaping from the city to work from home here. In weeks away from the world we have created our own little kingdom. There’s a tree house in the garden and dens in the hedges.
Since my husband died my home has been quiet and still, but now it is refilled with music and laughter, and the noise of Lego bricks being shuffled in the search for just the right piece. I’ve learned to build again, a pirate ship to sail away, or a rocket to fly us to the moon. For my grandson there is a story accompanying every creation, in which I am invited to share.
The natural world around us has been magic too. In March the trees were bare, but in the heat of April and May the horsechestnuts unfurled their big leaves and created white blossom at a speed not noticed before. Conkers now weigh the branches down. The children were sticky-mouthed from fallen cherries almost as soon as we noticed the blossom on the trees.
Creatures have begun to reclaim their old territories. A golden pheasant comes calling at our doorstep to be fed, purring in his throat with gratitude. Bullfinches and goldcrests, kestrels and owls venture back into the garden. One day a hedgehog walked across the grass, and a stoat was spotted among the trees.
We walk through woods heavy with wild garlic to the village duck pond. At first it seems deserted, then goslings and ducklings appear and on subsequent visits we watch them grow, mature now. Black dots of moorhen chicks dart around the water, and baby robins watch us from the trees. The annual cycle of life is not locked down. Its speed is remarkable. Lambs we saw being born in March now are grown, and plumper than their mothers.
All this I have shared with my grandchildren, who have looked at everything with awe and wonder. It has given us a very special relationship, looking at the world around us, and also sharing the contents of our imaginations. Covid, cruel as it is, has given us the chance to pause our lives and see the world through new eyes.
24.8.20. Written for BBC Radio 4. A copy is in the British Library.
Somewhere in the Middle
‘Somewhere in the middle is no-man’s land. Not that we’re men; boys more like. All of us lost and terrified and trembling. Staring out into the night I can almost pretend that the space ahead is empty, that the distant lights are of homes. Then a sudden flare will light up the wreckage of men and horses, the skeletons of trees. Desolation.
Wet and stinking, shivering, although beyond cold, I drag on my cigarette, the last, and lean back on the wall of mud. The trench is eerily quiet. Lads are trying to sleep. Some are scratching for lice or checking their rifles. Others are writing inadequate letters home. With first light we will be out there in the middle, floundering through mud and craters towards the other side. When night falls again we will be fewer.
Voices and movement draw me back to the platoon. In the lamplight I can make out a small cache in the corner, a few cigarettes, a couple of drams of whisky, a mess tin of francs. I fumble for my few remaining coins and add them to the pooled possessions.
We didn’t get back by nightfall. We clawed our way back through the shadows, each imagining we were alone, afraid to call out, dodging bombs and bullets. In a shell-hole filled with fetid water for hours I couldn’t move and cried for Mother. Only the first signs of dawn urged me on.
We were few in the trench. Of the forty who had set out only twelve returned. Later we would remember our friends, but now the mood was euphoric. We were loud with laughter and the joy of survival, hugging and beaming, careless of wetness and cold. We swigged the whisky and lit the cigarettes, and finally shared the tin of francs. We were the sweepstake winners.’
My grandfather was a gambler for the rest of his life, and every night, sleeping and screaming, he went over the top.
Advice for my 16 year old self
Hi there.
There’s so much going on in your life right now I can understand if you don’t want to listen to me. Decisions, decisions, decisions. And you’re newly in love, and that’s going to change every choice you are about to make. It’s hard that he’s come along now, when there are so many roads to navigate.
Relax. Practise imaging what you might want and need sometimes instead of always second-guessing what others want of you.
Life is very simple, but we make it complicated. Love. Follow your heart. Aim to do the things you love, but whatever you are doing, do it with all your heart. Remember that it’s not a dress rehearsal.
You are ambitious now. You want to do everything, go everywhere and change the world. That’s great and good right now, but in a few years you will have an epiphany, a moment in The Dewdrop Inn, when you realize that you change the world incrementally, sending out ripples through your actions and the people you meet. Be kind, always. Smile, and the world smiles back.
You will be tempted to be a list-maker, needing always to be busy, to have deadlines. Try to play, to stand and stare more, to ‘be here now’. If something needs doing deal with it straight away. If it can’t be solved straight away shelve it until it can. Develop confidence. Go for it. Dare to fail. You are not the focus of everyone’s attention, and there is more than one way to live your life. Have no regrets about the paths untaken.
Right now your parents’ domesticity horrifies you, and family life is not part of the plan. But don’t turn away. Children will bring you unimaginable joy and you will finally know what life is all about –“birth and copulation and death.”
Don’t know the plot of ‘Hamlet’ before you see it performed, then see it as often as you can. Go to Rolling Stones gigs. Enjoy fine wine and food and sunshine and listen to the birds. Have a garden, a place of peace. Be gentle with the planet, and with all who share it.
You can’t always get what you want, but you will have your moments. Try to make life all ‘moments.’ Collect memories, not possessions. You will never remember 1990 was the year you bought the fridge.
Good luck!
Flamenco in Seville 2008
On our last night in Seville we found flamenco. I hadn’t realised it would be so passionate and exciting. We chose a small courtyard in the old town where young dancers are trained and perform, and where it seems there is some spontaneity and improvisation, not just a show for tourists.
The courtyard was hanging with vines and plants and was dark and tiled. Around three sides there were seats for ninety people, and in the centre was a wooden dais, about twelve feet square. Behind it were three chairs.
Two men came in, both quite solid. The older and slightly fairer one was the guitarist. He played first, following a sad lament with a kicking rhythm. Then the younger man began to sing. First of all he rubbed his hands long and rhythmically, and hand gestures continued to be an important part of his singing throughout. His song was a kind of wail, the kind requiring circular breathing, so unfamiliar in our culture that two young blonde girls – non-Spanish – began to giggle uncontrollably.
Then the dancers. First a slight young man joined the musicians, and set up a clapping rhythm to accompany the guitar. And in came the women. First was a Roma, no longer young, with long black hair pinned back untidily. She wore a white broderie-anglaise blouse, snuggly fitting, a black scarf, and a red and white spotted flamenco skirt, which was integral, almost part of the dance.
What I hadn’t expected was the intensity, the extreme concentration from all participants as they responded to each other through their guitar, clapping, stamping, clicking and hand and body movements. It reminded me of jazz, with the added element of supreme body control and response. The dancer frowned fiercely the whole time, and her hand movements were sinuous. The final ripple of the music ran through her body, and she strode off the stage with passion.
Christmas
“Daddy!”
The little girl’s eyes opened wide. He put the sack of toys down by the bed, placing his finger to his lips and pointing at his sleeping younger daughter.
“Shh! Don’t tell her!”
The older girl shook her head and smiled conspiratorially.
Morning, and the girls rushed to their parents’ room to show what Santa had brought, delighted by dolls, chocolate and books.
Feasting, crackers, songs and games by the tree followed before Daddy and daughter had a moment alone.
“Thank you for keeping last night our secret.”
“That’s OK, Daddy. But why do you think Father Christmas forgot?” 2024
Chocolate
Dense darkness. With each heavy step the heart pounds and lungs gasp for air. His only guide is the bobbing light ahead. He remembers it’s his own head-torch making light pools for his feet. How long have they walked?
He forces himself to remember setting out as darkness fell, to recall anything of the last seven days, but pain and exhaustion have taken control of his mind. He asks himself, ‘Why am I here?’ but there is no response.
Perhaps later he will remember his excitement as he reached the mountain. He will visit in recollection the days of walking through lush rainforests and wide-reaching moorland. His clothes will carry the all-pervasive dust from alpine deserts and lava plains, reminding him of the days when every footstep raised clouds into the air. Now they are above the snowline, above the clouds struggling to keep warm, to keep moving.
He becomes aware that the sky is lighter. Could they be reaching the summit? Can he just distinguish the mountain ranges outlined ahead? But the light ahead moves on, and he hears the shout ‘Keep moving! This is the false summit! Pass on around the crater or you’ll die!’ But he cannot move. His heavy legs cannot make another step.
The summit is out of his reach! He thrusts his frozen hands into his pockets. And there, there he finds magic: two squares of forgotten chocolate. He can feel the hit in his body as he swallows them, the reconnection with muscles, feet and breath.
And so Ed knew the unforgettable dawn happiness of reaching the summit of Kilimanjaro.
