Creative writing submission from the Rest Less community – submit your entry here.
Wanting to appreciate the good, if a tad cooler weather, I decided to jump in the car and take myself off in the direction of Bridport. I made sure the water bowls at home were full and that both of my furries were comfortable before leaving. In fact, Arthur had gone back to sleep, his snoring gently thrumbling away, warm air rippling across the silence with each somnolent breath. I felt safe to leave.
It was a pleasant enough journey with surprisingly little traffic on the roads and, quite soon, I found myself in Symondsbury.
I first went to Symondsbury about six years ago when a friend took me there for lunch and we parked at the bottom of the hill, looking up towards the trees. I found myself stopped in my tracks, spellbound, my imagination immediately going into overdrive as I viewed the sight before me of those lone trees at the top of the hill.
Asking my friend, the story she told me was that the owners of the estate had planted those trees in memory of those workers who left to fight in the First World War and had never returned. I have no idea if this is true, though it seemed reasonable to assume that it was.
As for me, when I looked up at those lonely trees silhouetted at the top of the hill against the bluest sky, I saw those soldiers. I saw those men, some only boys really in their brown uniforms, rounded tin hats and puttees wound tightly around their legs as they carried their Lee rifles.
I instantly felt the smoke of the battlefield stinging my eyes, smelt the gunpowder, and heard the rumble of tanks – the deafening explosion of shells all around them as they fumbled for their gas masks.
To me, those beautiful trees were a graphic reminder, so many years later, of the gallantry of those men who lost their lives for their country.
As an English teacher, for many years, I taught students about ‘the War poets’ as part of the curriculum – and the sight of that hill brought their beautiful, tragic words back to me, tumbling over each other for recognition. The glorification of a nightmare.
Distracted, we went to lunch but those trees called out to me in ways that I could not have imagined, leaving me surrounded by ghosts, a hand firmly on my shoulder.
Since that time, I have returned many times to look at that hill, to feel its power, wishing that I still had the youth and mobility to climb to the top accompanied by the ever-faithful Arthur – something which would have been easily within our grasp only 10 or so years ago but sadly, I have left it too late. Though that may be the case, I still return to sit quietly in my car, close my eyes, and conjure up those first images, my homage to those men. Occasionally I question myself: “But what if the story told isn’t true?” But it doesn’t matter, it’s about making connections, using the imagination to take you on a journey of discovery, and where you end up…is only part of the process, the joy.
Having grown up in central London, all my life from my earliest memories the countryside with its trees and wide open spaces has called out to me. I feel it uniting those living with those who went before us, the shape of the landscape so much older and more present than anything we can imagine.
For some reason, the thought of all those ghosts, joining me in my contemplations as I sit alone, is surprisingly comforting. It is a recognition that life goes on regardless and that we are all just pieces of the same puzzle with our individual parts to play. It’s a sense of hope for me, the idea that long after I am gone, some essence of me will still exist.
Eventually, I made my goodbyes, having tickled a grey donkey’s soft, velvety nose who came to stare at me as I sat in the car park. Rejuvenated and inspired, I make my way home.
Greeted by a very sleepy Arthur, tail wagging, I sit on the carpet and pull him into my lap for a cuddle, telling him all about my day out, how the sun came out to warm me, and how a grey donkey with a quiet, gentle nature came to make friends with me. I know he can’t come with me any more on my little forays and, of course, that saddens me enormously – but I never forget to tell him all about it as soon as I am home.
Halfway through my story though, I feel his full weight against me and a snore escapes him, rippling through his dewlap. I laugh quietly to myself and very gently move him back onto his velvet bed, kissing him lightly on his nose. Am I offended? Not in the slightest. I can go on a bit sometimes and, as I write this, I imagine you all nodding off…quietly drifting into slumber before you have finished my words, zzz!
Are you feeling creative? We are proud to have a hugely talented community on Rest Less, which is why we’re so excited to open up a section of the site dedicated to showcasing the wonderful and diverse writing of our members. If you have a piece of creative writing that you’d like to share with the Rest Less community – you can do so here.