Straight

By Maxim Griffin.

Keep going – ten miles or so of straight track – your boots are kicking up the dust – at this pace you should be there in three hours, three-and-a-half if you get distracted – old railway lines are as good as Roman roads for consuming great distances – the ground is bone hard – you feel it with each stride – the resistance of baked clay – at least the heat has died down for the time being – it would have been stupid to undertake one of your walks a week ago – it’s only 24 today – you lean into the day, into the miles – you keep going.

The landscape is not shy about showing its scars – a mile down the line and there are trees either side – some oak, some ash – they don’t look right – the leaves turned pale yellow by early July – boughs sag, everything seems very brittle – how long will the roots be able to support the weight?

You’ve already seen fallen trees closer to home – how long has it been? How long since the last proper rain? 18th of June, give or take – when was the last time you mowed the grass? Six weeks or ten? Tabloids would have you think that this scorcher is nothing unusual – a quick hosepipe ban and everything will be hunky dory – tell that to Spain, tell that to France.

You pause for water – two big glugs – the fields beyond the old track are solid ochre rectangles – everywhere looks worn out, rusted – there’s a tower of hay bales waiting for a spark – stubble sticks straight up, dead and sharp – the clay is cracked open, exposed – an open sore – your ears pick up on the drone – then your eyes pull focus through the rippling haze of heat – flies – millions of flies – the heatwaves have accelerated their breeding cycles and caused an explosion in their populations – standing still only draws them in, and in seconds you are flapping and swatting them away – you walk on at a pace but it does no good – they are everywhere and on everything – face, arms and legs – you fan them away with your headgear – one nearly goes up your nose – the flapping dance continues – you keep going until the track enters a shaded hollow – suddenly the flies have gone.

Nature’s harvest
It’s cooler in the hollow – the navvies cut the line deep here – the trees look a little healthier too – the ground softer – the embankments are a chaos of brambles – you smell the fruit – blackberries – good – an empty lunchbox will house them – you reach into your knapsack, grab your sandwich and woof it down – good ham and proper mustard – you hadn’t noticed how hungry you are – this weather does strange things to your appetite – you lick the butter and mustard from your fingers and wipe your hands on your shorts – it’ll do – with lunchbox in hand you approach the tangle – the head height ones are best, away from the hind legs of passing animals – the first blackberry collapses as you pick it – fingers slick with juice – you step closer and feel a brace of thorns against your shin – you reach higher – you’ve scratched your left arm from the wrist to the elbow – the next fruit feel firmer and pull free easily – you taste one – it is, of course, perfect – you must stop yourself going all Seamus Heaney – the lunchbox is quickly filled – you stash it away in the knapsack, leaving black-red finger smears on the canvas – pour a little water on your hands – wash the blood of the fruit away – you keep going.

Unknown territory
The map says there was a tunnel up ahead – the map is, as ever, not the territory – the tunnel was blocked long ago – corrugated iron, timber, dead trees, tractor tyres – you can see light from the other side – it’s not a big tunnel, fifty metres maybe – a cool breeze blows from beyond – you consider climbing through – it would be possible – a younger version of you wouldn’t have given it a second thought and an interlude underground is appealing but your age advises caution – you go up the less tangled side of the embankment and cut an illicit dash over the top through a slim field of oblong bales and man trap stubble – quickly, you rejoin the track and inspect the other end of the tunnel – similar barricades have been erected – at this end you see no light from beyond and smell something unpleasant from within – your younger self would no doubt have stepped in it.

Turn – keep going – you’re back in the open – the wide line of disused railway runs arrow straight for a few more miles yet – an hour’s walking if you get a shift on – it’s still, save for the omnipresent drone of flies – they leave you be – it’s gotten hotter too – a thick, unpleasant kind of heat, breathless, heavy – the weight of this new climate is bearing down – stay focused, stay hydrated – a glug of water – hmm, it’s warm and tastes of plastic – that can’t be good for you – pour a glug in your hat and put your hat back on – this is a brief refreshment – you check the temperature – 29 but feels worse – you keep going.

Ahead – south and west – the sky has darkened – it’s a way off – fifteen, twenty miles – but it looks as though a storm is brewing – a great cobalt thunderhead on the brink of collapse – you watch – the weather system is moving at a glacial pace – slow, massive – but it is heading in your direction – if you keep on this track you could be beneath it in an hour, imagine that – you keep walking, recharged by the possibility – the pressure changes, dropping suddenly – the drone of flies stops dead and a peal of thunder splits the sky in half – you keep going.

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