Lofty
The previous night I was small and skinny and I was wearing a hoodie that made me look like one of those hippity-hoppers, but I didn't care. I had an animal companion, an Italian Spinone in fact, which was badly lip-syncing to dialogue read by John Hurt.
We were wandering around a farm on the side of Chinnor Hill. Chinnor Hill is a very high hill near where I live. You can drive and park in the woods at the top of the hill and walk all the way down to the bottom if you like, but it's something like a three-hundred-foot climb back up to where you parked the Escort if you do. Outside the woods, the grass is kept short and bouncy as only a proper infestation of rabbits seems to be able to manage, and generally speaking it's really quite a lovely place to have a picnic.
There is no farm on the side of Chinnor Hill in real life, but in real life neither are there gigantic hovering causeways made out of metre-wide marshmallows stretching out into the air. The dog and I (the dog's name was Bruce, by the way, and as I have indicated, it was a talking dog) were somewhat bothered by the apparent disappearance of all the livestock. From the equipment, fencing, terrain, and the sign out front saying "DULL FLIGHTLESS BIRDS £1.50 ea. or £9/pair" -- that's what it said, folks -- it seemed safe to presume that there ought to be some animals around.
Nothing but the occasional rabbit, however. Bruce wasn't interested in these, complaining that they smell overpoweringly of pheromones at this time of year and that he'd rather be eating wild grouse.
Someone was playing two-voice harmony on a guitar, we could hear it quite clearly. Eventually we realised that the sounds were drifting down from the slightly ominous hovering marshmallow stairway, and started climbing up it. Eventually the paths forked into three, and then to nine, and so on irregularly, and from that point we were more or less wandering around about a thousand feet above the ground, generally alternating between "childlike wonder" and "being freaked out at just how far away everything was and how come we still couldn't see the guitar player, anyhow?". However, it was an exceedingly pleasant sunny day and there didn't seem like much else worth doing, so we just carried on wandering. We could dimly hear the sounds of traffic and record stores and things drifting up from the towns below.
It was warm so I took my hoodie off, which left me in a t-shirt. This was fine except shortly afterwards I lost my footing and tripped. I was fine and so was Bruce, but in my brief terror, I flung my arm out to protect me. It went over the side and I accidentally dropped my hoodie, which plummeted like it had a prior appointment with something on the ground. We watched it fall as we tried to calm down, until we realised it would be a better idea not to look. We stayed sitting down for a long time until we felt more confident about the marshmallows.
I think we went back to the hillside after that. We'd been talking for quite a while about ethics and how to "do the right thing", and why this is difficult. Having a conversation with something that has the voice of John Hurt is very, very pleasant. As it turned out, to get back to the hillside took much, much longer than we expected, as we got hopelessly lost, and by the time we stepped back through the woods, it was almost sunset. At this time of year, that means nine pm, which means around eight hours after we arrived at the hillside.
We were quite hungry, and I bought us fish-and-chips for dinner on the way home. Somehow, fish-and-chips never tastes quite as good anywhere as it does in the driver's seat of a white van. Although I can see that having a wire-haired dog poking its head between the seats to beg for chips could be something of an acquired taste.
Nonetheless, I woke up extremely hungry.
We were wandering around a farm on the side of Chinnor Hill. Chinnor Hill is a very high hill near where I live. You can drive and park in the woods at the top of the hill and walk all the way down to the bottom if you like, but it's something like a three-hundred-foot climb back up to where you parked the Escort if you do. Outside the woods, the grass is kept short and bouncy as only a proper infestation of rabbits seems to be able to manage, and generally speaking it's really quite a lovely place to have a picnic.
There is no farm on the side of Chinnor Hill in real life, but in real life neither are there gigantic hovering causeways made out of metre-wide marshmallows stretching out into the air. The dog and I (the dog's name was Bruce, by the way, and as I have indicated, it was a talking dog) were somewhat bothered by the apparent disappearance of all the livestock. From the equipment, fencing, terrain, and the sign out front saying "DULL FLIGHTLESS BIRDS £1.50 ea. or £9/pair" -- that's what it said, folks -- it seemed safe to presume that there ought to be some animals around.
Nothing but the occasional rabbit, however. Bruce wasn't interested in these, complaining that they smell overpoweringly of pheromones at this time of year and that he'd rather be eating wild grouse.
Someone was playing two-voice harmony on a guitar, we could hear it quite clearly. Eventually we realised that the sounds were drifting down from the slightly ominous hovering marshmallow stairway, and started climbing up it. Eventually the paths forked into three, and then to nine, and so on irregularly, and from that point we were more or less wandering around about a thousand feet above the ground, generally alternating between "childlike wonder" and "being freaked out at just how far away everything was and how come we still couldn't see the guitar player, anyhow?". However, it was an exceedingly pleasant sunny day and there didn't seem like much else worth doing, so we just carried on wandering. We could dimly hear the sounds of traffic and record stores and things drifting up from the towns below.
It was warm so I took my hoodie off, which left me in a t-shirt. This was fine except shortly afterwards I lost my footing and tripped. I was fine and so was Bruce, but in my brief terror, I flung my arm out to protect me. It went over the side and I accidentally dropped my hoodie, which plummeted like it had a prior appointment with something on the ground. We watched it fall as we tried to calm down, until we realised it would be a better idea not to look. We stayed sitting down for a long time until we felt more confident about the marshmallows.
I think we went back to the hillside after that. We'd been talking for quite a while about ethics and how to "do the right thing", and why this is difficult. Having a conversation with something that has the voice of John Hurt is very, very pleasant. As it turned out, to get back to the hillside took much, much longer than we expected, as we got hopelessly lost, and by the time we stepped back through the woods, it was almost sunset. At this time of year, that means nine pm, which means around eight hours after we arrived at the hillside.
We were quite hungry, and I bought us fish-and-chips for dinner on the way home. Somehow, fish-and-chips never tastes quite as good anywhere as it does in the driver's seat of a white van. Although I can see that having a wire-haired dog poking its head between the seats to beg for chips could be something of an acquired taste.
Nonetheless, I woke up extremely hungry.
posted by the Dreadful Flying Glove | 4:46 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home