Recovery: Part Two
A few days ago, a friend told me a story about her dad and one of his pals meeting for outdoor beers during lockdown at a rock that has a prayer carved into it in both English and Welsh. The rock is surrounded by dripping ferns. The story made me cry. If the crying is back, then I’m on the mend.
Years ago I went to see one of Simon Armitage’s Stanza Stones on the Pennine Way – it was beautiful but a little anticlimactic, after a row about getting lost on the way and having to ask a weekend rock climbing club how to get to it. One of them asked why we didn’t have any equipment. I pointed to where I thought it was, up a steepish incline and said I didn’t think it needed anything other than decent boots. He didn’t answer, but he looked up at the rocks jutting out from the hillside and looked worried, like they were alive. He patted his carabiner and harness thing, I think for reassurance. When we found the stone, I read the poem once to myself, once out loud and then one more time because I didn’t think the person I was with was listening. My voice attracted the attention of a splendidly horned sheep, obviously some sort of local king. The sheep followed us for a bit, then seemed to lose interest, but as we were driving away I saw it standing grandly on the brow of the hill, apparently watching. My guess was right. The sheep was a king.
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