Maze

We walked to Forefield and back along the road which passes our field, a trip of twelve miles altogether over the high moors between Calverdale and Currackdale.

We stopped at the highest point of our journey, nearly 2300 feet above sea level—1400 feet above the valley bottom—and had our sandwiches and coffee. The somber brown moors of Hurstdale Clough, Fair Moss, and Lockwith stretched away beneath bright clouds. There were no sheep and few birds at this height, but the weather was a little warmer than yesterday, so much so that on the outward leg I had to hide my face from the sun for fear of getting burned.

As we made the steep descent into Forefield the round mound of Birk Fell rose up against the sky from the surrounding hills. We paused in Forefield and Mum and Dad had tea at a café while I sat on a bench near the village cross before we set off back. It was a killing climb beneath glowering skies and a few heavy spots of rain, but I raced ahead and waited at our previous stopping place. We got back to the caravan after five and I quite enjoyed the return leg which had me thinking “this is what I traveled 300 miles for,” a thought I’ve tried hard to pin on one particular aspect or moment of this holiday but have so far failed to do so. I can only conclude that the greatest pleasure lies in anticipation of the future, but at the moment that future becomes actuality the essence of the pleasure slips away leaving a disappointed and let down feeling.

When I’m in Watermouth next week this holiday will seem full of meanings and poignancies. I’m a victim of nostalgia and sentimentality and I’ve been brought up to perceive the world in certain ways at certain times: I’m victimised by these perceptions, trapped in a cycle of conditioned thoughts as effectively as if I was a rat in a laboratory maze.