When I left yesterday morning the first thing that struck me when I got outside was the feel of the air. It is hard to describe, but
when I walked down the lane to the copse in the snow the air seemed wet and blustery, as if it had a life of its own. Yesterday
morning it felt crisp and sharp. Flakes of snow were still drifting down but delicately, and I could see the lightness of clouds against
deep black in the sky. I turned left then right from the back door, so that I was on the footpath leading up the hill behind the cottage,
towards the old cemetery.
I was worried about footprints, especially if the snow stopped, but the wind had caused such drifting that I was able to walk on dry
stone in some places – and anyhow, there was nothing I could do about it. The path took me around the outside of the graveyard, past
a kissing gate for people who wanted to go towards the church, and then away to the left again, across a meadow. In places the snow was
very deep, soon the turn-ups of my jeans were covered in sticky ice, and were wet and cold. It was very dark, the darkness before the
dawn, but even so when I got to the hedge on the other side of the field and looked back, I could see my footsteps in the snow. I turned
by the hedge and walked up towards the top of the hill in the shadow of low-growth evergreens which were replaced by dry stone walling
a little further along. I had not been out of the cottage for an hour, but I realised that I had already lost the footpath. Well, it didn’t really
matter, it was not as if I were going anywhere special.
When I came to a junction of stone walls I chose to take the one which would lead me further up the hill. I only partly thought it
through. The higher I was, I felt, the more likely I was to see someone approaching. It started to get light and I realised that there
was an unexpected benefit to walking right by the walls – the snow had drifted as it had when I set out, with deep piles in some places
and exposed ground in others, and I was leaving few footprints.It took me a while to reach the top of the hill. It was 11.22am
when I stopped and drank some of the milk, and ate an apple. I sat
in the shelter away from the wind, which also meant that I wasn’t looking out towards the valley where the cottage is, but in the other
direction. I was quite warm because of the exercise although my feet were cold and wet, and as I ate I felt something tickling my nose. I
looked up and saw, to my delight, that it was snowing again – not as hard as it had in the last few days, but steadily, and with a breeze.
There was a chance yet that my tracks would be covered.
* * *
I am very frightened.
I am sitting on the floor behind the altar of the church, not ten minutes’ walk from the cottage, although it took me all day to get
here. I think I am pretty much at the end of the road and I still have no real idea what is going on. Thank goodness I brought this torch, although it flickers quite a lot. Thank goodness I brought food.
I am so cold.
Of all places, you would think that in a church I would feel the presence of the Spirit, that I would know I was being cared for. I feel only cold and – despite the change of socks – damp. The helicopter hasn’t flown over since it got dark but there are a few vehicles in the lane again.
I wonder if anyone can see this torchlight through the old, dirty stained glass windows?
I wonder if this will be my last entry?