Describe a place familiar to the character in a story.
The path the group found themselves on wound gently uphill between crags. They walked steadily, taking in their surroundings. On days like this it was wonderful to experience the scenery, the smells and sounds of the fells. Photographs are a beautiful memento but to be here, feel the sun on the skin, or even the rain at times, one felt a part of the scene.
Just now their path was the route of an ancient Roman road, remains of camps having been excavated in recent times. Since the Romans, it has history has been diverse; a sheep drover’s track between the monastery at the dale head and the market town about 8 miles hence, and as a cattle trail connecting routes from Scotland. History poured from its stone walls which enclosed the path, and one’s imagination could take you away into past times, fancying Roman centurions clanging armour and arms for mile upon mile to the next fort, or monks and serfs driving the sheep, or even kilt-clad northerners bringing their long horned cattle south.
The ground was hard to walk on, due to the dry season, but cushioned in places with deep patches of moor grass, growing almost like stepping stones between the dips in the limestone. Jack gazed around, taking in the smell of the peat moor and sound of curlews with their lamenting call. This was heaven.
Soon, their route led them off through a stile, one of those kissing-gate things which allows one person at a time, preferably without rucksack as space was limited. One by one they passed through and started off uphill at an angle across a field. Lazily, a few sheep chomped the grass while some gave them a questioning glance. Beyond a couple of sparse looking trees, growing in towards the hill, the result of strong winds moulding their shape, a group of cottages came into view.
“That’s funny,” remarked Tom, who had the map. “There is no mention on here of cottages. There’s a copse coming up as we round the edge, but no cottages. How strange!”
They grouped round to take a look at the map, not altogether doubting Tom but keen to reassure themselves of his words. It was right enough, no cottages on the map. However, the path led on so they walked in that direction.
When they were within view, it was possible to see it was actually one neat little Dales cottage with a barn and a large shippon. In the yard was a young girl, pumping away at a rather ancient device next to the kitchen door. She looked up, and the group took in in various details as they approached, realising that she was dressed in a traditional Dales way, long skirt, headscarf and a shawl wrapped round her body. She wiped her brow with her sleeve and peered at the motley crew of six walkers varying in stature.
“Hello there” she called out. “Could anyone help here, do you think?”
“What’s the problem, miss,” asked Robert. He was often the spokesperson.
“It’s the water supply again! We’ve had a rather dry summer and the well has dried up. I’ve four cows back there who desperately need a drink.”
“Well, what can we do? Don’t you have piped water or an electric pump? What do you usually do?”
“Electricity? I depend on the spring up the field really. That hardly stops flowing even in dry weather. Trouble is, my father has been around in the past when we needed it, but he passed away last winter. It is rather difficult for me on my own. The buckets get very heavy.”
“Oh, if that is all you want, give us your buckets and containers and we’ll give you an hour or two to bring water down. Where’s the animal trough and your tank?”
Each walker dumped their sacks in the yard and followed the girl round the house and up a track towards the spring with a varied collection of water carriers. After a couple of minutes the sound of trickling water came to them, and before long they were filling the buckets and plastic drums, and one trip was complete as they emptied them into the trough and returned for more. The views from the spring were even better than they had seen from the footpath. The hills rolled around the valley, and bird sang as they darted about the sky or swept down to the shippon, obviously having chosen this to nest inside. The girl said little, probably leading such an isolated life gave her little chance to practise conversation. However, she and Jack walked closer than the others and they did smile and she giggled as he got wet reaching his bucket out to be filled. They turned to walk back down the hill, Jack whispering to Pete as he passed “By the way, her name is Jill” and skipped on to catch her up. As he performed his last skip to bring him alongside her, a rock appeared in his vision but he was too late. He tried in vain to save the bucket of water and fell off the path onto a spot where the field fell steeply away. Down he went, rolling over several times, chased as quickly as possible by his friends. He came to a halt against a large hummock of grass, which was softer than hitting the tree just beyond.
“Crikey, Jack! You OK?” asked Jim, the first to reach him. Tom took a careful assessment of the situation, asking Jack questions. Robert, the mouth, suggested calling the Air Ambulance, but there was no need for that. The main injury was a nick to his head, and a slightly sprained ankle, but he hadn’t lost consciousness and would be able to walk with an ankle support. A dressing on the head wound be fine. Jill, however, suddenly appeared, trying to take charge of the situation and suggested they bring him back to the house, where she would fix his head with ‘vinegar and brown paper’…….
“With what?” demanded Tom, in disbelief? Had he acquired higher First Aid qualifications to be usurped by vinegar and brown paper? Jill ran on ahead.
The group moved steadily back down to the farmhouse to retrieve their bags. They considered they had taken enough water for the next couple of days until she could get help, and felt they needed to move on. But where was she? They called her name but there was no response. Robert went to the shippon, and was astonished to see no sign of cows. Not even one, let alone four! The stalls were empty of beasts and bedding. He was perplexed to say the least.
Re-joining the others, and about to reveal his discovery, he saw Jack turn, a stare on his face, pointing to the windows, which were now derelict, shutters hanging off their hinges. On the roof, missing tiles grew weeds in the spaces. The old yard pump was rusty, and when they tried it, was seized up. They gazed at each other, unable to put their experience into words. Daylight was fading as they tramped on to reach the hostel before nightfall. Silence fell upon them, but as the path turned to meet the village road, Jack turned back for a last look. There was no cottage to be seen. After a decent meal at the hostel, they asked about the cottage in the hill. The warden, Mick, stopped in his tracks and said….
“Haven’t you come across the story of Jack and Jill?”
