Secret

We didn't make it on the TV Travel Show, but every description - and there could be many more - is 100% true. Real memories - not inventions! Perhaps the greatest delight for me is my wife, who shared everything with me and still does, but bosses me aro

 SECRET

 

 The interviewer faded into the background as, wisely and with sensitivity, he let their dialogue find its own course and set its own pace.

 

'D’you remember the time we saw the kingfishers beside the river in Portugal?' The man asked the woman beside him, - a woman with silver hair and a beauty undiminished in his eyes.

 

'The ones at Aveiro or those diving into the Atlantic where the river met the ocean?'

She questioned him, remembering with joy the flash of flame and iridescent blue, the jewelled sunlit halo driven from the water as the bird broke surface, a silver fish struggling in the needle of its beak.

 

'Does it matter, wasn’t it all wonderful?' he said, memories flooding back.

 

They had travelled, these two, and not to the nearest beach to lie in the sun. It was their way to collect the scenes of their journeys both as photographs, of which they had a rich store, and as the fine art of glowing colours visible only in the mind.

 

Reminded of the rattlesnake that nearly spoiled it all in the deserts of Utah when she almost trod on it, a shudder passed through her but was quickly salved by the memory of a little airstrip and next day’s four-hour flight in a ‘string and sealing wax’ four-seater over the desert and canyons, including the Grand. 

 

By now the memories were really pouring forth. A spring, bubbling straight out of the red Portuguese earth, crystal clear, cold despite the near tropical heat of the day, and the policeman who appeared from nowhere and proffered her a cork cup from his pouch.

 

The meeting in a mountain inn with Jan and Greta, a Dutch couple in their seventies, who became their friends and still are. Jan sang all the old wartime songs she reminisced. What a character.

 

'Talking of singing, what about your rendition of Handel arias in the Greek open air theatre', she asked. The interviewer might as well not have been there. 'Oh, I was testing the acoustics' he replied. 

 

'But THREE arias?' She emphasised. 'Well I was applauded. Even by the Germans' he said with pride, totally brushing aside the suggestion that wine had perhaps flowed a little liberally at lunch.

 

The man took a little time to talk of Austria and how they had rooms in a wine museum with free tasting each night, staggering in to dinner afterwards at the hotel that owned their rooms. 'It was pure serendipity finding that magical place', he said reflectively.

 

Suddenly the woman reeled off experiences thick and fast, Flowers of the Field strolling down to Galilee, Crusader forts; castles and gardens in Spain, brilliant sun reflecting from the Sierra Nevada’s snow-cap, and the drive up to the snowline. 'Hey, remember on Cape Cod - that US National Collection of Hostas we saw and not one slug bite?' She asked.   He certainly did; it was the same day that he had bought his watercolour of Day Lilies from the artist that painted it. It’s on his wall now as he writes and in turn he throws in his list. A restaurant, every wall covered with notes, written and monetary, from satisfied diners. Run by a little, seemingly ancient couple; you had no choice, just all or only a few of the ten dishes that appeared before you. Either way it took all afternoon and you got to know everybody - - there were only four tables. The tangle of wires over the narrow streets and alleys of small towns, the smells, some wonderful, exotic and others - - he decided to leave that bit.

 

Their eyes were soft, distant even. They were back in the places they had seen and experienced, some spectacular, some simple, but none mundane. 

 

'Where, where are they, these places', asked the interviewer. 'Viewers will want to visit for themselves?'

 

'Oh they’re just memories, our memories,' said the woman, with misted eyes. 'Places like these, - it’s the finding that’s the joy. If they look, people will discover their own heaven.'

 

The lump in his throat almost prevented his closing words. 'Secrets', the man whispered, 'Secrets.'

 

 

 

                              J.L.B. 1999

Author's Note

For Emma's 'Happy Memories' Competition

Reviews

[emmajoy]

What a wonderfully warm and nostalgic piece of writing. It's like sharing a couple's life and happiness.

'Talking of singing, what about your rendition of Handel arias in the Greek open air theatre', she asked. The interviewer might as well not have been there. 'Oh, I was testing the acoustics' he replied. 'But THREE arias?' She emphasised. 'Well I was applauded. Even by the Germans' he said with pride, totally brushing aside the suggestion that wine had perhaps flowed a little liberally at lunch. '

That made me laugh and laugh .. it's teasing cushioned in love. I felt a little like an eavesdropper, so, thank you for inviting me into your world of wonderful memories -and, for submitting this delightful story.

[Lily1111]

'Oh they're just memories, our memories,' said the woman, with misted eyes. 'Places like these, - it's the finding that's the joy. If they look, people will discover their own heaven.'

My heart just melted when I read these words so true. This nostalgic reflection of travels shared between a couple who have loved for a lifetime and experienced seeing, smelling, feeling, hearing and tasting life brought a broad smile to my face. This piece is so timely for me as I had just recently decided that it would be a good idea to record my memories of finding my own heaven, so that when I am old and can remember them no longer, someone could read them to me. Just beautiful John!