Nothing distinguished the young man from others as he
stepped out his front door into the bustling crowd, other than perhaps the
oversized rucksack he wore. He clicked the door shut, turned the key in the
lock and posted the key through the letter box as per agreed. He then turned to
join the crowd, still undistinguishable, ready to start his new life.
The man walked with the crowd, as it slowly thins around him leaving him truly
alone for the first time on his adventure as he followed the meandering road
into the hills. After several hours walking he reached the summit and turned
around, looking down on the town below. He decided despite the early hour he
would camp here the night, one last looking over the town which had been his
home for the past 28 years, his family’s home for generations passed.
From the view point the young man could see horse pulling traps around, like
ants heaving leafs in a nest, living their bland mundane life. But he, finally he
felt free of all that. The rat race or whatever you wish to call it. The way of
life society expects us to lead. Finally he was himself, free, living his
dream. A meal cooked over an open fire and a night spent under the stars, the
first of hundreds to come.
The sun woke the man early the following morning, a beautiful crisp autumn day,
frost on the ground and a light mist hanging over the town in the valley. For
breakfast cold meat from the night before and Fresh water from the burn which
ran past his camp. Within an hour the mist had lifted, he was packed up. With
one last look at the ant’s nest of his home town below, he turned and walked
over the moors, the crisp frosty ground crunching beneath his feet. The trail
of his footprints melting in the sun behind him.
He covered many miles that day, never seeing a soul on the deserted moorland.
Only a few sheep and plenty of Rabbits, his next night was spent in a kind Sheppard’s
croft. Being taught how to catch skin a rabbit, before eating it. Bathing and
drinking from the burn that fed the croft. Much mead was drunk that night as
the shepherd regaled the myths and legends of the moors. It chilled the man to
his bones before he and the shepherd fell asleep beside the stove.
The next morning came and with a heavy head the man bade farewell to the
shepherd and walked on, days passed by, the man walked on, spending nights in
forests, fields and hills alike. On a rainy night a light tarpaulin made a
shelter, protecting him from the wind and rain. Rabbits, pigeons and the odd
squirrel fed him, the last of the autumn berries as snacks. Before his trip he
had never truly appreciated the beauty of his home country before. He found he
could find beauty in the ugliest of landscapes.
As the days turned to week’s snow began to fall, the man decided to head down
to a town to spend the night in an old inn. With a sum of money handed over for
bed and breakfast, and a hearty supper finished he settled himself in the smoky
bar, with a pint of bitter. Beside him an old man sat, smoking a pipe. Almost
as if he had been there since the day the pub first opened. The old man looked
at the young man, drew a puff on his pipe, letting the smoke rise from his
mouth before, in a gruff and wisdom filled voice spoke 'alright laddie?
The young man replied, saying he was glad of a bed for the night. The two fell
into conversation about the man’s travels. The old man listened, a hint of envy
in his eyes as the young man spoke of his travels so far before asking the
elder man of his life story. The old man spoke of the town’s once rich mining history,
lead in the ground the old man spent his life digging up, retiring shortly
before the pit closures. He spoke of his son who had not been so lucky, losing
his job, his livelihood and ultimately taking his own life, leaving a widow and
two children. The old man spoke in sadness about it, and how the widow had
taken his grandchildren away to find a better life somewhere. The old man had
not seen his grandchildren in years. From his pocket he withdrew an old tatty
picture of his grandchildren, the last memory he had of them. The old and young
man chatted and drank the night away. Far past closing time the two bid each
other good night and left each to live the rest of their lives, two ships
passing in the night.
Morning came, and, after the most filling breakfast the young man had had in
weeks, and with his head sore from the night before, trudged his way through
the snow continuing on his journey. Making a point to stop in pubs and inns he
passed on route. Hearing stories from young and old alike about their life’s,
sailors, farmers and accountants alike. The most memorable was an old man who
lost his leg in the war as he watched his lifelong friend loose his life to
King and Country. Many tears were shed but enjoyment and appreciation was had.
As winter turned to spring the man arrived at the South of the large Island,
where on the bright morning he could see his destination over the viscous sea.
Days were spent exploring and dreaming of adventures yet to come. A few weeks
working evenings in a smoky fisherman’s pub, hearing tales from old and young
alike paid for a place on a ship, sailing over the rough seas. The man shared a
cabin with some merchants travelling abroad to bring back spices, special
herbs, wine and luxury from distant lands. They shared stories, smoking
cannabis and drinking the night away. It was on the trip the man discovered his
ability to draw, a simple scrap of paper and an old piece of charcoal gave
memories to last a life time.
The foreign lands were full of surprises, an unappreciated by the man’s own
people, but amazing to those who ventured there. Working the winter in the
mountains, extra money from drawings sold to brave travellers and merchants
alike, paid his way to the next land, to ancient and romantic cities. An
evening watching the sunset from the top of the tallest church spire, watching
the world go by stood amongst the bustling streets. A moments silence paid for
the unknown soldier from wars of past. Days were spent wandering the artist
square admiring the work, where weeks turned to months and months to years
drawing and selling his art. Accommodation found in artists hostels where good
times were had.
Once the mans yearning for travel came he left the city, finding work on a farm
which paid to see the graves of an ancient war. A few minutes spent at a
distant ancestor’s grave, who died young, a brave man in a fearsome battle.
Time passed as the man meandered the distant lands until he found himself helping
run a small travellers inn. The inn, ran by an native couple in the northern
lakes taught him the local language, alien to his, the history of the
mountains, tales of trolls and beast once hunted now immersed in folklore.
Finally the man learnt of the long life of the two, who were born in the
mountains and farmed the mountain slopes, opening the inn to make ends meet
when they could no longer could do the manual labour. Now a nearly as elderly
neighbour could be seen still roaming a field, leading a powerful horse and
plough.
The elderly farmers death came as a shock one morning, and the young man
attended the ceremony of death, lost within the rituals of a community in
black. The death and sad closure of the inn gave the man the cue to leave and
explore more lands, walled cities and roaming rural landscapes. He visited
cities more ancient than the war, awed at the ancient architecture, evenings with red wine drank on steep vineyards,
overlooking the ancient cities, drawing and selling the amazing views, and
swimming in the oceans, filled a year before a ferry trip to the Eastern
kingdoms still recovering from a more recent war.
The lands were full of misery, yet hope, burnt out shells stood in place of
grand buildings. Wooden planks leant against their still ornate walls gave
shelter to the homeless. Food was a scarce supply here. Hunting wild animals as
people tried to rebuild their lives. The man spent his days travelling, hearing
tales of war as he drew their disfigured faces, most aged beyond their years.
From the Eastern kingdoms, where a few days working on one of the few remaining
farms, paid his way to the South, Mountains climbed, joyful people met, a
culture so far from his own amazed him. The generosity of a family in a shanty
town giving him a scrap of floor to lie on taught him more about generosity
than anything previously had. There he learnt, with difficulty, some of the
local language and heard tales of hardship between his visits to the southern wanders, Mosques,
palaces and modern cities a world away from where he slept.
From South and through the remote frozen lands, living in igloos and feeding
rarely on the few animals he could catch took him to the Northern lands where
tribes took care of him, unimaginable alcoholic beverages were drunk and views
beyond imagination greeted him. The now aging man spent several years touring
the northern lands. Months were spent helping the locals, struggling to dig
wells and build huts to live in. In payment for his work he was taught the
local language, indulged in their elaborate customs and was fed for months.
From the Northern lands to wilderness beyond, full of the native tribes, full
of joy and humour in the pleasant lands. The man sat with by camp fires, rekindling
his guitar skills and singing, his voice, now husky, gave a chilling feel to
songs. Smoking substances he was surely too old to now smoke gave inspiration
for songs and drawings alike. Months were spent crossing the desert where he
saw almost alien like ancient art and culture. Farms the sizes of counties were always happy
to pay him to work. In the cities, a stark contrast from the outback the man
spent last of months of his years there working between trips the infamous islands,
where vast mountain ranges met him, the greenery and rocks disappearing to the
clouds above. There was ancient cultures’ the man did not know even existed,
far too far from his home land to know off. Here, in a remote village in a bar
the man spent another evening, chatting to an elderly man who taught him the
hardships of living off the sea in these remote, forgotten about islands.
Back to the mainland and with money in his pocket a new ship took him to thriving
cities, ancient structures touring over him, where weeks were spent amongst the
foreign world, full of greed and evil compared to the remote cultures he had
seen. The next city was full of delights, days were spent in cafes, with
cannabis filled cigarettes, coffee and a pencil in hand he sold drawings to locals
which paid for nights in the red light district and eventually a ticket on a
ship to western world.
It was an elderly man who travelled west to the great lakes, tremendous waterfalls
and the beautiful wilderness of the west, where work was harder to find, but
months logging paid his way through the western wilderness and cities, gambling
and Native culture led him further west.
Now he was the old man, who Sat in Bars and shared his stories with the young
whilst hearing their stories. Before venturing through to the far south west, with
rain forests where once again tribes cared for him, treating him as an elder.
Before they sent on him on his way, down great rivers in a small canoe, so he
could explore further worlds. Ancient cities, now lost to the jungles awed him
as the man continued west to the nearing mountains
It was in a remote village in the those mountains the now old man collapsed by
the side of the road, the man was taken to a local Wiseman where peeling paint
decorated the Wisemans walls. The Wiseman tried to treat the man. But the man
knew his time had come. He lay there, alone and friendless looking back over
his life. Though it was with a smile the man closed his eyes
for the very last time.
He was buried with dignity by the locals in a nameless grave; along with a
drawing of his home town he drew he had long since carried.
A life of joy ended in beautiful solitude.
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