THE SCOOTING HIKE

For J and Hum

Four feet and four wheels between us;

off we steeply go, ever upwardly

passing a medieval church and hilly farmyard on the way.

Like all proper walking folk, there’s no difference in pace,

whether uphill or down.

The scooting jallopie is practised in being a pseudo-quad -

when it comes off the tarmac

down a friendly track:

so far, so good! - until the grassy ruts

became potted with rocks and holes

- the dear bipeds hanging on, fore and aft

as downwards we slip, slide, rollick

with lolling gateposts, and tumbled,

erstwhile boulder-walls, bemossed

alongside the vertical bank,

held intact by roots of massive oaks.

These were surely there when the castle mound

ontop of the look-out hill fort

was well populated, ago.

The olden bridge crossing, en route for the ancient Yew-lined churchyard

 in the middle of a field;

traipsing, so I’m told, local brides or

coffins

over the boggy bits to get married or buried there. 

Sure-footed mountain ponies

might have traversed this hidden trail;

itinerants, warriors, hermits or wildmen

with staffs, backpacks, chattels 

and womenfolk in tow.

There’s even an overgrown cottage

amongst the shamble of trees and tangled bracken:

 hideaway for a recluse or loner:

but for a truck parked under an eave - someway to get to Tesco, mayhap 

…

We end up by the Lake again,

in time for coffee and cream cakes

watching the dinky puffs-of-fluff, trundling in the parent-swan’s wake,

patrolling the boat-house precincts, whilst geese and ducks

steer clear, knowing the royal avian precedent.

It’s the, longest, solstice day today

and the heavens open up

on our return back home;

by way of: Sobeit, well walked

 مَا شاء الله 

With kind permission