"A Secret place and the Exmoor Walker"
A short story by Ron Blundell
The combe was damp and still.
The sound was of rushing water from a nearby freshly filled stream and a steely light from the hidden sun did its best to penetrate to the woodland floor. A few feeble rays were split into a faint rainbow of colours which contrasted with the green half-light pressing in from every side.
At each carefully placed step the stag’s hooves squelched and stabbed a distinctive slot deep into the mud. Every few strides it stopped briefly to sniff the air and shake its head to try and shake off the mist of midges and flies that immediately descended again for their share of the blood meal. Steam rose from the stags back and flanks and drifted towards a large oak tree.
High on the valley side where the stones downward slide had been arrested temporarily by the stunted oak trees, the wet stones were lit for a moment by a ray of sunshine that moved across the steep slope. To the walker the light beam was reminiscent of a spotlight illuminating an invisible dancer as she moved across natures stage. But all too swiftly this faint reminder of the final days of summer was snuffed out as the next rain squall cut across the high ridge and descended into the narrow valley. The intensity of the rain caught even the buzzard by surprise and with shake of its body it left its perch and glided away to seek better cover down the combe, out of sight of man or beast.
Now the rain was finding its target. The walker withdrew further under the protection of the massive oak tree and its parasitic ferns along its spreading branches. The rain trickled down the rippled bark and formed into small streams at the walker’s feet.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
The massive metal hand at the start of the walk in Minehead and the many carved acorns on the first signposts had offered hope of dappled sunlit moorland following the severn sea. Now two days into the walk and reality was setting in – soggy socks and a damp shirt together with many aches and pains were a reminder of what the remaining 600 miles may have in store.
For ten minutes the rain sheeted down on the blustery wind to find every fold of unprotected clothing. Then suddenly both of natures forces paused, there was a feeble attempt at a rally, then all was still, only the sound of water remained.
The walker paused then stepped forward into the open. The nearby stag took fright. It sprang, ran and clattered across the stony slope and with a brief backward glance was gone.
The walker sighed then tightened her rucksack straps and measured her steps in the fresh deer slots and then followed the contoured gorse lined path around the hill towards the beckoning strip of blue sky and the widening view of the grey sea below.
End.
