Extracts from a semi-fictional memoir- prologue
Memories can be released in many ways.
This morning we turned off the main road through the village onto a small residential road leading towards the sea. On this road some ten years ago we would park and wait for our then teenaged son to finish rehearsing with his rock band at the home of a school friend before driving back home for tea. Now though we continue to the end of the lane and park opposite the old railway station, long since turned into a tea shop. Our intention is to walk along the disused track to a lane a little further on which leads to the cliffs, and there take the cliff top path one way or the other. As we are climbing out of the car, however, a farm vehicle of some sort trundles past and, to our surprise, continues round a bend of the lane which we had thought to be a dead end. Ever on the look-out for a new walk, we follow in its wake.
The lane winds gently to the crest of a small hill, from where we get our first glimpse of the sea, sparkling blue beneath an almost cloudless sky. Two men stand chatting by a five-barred gate, a small retinue of dogs waiting patiently for them to finish. One of the dogs- a young border collie- drops a stone at our feet and we throw it a couple of times in each direction before continuing our descent towards the cliffs. The lane soon dwindles to a grassy track between fields of ripe corn. Daphne has stopped to take in the view from horizon to horizon. “This could be anywhere,” she says. On the track, passing vehicles have left two parallel ruts. Between them, and to either side, grows wild chamomile, its unmistakeable scent rising in the warm air…
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