It was just four hours, half a day, a morning's ride through the dessicated pastures. The arid hills welcomed me, offering hazy views through the baking heat but little shade and no water. Such are the downlands in high summer, lovely but aloof.
Poppies scatter the dry crops, their scarlet delicate as human existence upon these inhospitable hills. But their beauty too whispers of the joy of surprise.
And the land rolls away, wave upon wave receding into a depthless haze that no amount of riding can fathom. And I, simple traveller, concern myself with this morning's water, this moment's trail.
I love this place, and I know its ways. I can find my way about, for I have wandered these hills on and off for two decades. They hold surprises, of course, however these mostly are pleasant. Here a new view reveals itself, there a detail that I'd previously missed.
And there is the tranquility. It's quiet up here. Insects buzz, perhaps a tractor hums somewhere. Once in a while an aeroplane passes over. People are few, for these are not well beaten tracks. We've eschewed the Ridgeway and sloughed off the dust of trudging travellers.
We're slow. There's no point in getting unnecessarily hot or thirsty. Besides, Brena is a draught horse. I need to look after her, and I do. She's damp with sweat but coping well. Three hours, four hours, six, we manage. Indeed we thrive. And I'm building up sunny capital to help tide me through the dark months ahead.
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