These Midsummer Fires
scenes on a crumbling cliff top
Hello, and welcome to Between the Moons here at Bracken & Wrack!
When the month of June rolled around again, I found myself reflecting on something that I wrote two years ago this month. Hunting for the file, I realised that I had never shared this story in its entirety so I thought it might be a perfectly seasonal offering for my ‘between the moons’ friends. I hope you’ll enjoy it as a midsummer read - with any luck in a hammock slung between two shady trees with a cooling glass of homemade lemonade at your side (well, we can dream …).
I remember writing out the story longhand in my notebook, sunny morning after sunny morning in the front yard. Each morning at 8am I would join many others online for Writers’ Hour hosted by the wonderful London Writers’ Salon. I still join the Zoom each weekday morning, but mostly I’ve been tucked up in my cottage sitting room. This year there have (so far) been few days when I could happily sit out at the front under a blue sky in the company of swallows, swifts and the ever-present telegraph-pole-tapping woodpecker. The weather has been quite tricksy for the usually bone-dry Norfolk and dark clouds have often swept overhead bringing chill and drizzle.
Two days ago, summer seemed to have arrived and that brought back the memories you will find captured here. I wrote the piece as a short story; I suppose you’d call it ‘creative non-fiction’. The article is around 4,000 words long, so in order for it to fit into an email I have divided it into two parts. The second part will follow next time. I tried to leave it on a cliff hanger ;-)
‘There’s already a rosiness as I step onto the still-warm tarmac. I push in the wing mirror, which lets out a protesting creak, check the doors and swing my bag onto my back. It’s not heavy. All I’ve brought is a thin jacket, hastily stuffed in before leaving home through sheer habit.
It’s still and airless as I make my way up the hill, skirting the church. Outside the pub, unsurprisingly, all the tables are taken. A faint aroma of beer and chips hangs over the place but absolutely no rowdiness. I would say that it’s not that kind of pub, but in fairness I’ve never actually been on the cliff anywhere near last orders. Somehow, though, I can’t imagine the tone altering much from the good-natured hum that accompanies my footsteps crunching across the gravel, acknowledging and being acknowledged by a sunburned middle-aged couple with a dog at their feet.
Out on the cliff top the orange is spreading behind the church tower and washing the horizon in a north-easterly arc. Before slipping through the gap beside the gate, I pause to let two couples and assorted dogs past me. Perhaps they’re heading back to the shiny new campsite, or maybe the open door of the pub will lure them in for a nightcap.