Weather: overcast grey

Sometimes you meet a man, and in each other, you instantly see a brother.

Among the dozens of kindred spirits I’ve come upon here, Brandon Black’s is perhaps the most like my own. Or more accurately, his is a spirit truer to itself than mine, that I admire and seek to learn from. His smile is warm, his manner relaxed. He balances humor with sincerity, effortless wit with eager listening. Each chat in the manor’s halls, however brief, adds to my day. But today we get to have a longer, deeper discussion over in a cafe in Liss. Rather impromptu— I was there to write, he to get a coffee and go— but among best friends, that is how the best discussions start.

Some stuff that we talk about:

• The two wolves inside each man: Family Man or Devout Monk?

• How the pandemic worsened everyone’s screen addiction

• He likes my writing excerpt about society going too fast to think straight

• His mom studies this and has a library of books on this exact topic

• Scientifically, doomscrolling world news (good or bad) produces a worse reaction than if you occasionally heard a piece of bad news

• The sheer quantity of data overloads our brains— BB & I dub it “Data Fatigue”

• Similarly, it is proven easier to get over traumatic events witnessed in person than those people had seen on TV/the web, because they were traumatized in real life, not in the abstract where things are vaguer, and can fester

Before long, nearly three hours have elapsed. Alas, adieu, brother!

Weather: overcast

I feel myself being gently shaken me awake.

It’s Csoban. He’s leaning over me. He says something. I can’t make sense of a word.

“...What?” I ask sleepily, wondering if I’m dreaming. Or perhaps an aneurysm.

We stare at each other in the dim blue light. Outside, a bird tweets good morning.

“Oh!” He seems to blush. “Sorry, Ramson, I am speaking Hungarian!”

We laugh.

“It is almost breakfast,” he says.

“OH SH—”

…

Monday lunches are a banquet of all the previous week’s leftovers. We dine all together in total silence. Sometimes music is put on.

This time, Sujan Stevens’ new album. Peaceful.

…

Teatime. Grey, chilly afternoon. Wet grass and pine needles between bare toes.

Weather: shocking blue sky behind red trees, sunny with scant clouds

10am. My first service at Hope Church— aka the gym of a primary school down the road. I remember a lot of kind elderly parishoners; but also an Indian woman, her gigantic English husband, and their 3 mixed kids sitting in front of us.

Their baby laughs at the faces I make!

…

12:45pm. The L’Abri crew begin their march to the annual Apple Festival in the town over. Our walk’s an hour but I don’t mind.

Footpath under twisting oaks and straight slender birches. Over roots, little wooden bridges, silent streams, sucking mud. Past gaps in hedges you can see fields of bright green shoots running on and on. Leaves whirl in a brisk breeze. Beautifully red, fiery orange, and mottled gold mixed with the remnant green, shattering the blue sky. Makes me think of Lothlorien. A haze or mist lies over the afternoon. Light becomes a fluid thing that suffuses the fields.

Isabelle kindly proffers advice on publishing books for the first time.

Our destination. Beside an old tall stone church— and graveyard with tombstones so old they jut this way and that— lies a long clearing under the treeshadows. Crowded with tents, tables, awnings, and people. Dozens of apple varieties, and some fine pears, for tasting and sale. Carvers, basketweavers, food trucks, a bouncy castle.

Apple Day!

…

4pm I start to head back. I decide to go on foot but lag behind the others walking. At one point I look up and realize they’ve taken a turn I’ve missed! As lovely golden as this hour is, the sun sets in 1 to 2 hours. I’ve no signal or map of the area. “Well now, Bilbo, you’ve gone and put your foot in it again haven’t you?”

Backtracking, I decide to knock on a door and ask for help. Better that then to wander till dark and then ask, when I look like an extra suspicious character.

A tall English mum, Cindy, immediately answers, seats me, and fetches me water. She knows Joel and Peter, and happily drives me back to L’Abri. “Oh,” she replies offhand to my profuse thanks, “It’s not a problem. Just adds a little excitement!”

I get back before the others thanks to her!

Weather: sunny

First off-day. Some of us take a trip to see the famous Sisters.

Packed: PBJ, crisps, apples, Oreos.

Our rental cars arrive at 12 noon. Start hiking toward the shore.

Lush rolling hills with wide flat vales along which rivers branch and snake. Along their banks: sand, pebbles, brambles in colors brown, brown-green, with red and yellow buds. Hundreds of white sheep graze on the hillsides that lead up to the cliffs.

The cliffs! Sheer, white chalk cliffs!

Sweet Jesus— they steal and return my breath all at once.

The Channel sparkles as diamond and turquoise. It washes the pebble beach. White salty froth plays with the scree. Rocks slick and rough stab into my bare feet but its worth it to get them wet. Water friskily cold as I splash my face in it. The white pebbles leave chalk on your hands when you pick them up!

Boots pound the dry brown turf to scale the smooth formidable slopes of each Sister. I get vertigo just nearing the crumbling edge. But have I ever seen such a view?

Atop the first Sister, we all sit down by the edge and eat lunch. Seagulls cry at us and wheel about us. Josh reads Chesterton’s essay A Piece of Chalk.

Weather: sunny

Picking apples from orchard trees.

• Gold yellow, russet, red, green, gold brown

• Some gold brown pears as well

• Branches heavy and drooping with bushels

• Ripe fruits snap easily from their leaves

• Branch flings up, dislodging 7 others that drop to the grass!

• Hunter and Ellie chat alongside me

• Fallen, rotten fruits crush and squelch under bott

• Eating as we pick— the pears are subtly sweet, most apples sour

• Both fruits have rough skins but free of poisons

• Crates heavy in our arms as we march across drive, around manor, through backdoor

• Washing, peeling in spirals, cutting, and soaking the slices in brine

Wednesday nights— Arts & Culture. We watch A Real Pain (2024) and discuss. The colors pop. The acting hits you in the stomach. The scene with the shoes absolutely tore me up. Notice how Benji’s clothes are all red, and Dave wears blue with a red cap, and by the end they switch? Visual of their character arcs through the film.

Weather: sunny

7:30am. Wakeup. Slept like a rock. No need for an alarm. Birds twitter in blue dawn.

8am. Breakfast. Everybody together in the dining hall. Granola/bran flakes in oat milk, jam on toast, black coffee. Eat by the window over the green lawn.

9:10am. Morning prayer. Leaves crunch underfoot. Meander out to the little chapel in the corner of the Sunken Garden. More like a small barn. Walls of red brick, half-timbered, some wattle and daub. Rafters strung with glass jars from a wedding held there. Sitting on haybales and furs, we read Scripture, breaths misting in the October air. Sunlight streams in through the window and pools on the stone floor.

Csoban prays aloud in Hungarian. It is like a spell.

9:30am. Work hours begin, beside Grace, Josh, Maya, and Csoban. Wheelbarrowing logs from the piles to the stables, to be stacked by the Norwegians. They have it down to an art form. Some sit under the oak to dig out nails from old planks.

11:30am. Morning tea break. Everyone’s out on the lawn, some play volleyball. Sun’s out now for real. I chat with Steven. American, grew up Christian, rebelled as a teen, came here a few years ago and had a resurrection of the Spirit.

12pm. Back to work. Cool breeze, kind sun, orange-green leaves on blue sky, slight sweat, heat whisked away by the wind. Finish up before lunch at 1pm.

Lunch: a smaller group in the kitchen dining table. Some kind of beef/tater/cheese pie + side of the greenest most scrumptious broccoli conceivable. Washed down with more hot tea + shards of dark chocolate. Each lunch has a discussion revolving around a question someone proposes. There are ground rules that set the tone.

1. Listen more than you talk

2. After speaking, at least 3 others must speak before you can speak again

Csoban’s question: “Anxiety, depression, discontent are widespread even as we live in first world countries with no great war or depression to struggle with. Why?”

Highlights from what people said:

• 3rd places digitized → info spreads instantly but with no chance to physically confront or converse → easy to gain stress but hard to lose it

  • Intensified by bad eating, sleeping, Vitamin D deficiency

• Big traumatic crises or wars reveal what we are willing to do-- selfish or selfless

• Helping one another rallies our own hopes

  • Individualism → isolation, idolatry of self, despair

  • Love of Neighbor → Love for Self

Around 3pm. Study time begins. Reading Halliburton’s Glorious Adventure— quite helpful for my own.

I write this entry outside on a bench, on 2nd tea break at 4:30pm. Wind’s cold.

6:30pm. Dinner at Evan and Tracey family’s house— aka the manor’s converted Stables. Thai curry w/ meat, broccoli, a lil bit of cinnamon over rice. In Redwall again!

8:30pm Tuesday night lecture by Joel. “How to have a good discussion.” This is in the Bakehouse, aka the library and main study area. Some notes:

• Really, “how to listen”

• Conversation =/= Talking

• To converse means to exchange ideas

• You must listen/receive before you can offer up

The moon gleams, full and silver. My shadow races across the gravel driveway.

My first full day here.

Won’t be so detailed for each one— this just gives a sense of them.

Weather: sunny

The walk to the manor is a pleasant one, but long.

I cross the railroad tracks and turn right. I follow a straight, light-dappled path through the wood. The trees are tall, green, and sighing. The plaques say this footpath used to be a railroad. Resistance fighters from France and Norway were trained to sabotage Nazi cargo trains here. My shoulders ache from the backpack’s weight.

About halfway I meet an old English lady named Anne walking her dog. She instantly knows me as a L’Abri student and offers a ride there!

I follow her back to her house, meet her husband Peter. There’s an apple tree out front. Heavy, bursting with succulent red-gold globes. Anne lets me pick as many as I wanted (five). Then a quick drive to the manor.

The manor sprawls, with red brick walls, ivy, a dozen tall chimneys. Wood tiles painted orange look like dragon scales. An explosion of wisteria shadows the front door. A darkwood door, with a blackiron knocker. The wind stirs the leaves quietly.

It’s the golden hour of the afternoon, around 6pm, when I cross the threshold.

I’ve made it.

…

The English L’Abri Fellowship is like no other. It doesn’t quite fit into any category. It’s not a hotel, hostel, or hippie commune. Nor is it a charity, camp, club, or company retreat. What it is, though, is wonderful.

In the 1960s, several families pooled their resources to establish the first L’Abri location in Switzerland. A place where those curious about God could go to contemplate the faith. Their vision spread across the world— Brazil, Australia, Canada, South Korea, the USA— and to the Hampshire countryside of England.

Four families reside here permanently with their kids, plus a few workers, and a rotating cast of ~20 guests, called students. When I arrive there are 2 Hungarian lads, 3 Norwegian ladies, a few Germans, a handful of Aussies, one Scottish lady, one Egyptian, and a bounty of fellow Americans. Most are in their 20s or 30s. Others bear “moonlight” in their hair. Some are married couples. Some bring their kids, who mingle happily with the tutors’ kids. All burn with questions.

It is here that I’ll be living for the next five weeks.

I have already fallen in love with it.

Immediately I am welcomed into a fellowship. In the truest sense of the word. Everyone here has read CS Lewis and seems to know the origin of my name. Everyone’s a engaged listener— but equally engaging, with fascinating thoughts of their own to share. Everyone’s sincere, with no airs to put on except in jest. I’m not here 10 minutes but I’ve been here a century.

Everyone’s a character to remember. A few:

• Michael is a veterinarian, born Egyptian, USA raised, finely mustachioed, and newly wed to the delightful Lauren, staying here with him

• Isabelle’s a published author of historical fiction, gives me some tips

• Hunter, one of my roommates, is a midwife from Minnesota

• Csoban (cho-ban) and Barnabash (just “Barny”) both left Hungary at the same time from the same airport

• Kayla’s not just a fellow Marylander— she won Miss Maryland 2022

• Brandon Black (yes his real name) got his concussion from telling a story too hard and slamming his head on a wall. He wears earplugs to help with the noise of crowds, but his talents of story and speech have not wavered. An instant brother

• The blonde Anna’s eyes are full of whimsy and spontaneity. She lights up a room with her smile. When she says something too silly even for her tastes, she’ll say “Wait a minute” and do a little jeeroop sound, as if she were winding back a tape recorder, before rephrasing what she wanted to express. I’d reckon Anna was in her mid or late 20s, but in Lewis’ words, had long since put away “the fear of childishness and the desire to appear very grown-up”

• Michael easily beats Anna in “leg-wrestling”, but she beats Barny, and then I beat Barny too. Barny takes defeat pretty well

The wood fire crackles. The children cackle, play around ones’ ankles. Soup steams in your bowl. Tea steams in your mug. Bread crunches in your hands. Faded tapestries hang on the walls. Bookshelves groan with the weight of knowledge. Candleflames flicker gold. Board games spill across tables. The open kitchen door is a wall of scrumptious scents— tonight it is warm flour, and bread baking, and the potatoes, vegetables, meat, turmeric, and ginger of a hot savory soup.

There are no phones. No WiFi bars. No taking photos inside the manor— it’d spoil the magic of discovering it in person. But the digital detox is a plus for me. What’s that I spy? Indoor bathrooms? Hot showers? A laundry machine? And did you say 3 meals included, plus 2 breaks for tea? Compared to the Roost, this is a 5-star hotel.

Hearing laughter from the other room. Rich discussions of truth, battles of wit. The quiet turning of book pages. The ticking clock. The silence of staring out a window at the sky, the trees. And music. But never from a phone. Always what a real person plays on their instrument, or sings, or a pleasant mix of both. Jessi writes songs on guitar. Peter pipes on his Irish whistle (not a flute!). Kayla’s singing is angelic— sometimes I hear it coming from the kitchen and I sigh and I know a little of what Heaven sounds like. Several can rhapsodize on a piano, and there’s choir hymns on Mondays and Saturdays. As talented as they all are, they’re still human. Now and then you hear mistakes— but that sweetens the sound.

Monday nights are “free nights” with no main event, only boardgames and discussions in the front hall. The manor’s full of “45-year-old 25-year-olds” (Peter’s words) who, yawning, totter off to bed one by one after 9pm.

The last thing I did that Monday night was sing sad Irish songs in Peter’s study as Peter whistled and Jessi strummed her guitar and the black logs popped and crumbled in the grate. Monnie Malone. Bold Riley.

I sank into my bunk in the Turner Room. Felt like I’d made it. Like I’d fought and won a refuge from the world for a while. Like I had found my people.

Like I’d entered a place between Redwall and Rivendell.

Weather: sunny

King’s Cross! A melting pot of languages. (Platform 9 3/4 is meh personally.)

George’s directions: Judd Str, Guilford Str, Southampton Row, Argyle, Waterloo Bridge across the Thames, round the circle to Waterloo Station.

London’s amazing!

I remember stopping in the middle of Waterloo Bridge and looking at Big Ben and Parliament glowing in the sun, and thinking, quite honestly,

“Holy s***. I’m in f***ing London. What the f***. I made it to London. Little ole me.”

I’m glad I chose to walk— but by doing so I miss my train! What’s more the weather’s beautiful but I’m still in my thermals and wool jumper. I’m drenched with sweat by the time I get there. On a whim I go to the information booth to explain myself and see if I can get a refund. “No refunds I’m afraid,” the lady says, “but here…”

She stamps my ticket with a blue ink mark. “Get on the next train to Liss, show that to the ticket master, and he’ll let you through.”

Joy blossoms in my heart. “Thank you ma’am!!”

She smiles kindly. “No worries, dearie. But just remember—” she fixes an eye on me— “the ink’s wet. Don’t smudge it, or they might not take it.”

I nod vigorously, find the platform, sit on a bench. Find my sweaty fingers have already blurred some of the mark. I gulp. Wait for the train to arrive. Shoe taps the floor. Sun beams down through the glass. 5 minutes to go. Wait, isn’t that the train? Right in front of me, this whole time? Board it, sit. The train lurches forward. “Attention,” crackles the speaker, “if you’re going to Liss, etc., please seat yourself in Coach 5 and up.” I get up and stumble down the aisle to the next coach. Sit. The ticket’s a bit more blurred. Has the ticket master arrived yet? No? Gnaw on some bread. Sweat cools on my brow. Red brick and mortar London rambles past my window. Doze off on my backpack.

A man in the aisle brushes past my head, jolting me awake. Eyes wide. Mouth dry. “Which station are we—?” I ask the old man across from me. “Did we pass Liss??”

He shrugs. “Where’s Liss?”

My heart plummets.

“Liss is the next stop,” says the girl in front of me.

“OhthankGod,” I gasp.

We all have a good laugh.

I get off at the tiniest little country station imaginable. Walking in fits and starts, glancing around anxiously. But there’s no ticket masters stopping me. No ticket readers. No gates. I just… walk out of the station. Into the quaint main street beside the track. I’d fretted over my smudged little ticket for nothing.

I shoulder my backpack. Have a good laugh.

ONWARDS!

Weather: sunny

Notes on my view from the train window:

• Patchwork quilt of green and brown

• Cobbled walls and hedges form stitching

• Clouds fly in white tatters under blue

• Lines, copses, and crowns of fall-gilded trees lay over rounded backs of hills

• Brown cows, pink pigs slathered in mud, white sheep w/ black heads

• Crags aflame with russet heather and gold lichen

• Stripes race down furrowing fields

• Little winding brooks

• Vast white windmills rapidly spinning

• Stucco cottages w/ tile roofs aflame with lichen— ochre and gold yellow

• A wide river sparkling w/ white birds; the banks are wide, flat, muddy from a “low tide” and are dotted with patches of what looks like moss

• Some homes, hilltop and stony, that look like castle keeps

• Others are castles, straight up

• Land begins flattening now— settling as we go further south

• Napping w/ head on the foldout tray, wool “jumper” as pillow

Onwards!

Weather: sunny

The journey south begins at 6am.

On ~3 hours of sleep. I’m so deep in REM that I hear George knocking on my door in my dreams and don’t wake up. A little while later I hear it again.

I SLEPT THROUGH MY ALARM— thanking George for the wake-up, speed-running clothes and boots, thanking Christ I packed everything last night already.

One last look round.

Out the door.

On such early mornings— mornings tired but full of promise— the world takes on a quality both sharp and dreamlike. Blue-grey dawn, crisp, damp, slowly fragmenting into gold-pink as we weave over hill and dale, green pasture and blue mountain, cows, sheep, mists. George is a true blessing. Such a kind and thoughtful soul is a priceless find. I treasure that last conversation with him on the ride over. We spoke of:

• The golden hour

• Loneliness, the salt of Love

• Thank God for that red sunrise!

• The Knights Hospitaller

• Lewis and Tolkien

Stirling station fills with dawn light through blue-white painted pillars. Dozens of souls wordlessly wait with their phones or coffees in hand. Espresso for me!

• Blonde woman seated next to me wearing a holly red scarf. Great color for her

• Another woman stands by a pillar holding a long sky-blue case— for a flute? Some other instrument? Where’s she off to, I wonder?

Boarding train. Sitting. With sleepy eyes I watch Stirling race away from me. My heart leaps to be free and alone on the road once more.

Onwards!

Weather: noon sunshine; a grey drizzle falls over the afternoon

My last day at GRAS.

A long one.

Morning. Mucking out the donkey barn with Henry, new guy from Canada, arrived yesterday. I mention I’m a Christian in our small talk. This loosed an tide of attacks from him for the rest of the day. The memory of it still smarts like a papercut.

Baseless arguments. Ouroboric logic. Laughter full of bite and bitterness. Kept saying the same things over and over. If I included everything he said, this entry would stretch too long and be borderline unreadable. He really liked the phrase “All you Christians are out to lunch!” Said it six times, at least. “Out to lunch! Out to lunch!” Yelled at the sky as he stomped off like a kid— except he was maybe 50 years old, tall, lanky, with buzzed grey hair and crooked teeth.

I withdrew to my hut. Realized I was shaking. Prayed. Journaled. Tried to let the spite slide right off me. Wondered if I represented my faith well. Then it struck me. “Love your enemies,” said the Lord. How could I do that, with what I had?

So I knocked on his door, and I gave him a cabbage.

“I bought this recently but never used it. There’s more veggies in my fridge. I’m leaving tomorrow anyways,” I told him with a smile. “Can’t let anything go to waste!”

I meant it as a sign of good will if nothing else. It seemed to be received! He was shocked, delighted even. “Oh wow, thanks man!” And a peaceful few hours passed. Once he even amiably related his childhood as I washed dishes.

Then afternoon chores came, and he came after me again. Doubled in spite. Tripled in incoherence.

Why? Why, man? I tried to make peace! I gave you a cabbage!

In all seriousness, I knew why, really, but it still astounded me. I had discussed my faith with difficult people before. What I had never encountered was this kind of pursuing hatred. I had never personally seen such emptiness in a pair of eyes… It unnerved and saddened me like nothing else. What life had this man lived? What had cracked his mind? What did he believe in, if not a God, gods, or anything else?

I had asked him that question that morning. “Nature,” he had said.

“Oh, cool,” I said, “like the more spiritual aspects of Nature, or the more scientific aspects?”

Henry’s voice wavered, his eyes averted to the ground. “Just… Nature.”

I shrugged my shoulders. “Okay…” Maybe he doesn’t know for sure, that’s alright—

“I think we’re all connected in a big web,” he blurted. “We’re all the same. There’s no greater point to any of it.”

“Oh, so the more spiritual—?”

“We’re just a bunch of lab experiments. In a petri dish to see if we get along.”

“Okay… but who’s running the experiment?”

“Reptiles, man!” His laugh died as quick as it began. “…I don’t know.”

Perhaps this was what really ignited his ire, because all his worst attacks came after I asked that question. He wasn’t atheist, agnostic, pagan, materialist, or humanist. He didn’t know what most of those words meant. Didn’t know what he believed. He just hated me for believing.

In the quiet of my hut, Scripture anchored me. I saw this encounter as the last trial of GRAS— before I could get the Hell out of dodge tomorrow.

Today I knew this to be true: It is okay to love ones’ enemies from a safe distance.

…

In the rain-glazed afternoon Sofia (part-timer) asked for my help to herd Gypsy, Kandy, and Jet back to their pasture after the flood receded. The ponies go in easily chasing the bread. Gypsy, though, is a big wuss.

He’s too scared of the great puddle by the gate. Sofia and I goad him, wave the bread bag, whirl the halter to no avail. Running around the green fields trying to match the trot of this grey-bearded horse! Every time he’d work himself up to it, and every time he’d turn and run away. Somehow we did it.

…

Around 5:50pm Ross’ wife Dana picked me up in her car. The Mac family (Ross, Dana, little Lilly, and baby Josephine) ran me out to the local castle. As we bump along the forest road, they regale me about the forest fairies, the weddings they cater for, the time their bulls broke out onto the castle grounds.

Ross gave me a tour of the castle— the door code is the village’s worst kept secret— a castle older than the United States. He also brought his sabre and hide roundshield from historic re-enacting, to teach me some moves.

…

We arrive at the pub at 6:45pm. All the D&D gang is here! But this time, I’m the Dungeon Master. My last night in Aberfoyle, so Jacob’s stepped aside.

I’m running the game.

I’ve been preparing it all week. Writing and homebrewing into the wee mornings. Drawing mazelike maps on pieces of cardboard Rhys gave me. Once, even to when the birds started tweeting at 8:30am. Not intentionally, of course not. Now it all comes to a head.

I’d themed my “one-shot” adventure on 1980s dark fantasy films. I narrated each scene as such. Harsh light and shadow, shattered by cobwebs and fog. Landscapes as epic matte paintings. Monsters as intricate puppets or stop-motion pieces. The rare piece of extremely crunchy stone-age CGI. Everyone came with a character based off a different flick. Rhys came with a Gremlin, Mark with a centaur named Artax, Ross with a Highlander, et cetera. I remember my old DM instincts firing up again. Refusing to sit down. Calories burning in excitement, refueled by the chips and pints the others spotted me. A glorious night.

First fight took longer than I’d planned. Game ended on a cliffhanger. (I should’ve known— that’s always how my one-shots end. But in my hubris!) Jacob kindly took custody of the intricate cardboard maps I’d drawn for the final fight. Not before I took pics of it to stitch into a digital version. We could do it as a 3-parter— do the other 2 acts online some other night— but the game is always better in person. Who knows? It could be one year from now, two, five, ten. I would return to Scotland someday. I’d see my friends again. Then we could give it a proper ending.

Ordered a burger and chips from the chippy to go. Fazi, the mustachioed chip-man, added an extra patty for me. I pray that I can see him someday too.

Hitching a ride back to GRAS with Rhys and Mark. The darkness of the car, punctuated by dashboard lights, by our voices, tired but still on Cloud 9. Telling them how joyous this night was. About how much better it made me feel after the hard last day at the Roost, trying to work with Henry.

“Ransom,” said Rhys, from the driver’s seat, “Don’t worry about that guy. Honestly you are the nicest person we’ve known to come from there. Most of the people who work at the sanctuary and come into the village, we’ve known them as kind of…”

Mark’s head turned in the dark. “Crackpots?” he said.

A chuckle ran through the three of us.

“Yeah, yeah,” said Rhys. “Honestly, man, mostly crackpots.”

I smile in the dark. “Thanks guys, that’s… encouraging, in its own way.”

…

Tromping through the silent dark to my hut. A cold dark, it pressed close against my face. My hut was warm and dry and silent. Burger delicious, chips salty. Supplemented by what vegetables I had, it was a feast. I ate alone, but for the lightbulb on the table which I ate by. A little after 10pm. Tired, happy, full, alone but not lonely.

Laid out along the bench, to read a bit. Enjoy that silence for a while. That solitude at the close of the day. That feeling of tired triumph. That rest which preludes a new adventure. Then, around 11pm, I get up to pack my bags. At last.

…

Halfway done packing. Near 12. A knock on my door.

My heart leaps. Who could it be? Mione with a complaint? Henry with a last attack? Or— I peered out from my door to see—

Elsa! George!

Come in, come in, of course! Dear friends, come in!

It is a rare delight, to have a midnight surprise party like that one. A last reunion on the eve of a vast change. They had each hosted a little late-night party in their trailers. I thought I’d missed my chance to host them, and to say goodbye to Elsa. (George was driving me tomorrow.) Again I was blessedly, beautifully wrong.

Sleepy were we, yes— long had the day been, tomorrow would be longer. The hut and the moment were both warm, cozy, golden-lit by the single lightbulb, made dreamlike by our mutual exhaustion. George tells me of London. Elsa about her next spot in Edinburgh. Talking quietly. Reminiscing about our time together.

Oh, the night gets on! I must have an early start. One last embrace. They depart 1am.

Packing done. I know I have to get up at 6am. But hang it all, the hut’s gotta be spotless for the next man. Mom didn’t raise a slob. My eyelids droop. I press on. Last thing, I remember scrubbing dishes till finally, finally, finally, I am done.

3am.

My last day at GRAS, and then some. A long day. A day of trials and joys. Three hours of sleep and then I’m off. Off on the open road, once more…

Three hours of… of sleeeep… and then I’mmmmmmmm

zzzzzzzz

Weather: the storm cometh

Changed our routine today. The storm cometh. Flooding had already begun near the riverbanks. The air buzzed with urgency. Items stowed in the pole-barn above the waterline. Goats, and Zorro the sheep, moved into the donkey barn. Gypsy, Kandy, and Jet into the goat barn. Preemptively turning on all the electric blankets in our quarters in case of a blackout. Battening down the hatches. The storm cometh.

I felt torn about missing boardgame night at the village hall. But one look out my window— at the damp twilight, the trees bowing and tossing their hair— and one earful of the whistle slipping through the window-crack— a whistle building to a wail that made my little wooden hut shake and creak—

and I happily went the way of the hermit crab.

The storm’s here.

Weather: blue rainy twilight

Trapped!

I took the bus to Stirling today. Needed a tartan scarf to warm me against the oncoming winter. Thought Stirling might have better prices. Arrived late. Spent too long searching for an open store, missed the last bus back to Aberfoyle (No!), sat down in a McDonalds, open laptop, found it was NOT the last bus, the next one’s in a few minutes (Yes!), go to the bus stop, the bus is 10 min late, then roars past me (What?), I run to the next stop, gesture frantically to the driver, she looks angry, refuses to open the door, and drives off. Trapped! And what can I blame, but my own folly?

Crackheads bounce around the glowing purple STIRLING sign across from the train station. No sense staying on these streets. Maybe I could book a hostel for the night— would I get back in time for work tomorrow?

Mione! The others! They might be able to help. I duck into the train station convenience store and fire off some texts. I pace, I wait. I chat with the cashier.

Outside the twilight deepens.

“Oops,” Mione replies. “George has gone into Stirling with Pippa. Get ahold of him and maybe he can bring you back. X.”

My heart leaps. “Excellent thank you!!!”

I call him. Pippa’s returning to Germany tomorrow, so George and Elsa went to town to see her off. I laugh at myself heartily— not for the first time, or the last. As much as my plight made me blush, if I’d stayed home that night, I would have missed my chance to. What luck! What jubilation! God is good! His blessings strike like thunderbolts— shocks of brightness, disguised by the ominous!

I set out into the drizzling dark of that Gothic town. My ride home secured, our rendezvous fixed— but with no time pressure to find it— I drank deeply of the nocturnal delights of Stirling.

…

An overripe-black sky grazed by serrated stone rooftops. Rain falls thick, cold, slick. The light of warm lamps and blue neon signs run down the cobbled streets and pool in the gutters. I trek up, up, up the hill, toward Stirling Castle.

Took a left of the Portcullis pub. Did I intend to take this left? Was this a wrong turn? I cannot say yes or no. In the stony shadow of the walls, just out of earshot of the pub’s laughing patrons, I can say that I looked up and saw a black iron fence. Past that fence, I saw a graveyard.

Gravestones. Gravestones. Grey, unmoving, rooted in the blue soil under the Stygian sky, the blue soil which rolls down the hill until the eye fails. Gravestones. Hundreds of them. Perhaps thousands. Each with a different cut shape, a unique tilt caused by so many years’ rain and shifting soil. Each with a name. Each etched with a human being’s name. A mortal who once loved, once lost, now departed. To where?

You do not understand the silence of the grave until you hear it in person.

I stop. It is as if time had ended. No sounds, not even my own pulse, my misting breaths. Nothing moves, nothing moves, and yet…

Do I spy a shape?

No exaggeration here. I strained my eyes. Do I spy some form, flitting from stone to stone? The night is thick… I cannot say yes or no. Something in me trembles. Is it fear? No. Not fear in the anxious sense. A healthy respect for the eternal.

I bow. “Good evening, sirs,” I whisper, “and ma’ams. Bless you.”

Then I heel-turn.

Not tempting Fate anymore today.

…

A ways further up, the hilltop. On the steps leading up to the castle I turn around and watch the lights of distant towns and highways sparkling along the horizon.

Down the hill, this way, that way, the rain pours, the light runs like the rain, and then I find it. Nooch. That’s the name of it.

Cozy little vegan place, open till late. A haunt of George and Elsa’s. I join my three friends in a cozy booth towards the back— and there is much rejoicing. The feeling returns to my fingers. Again I am thrilled by the delicious creativity going into vegan food. Bean burger, crisps, then a raspberry cheesecake. Delightfully tart.

It’s Pippa’s last night at the Roost; I leave on Monday; and Elsa in a week. We reminisce. Its amazing how many inside jokes you accumulate working beside each other for only a month. I got a jar of peanut butter for George since his birthday’s coming up. His favorite. He’s always had the most pleasant, peaceful smile— but you should’ve seen the look on his face when I fished it out.

A heartfelt goodbye to Pippa at the steps of her hostel. We pile into George’s car and trundle through the foggy dark back to the Roost. Get there a little past midnight.

Another day where my blunders make way for the glory of God. Another night where I, confronted by my mortality, make the best of it while I can.

Weather: cold grey morning

Spreading mulch and pine needles over the hen yard. A smell sharp and soothing.

I take a shift to watch the dogs.

• Fagan has deformed back legs, all bendy and bowed. He’s the loudest. Slip the lead on him and he’ll shut up soon.

• If you stop petting Hagrid just once— he’ll growl at other dogs, look at you from out under his mop of brown hair, bark once and ear-shatteringly loud, and even nip a little— to get you to pet him again

• Squirtle is the size of a teacup. One eye bigger than the other, no teeth, and a tongue always sticking out. A permanently lopsided gremlin expression that never fails to make us laugh

• Of all the unfortunate dogs here, I think my heart goes out to Popeye especially. Shy, affectionate little guy with a black body and white paws. Middle age but looks like a puppy. Kept in a cage in Cyprus for years. Stunted his growth and his confidence. My caressing his head and keeping eye contact really helped him, Mione said. Every time he sees me he gets up and darts over. The sight of him melts my heart.

After dinner alone, Elsa appeared on my doorstep with a kind invitation. George, Philippa, and I troop over to her trailer to watch Spirited Away. A dreamy classic. Went well with hot tea, Biscoff, and a British Starburst-type candy. My first time seeing it in Japanese with the subtitles. Miyazaki had no plan for it ahead of time. He simply storyboarded as he went along. Explains a lot.

Weather: sunny

I walk to town for D&D today.

Golden afternoon, just before sunset, autumn colors alighting. In a hobbity mood, I start making up songs and singing them to the birds.

On the way I greet an old lady with a bright blue scarf. She’s delighted to reply. Pam, she calls herself. A Liverpool scouser by her own proud admittance. Here on holiday. “There’s no one to talk to on these trails!” she says.

Reach the pub with 5 minutes to spare.

…

Our characters were still in the colosseum armory, crowded round the strange purple box. We were convinced it held some clue to the plot against the King. Our attempts to dispel the time-field about it failed. No one was keen to see their hand age 500 years and fall off.

Casheen (Bard, played by Allyson) used her spell Knock to unlock it. Then Yakub (Ross’ Druid) used his Mage Hand to retrieve a dagger from inside it. The same dagger the assassin had thrown at King Scudius McKenzi I earlier that day. An Identify spell revealed its hilt was of wyvern bone, highly poisonous; moreover, it had been imbued with anti-magic. That was why it could pierce the protective shield around the King.

We exfiltrate the colosseum and return to the tavern. Gumgum (Barbarian, played by Rhys) and the others are there, thoroughly sloshed.

Yakub says, “Hey Gumgum. Catch,” and chucks the dagger at him.

Gumgum and Yakub play “hot potato” with a poisoned dagger that happens to be stolen crime scene evidence.

Half our party takes a proper rest while the other half parties it up till dawn. Felix keeps himself awake with his snuffbox like any good pirate. We go on to the colosseum’s “bonus round” to fight the City Champion— a little girl. Who was actually a thousand-year-old vampire.

At the peak of our clash Munchkin (played by Ross’ little daughter Lilly) pulls out the Wyvern Dagger and throws it at the vampire. Killing blows in the colosseum trigger a spell that alters time just enough to save the loser. But Jacob describes that the anti-magic on the dagger breaks that spell and hits the vampire directly. It doesn’t just take her out of the game— it almost kills her for good. A hush falls over the crowd as she is rushed out to be healed.

The King rises, glowering darkly. “This round is finished!”

After the crowds disperse, guards file into the arena and politely arrest us. Mark’s minotaur Taurgorix goes quietly too, but rolls to Intimidate first. The guards are too scared to put manacles on him. To the dungeons with us!

Ross’ daughter Lilly begins to cry. She feels awful about throwing the dagger, thinks she ruined the story. Everyone pitches in to make her laugh and let her know she made it a lot more fun. After a while she dries her tears and rejoins us.

There in the dungeons we wait for a day or so, contemplating our fate. The cells aren’t so bad, Jacob says. The main thing we’re worrying about is how this has jeopardized our relationship with King, and our quest to stop the wizard Bernard. Finally Bernard’s wife comes in. We state our cases, tell our full story— that we were sent back in time to stop Bernard turning evil, we wanted to protect the King too, etc. Her trust in us has been clearly shaken. Understandably so. Right after we foiled an attempt on the King’s life, we stole the murder weapon… and used it again… at the scene of the crime… in front of everyone plus the King in question. Yeah, it doesn’t look so good for us.

To clear our name, she says, one of us has to submit to a spell from Bernard.

Ross locks eyes with Jacob from across the table. His gaze is like iron.

“Yakub will do it,” he says, slowly and firmly. “Whatever it takes to put this behind us.”

This is a big moment for Ross’ character, and he acts it well. Bernard murdered Yakub’s family, one of countless crimes committed in his attempts to save his wife. Yakub despises Bernard’s guts. He’d be all too happy to spill them.

But he puts all of this hatred aside for the quest.

Bernard reluctantly casts a spell which refreshes and reviews all of Yakub’s memories. He sees all the havoc that his future self will wreak, and all the hurt it causes Yakub. Through it all Yakub stands resolute.

Bernard steps back. His eyes shine in the dark. “I… I-I’m sorry. I am so sorry.”

“Are they telling the truth?” asks his wife.

“...Yes,” Bernard manages. “Yes, they’re on our side. They aren’t Cultists.”

“What about the dagger? Why on earth would they steal it if they were on our side?”

He sighs. “They mean well. I think they’re… just impulsive.”

Snickers ripple around the table.

The next day we’re released and get to see King Scudius enthroned in his hall. All the royal formalities are made. He gestures for us to rise.

“And now…” he says.

Jacob looks at each of us in turn, wearing a warm, kingly grin, then kindly asks us as King Scudius would, in the most casual manner, “What the fuck, guys?”

The table roars with a mixture of laughter and immediate forays into apologetics.

“We got off to a rocky start, I know,” he declares after all is said and done. “But I trust Bernard and Nora, and they say you mean well, even if you are a bit… impulsive. You’ve proven yourselves in combat. You’ve brought me my own signet ring from my descendant, with a spell certifying that it is from him to me. All this considered, I shall forgive the dagger incident. What is more, I shall induct you into my inner circle.

“There is a cult that worships the dragon-tyrants of old. They’re constantly plotting to set up the old empire again. They’re the ones that tried to kill me, and they’ll keep trying. I will need your help to root them out of their hiding places.

“Champions,” said the king, spreading his arms. “Will you join me?”

Thus ended the night’s game. Thus began, as Jacob told us, the next chapter of the campaign. Next Sunday was my last in Aberfoyle, and so Felix would not see it through. But I looked forward to arranging a heroic death for him.

…

Dungeons & Dragons is a game most like life. It’s a story you make up as you go. You listen. You adapt. You work the problem. You make mistakes, you fail, you get back up again. You play with friends, if you want to have any real fun. You work with them. Some days you argue with them. You can’t control them. You can’t control the dice. But even if you could, why play at all? Some days you theorize and guess and posture for hours till someone says “Screw it!” and just rolls the dice. You accept the roll, and yet make it your own. A bad roll can be tragedy— or hilarity. A good roll can be just good— or a beautiful moment. It is what you make it. At the end of the game you shuffle your papers, pack up your dice, and go home. But the adventure doesn’t end. No need to wait for next week. Just for the next morning.

This life is what we make it. At the end of it we will shuffle our papers, pack up our dice, and go home. But not really.

By going home we will begin the greatest adventure of all.

Weather: sunny

5pm. I’m two hours early. Something tells me not to pull out a book. I sit.

Sitting on a blanket of grass that slopes down to switchbacking road. Sitting beneath two tall, peeling beech trees. Great view of the village and woods from here. Worth the hike up this hill.

6pm. Sunrays bash merrily through the clouds, gilding their silver lines against the blue sky.

7pm. “S” is the first to arrive. We scale the hill to the steps of the village hall. Jacob arrives in a sharp blue 3-piece suit. He says he’s just back from work, and a night out with the missus, but man, he wears it well. He unlocks the door for us.

The village hall has a stage, a library of books anyone can borrow, and a kitchen with a communal fridge. I can take as much as I like, as long as I weigh and note what I take— it’s all to reduce waste. I load up on greens, mushrooms, and strawberries!

Every Sunday it’s D&D in the pub backroom, but every Friday it’s boardgames and card games in the village hall. Other players trickle in, some new, some familiar. Each bringing snacks. Holly brought chocolate, and a bag of funnily-shaped crisps called Monster Munch. Jacob brought two bottles of his best whiskey, and… a Costco-size bucket of Red Vines? Oh yeah. This is gonna be a good time.

Jacob’s superpower is with people. He’s an avid listener, skilled in conversation, swift to befriend, concise in speech, and a superb teacher when it comes to games. He teaches us Habini (a cooperative card game about fireworks) and Dominion (a deck-building game like Catan). Magic: the Gathering remains beyond my understanding. But more to game, we came to be gregarious. Amidst the fun nerd banter concerning webcomics, Sonic the Hedgehog, and the Redwall book series, I catch glimpses into the inner lives of the Aberfoyle villagers.

• Jacob studied classics, philosophy, and history. Now he works in real estate, but confesses he isn’t feeling fulfilled in his job. “There is nothing I hate more than the concept of money,” he said. “We have so little precious time on this planet, and we waste it chasing after paper.”

• “S” has a wife, an infant daughter, and two cats; and grew up in a special needs school. He related horror stories of his time at a job center— a dark period, before he moved out of the city and met his wife. “I was told to kill myself,” he said, “if my disability kept me back from working. They handed me a map to the nearest bridge to jump off.”

• Jenny, a Scottish mom with red hair, manages humanitarian aid programs. Once in the Middle East, their teams’ minesweepers discovered a tank mine right under the gate to their site. The size of a dining table. A truck just heavy enough driving over it would’ve killed everyone.

Aberfoyle is a lovely town. The villagers look out for each other, so its very safe and quiet in the shadow of the mountains. Like the Shire it is not without village drama.

One man’s been causing trouble for everybody. Bashing mailboxes, stealing, trespassing on families’ lawns, starting fights and such. Aberfoyle had an honest-to-goodness, modern-day Village Idiot that they all complained about.

Ross, though, had reached his limit. He had a fiery look in his eye. Said he wouldn’t hold back the next time the idiot came after him or scared his kids.

A long and fun night. Time to go home. Before I leave, though, Jenny spots a hedgehog out in the grass of the hill. It’s the closest I’ve ever been to one. Small, prickly, black button eyes, a little snout. Out and about fattening up for the winter. Adorable. I watch him disappear into the night shadows.

Godspeed, little guy.

Weather: gleaming day of warm sun and gentle gusts

My birthday, and I’m given the afternoon off!

My friends bless me with all manner of gifts.

• Elsa and George got me a treacle tart. It’s basically pure sugar in a thick gel— a taste I have yet to acquire, but a kind gesture nonetheless

• Annie, who works at Maggie’s Bakery in the village, got me a Gingerbread loaf and a jar of Chuckleberry Jam (redcurrant, gooseberry, jostaberry)

• Christine at the Inn got me fresh-squeezed OJ+lemonade. It tastes like a crisp tropical heaven after a week of dry goods and canned soups

• Rhys got me a pint of IPA. Scotland forever

Many reflections to make as I grow older. Much to do for the journey ahead.

For now I fall asleep on the bench outside in the sun. At peace.

Weather: brilliant blue day of sun

In the afternoon I take the feed out to Gypsy, Kandy, and Jet in the far pasture. A mix of sugar beet, rabbit feed, torn-up bread. The far pasture lays past several others where the donkeys are let out to graze every day. A path runs down the middle. Flimsy “electric” fences line the path. The current’s broken; the donkeys blunder past them to graze where they like. This is not a problem to Mione since they can’t escape the sanctuary grounds. A proper fence of wood and wire prevents it, and cuts them off from the far pasture.

Problem: all nine donkeys are still out today.

They smell the food I’m carrying.

And they want it.

One cuts off my passage. Shoulders me against the fence along the path. The others crowd around me— but I break through their ranks.

Arms laden with bowls of feed, I began a brisk trot. I can hear their hoofbeats. They’re gaining on me. I speed up; so do they. I break into a full run. Bowls jumping as I jump, threatening to tumble out of my arms. My wellie boots threatening to trip and tumble me right onto my face.

I throw a look back.

I’ve never seen donkeys gallop before.

I leap over the Great Mud Puddle. They splash through it. I keep going.

My wellies catch on the ground, falling off in rapid succession.

I keep running across the damp grass and mud with bare socks.

Running, running, running, just a little further—

I reach Gypsy’s post with the stampede just a step behind. I fix his bowl to his post, and lightly toss Kandy’s and Jet’s over the fence into the soft grass. They dig in greedily.

Victory!

Weather: brilliant blue and sunny, slight cool breeze

Biked pell-mell to the pub for D&D at 6pm today. I’ve been looking forward to it all week.

Jacob is the Dungeon Master. American, been living here for 8 years on his visa, soon to be a citizen. I meet him first at the bar. Strong handshake. Warm smile. His is a true storyteller’s voice— both casual and articulate. A bearing that anchors, that already puts me at ease.

You go to the back of the pub, to the door in the corner. White paint peeling. You take the stairs into this backroom. Slot machine, pool table, dart boards. Three tables of smooth wood shoved together. Our table slowly fills as the group arrives one by one.

To my left, sits “S”1. A Englishman, incredibly chatty. Loves to discuss his character, the game, previous games, and everything in nerd-dom. He’s in his element. His enthusiasm floods the banks of conversation. To my right, Holly, a Scottish girl with black hair, building a new character as we go along; then Ross with his wild salt-pepper beard, and his cherub Lilly. Of course there’s Rhys, who sits across from me with a grin and wink. Mark next to him, another Englishman but more reserved.

Jacob sets up his wooden screen, the border between mortal and immortal. All are chatting, laughing. Ross orders the first round on him. Jacob gets his pizza from the chippy. Dice clatter and clack on wood. Papers rustle. Lilly lends me three sets of glittering dice from her hoard of dozens, red and black and blue. Rhys starts up the music from the speakers. It is slow, ponderous. Expectant.

The lights dim and focus on the map Jacob lays out. He uses whiteboard marker to draw pillars, and lays out miniature figures of dragons, swordsmen, and such.

For paperweights, he sets down an axe and a machete.

Everyone goes quiet and leans in.

Jacob stands, leans back, and begins to set the scene.

…

The wizard Bernard had wreaked carnage across time and space. Bernard’s desperation to save his wife drove him to travel from era to era, murdering many, including the family of Yakub, Ross’ Druid character. He was also involved in an ancient conspiracy which the elves Nina (S) and Beans (Holly) had studied in their libraries.

Gumgum, Taurgorix, and Munchkin (Rhys, Mark, and Lilly) seem to just be along for the ride, forming the crux of Party Shenanigans.

We had been chosen by Labelis, goddess of history, to be sent back in time 3,000 years, and stop Bernard’s wife coming under threat. If we managed that, he would hopefully never turn evil.

But Bernard was the strategist and confidante of King Scudius I in those days. To gain Bernard’s trust, we had to gain the King’s. The party had entered a tournament to win an audience with the King, so my little guy Felix was retconned in during the final round.

We fight in a colosseum. The floor collapses as we move. Our opponents are “Team Laser.” (“What the hell’s a laser?” asks Taurgorix amidst the crowds roaring.) Three mages of cringeworthy hygiene. Every time they teleport, it is with what Jacob describes as “a puff of Axe body spray.”

My first roll is a Nat20. Felix, a privateer, pulls out his pistol and “pinkmists” the first mage’s head. “First law of the sea,” he growls. “Never mess with my crew.”

Then Gumgum, a goliath barbarian, gets enchanted by the enemy. He bears down on Felix. Rhys blushes as he adds up all the damage he deals to me.

Taurgorix, a minotaur, hugs a pillar with the second mage standing atop it. His plan works, as the floor beneath the pillar collapses, and it topples.

Finally Gumgum breaks free of the spell. He doubles in size, crosses the arena with a bound, and prepares to bisect the last mage with his halberd. With every death there is a split in time, a conflation of possible futures, so that the loser isn’t killed and just teleports out of the arena.

Every death except this last one.

The last of Team Laser, seeing his audience with the King was shot, shouts “FALSE KING!” and throws a dagger toward King Scudius I. The dagger pierces the magic shield around the arena— but Gumgum throws out his halberd and, with a critical success, deflects it just in time.

The failed assassin is cut in half without no second chance.

Everyone in the crowd cheers, half-heartedly. What just happened?

In the aftermath we all troop to the Thieves’ Tow tavern to celebrate. Bernard, whom Jacob describes as bald and (surprisingly) sincere, shy sidles up to our table. Thanks us for foiling the regicide. We try to butter him up, but he’s too awkward, reveals no info.

Bernard’s wife comes up. She’s a lot more confident than him, as Jacob portrays. She tells us that we’ve outdone ourselves. Our audience with the King would be tomorrow. Also, that we’d have a bonus round with the city’s Champions.

Yakub and Beans go off to search the colosseum for clues, with Felix (absolutely sloshed, being a landlocked pirate), stumblingly trailing behind. (The others take a Long Rest).

Yakub turns into a rat to sneak past the guards. He finds an odd purple box in the armory. It radiates with powerful chronomancy— time magic. Felix tries to pick the lock.

The instant his tools approach, they rust away into nothingness.

Now, I had made Felix one of a dragon-like species, with both scales and feathers like a utahraptor. Experimentally, he plucks out one of his feathers and tries to touch the box with it.

Jacob leans back and ponders the table for a few seconds.

“You watch,” he says, slowly, “as the closer your feather gets to the lock, it shifts, shivers, straightens, and turns into a scale.”

Felix looks at the others. “Did this,” he manages, “did this thing just evolve?”

We leave off there. It’s 9pm, a solid 3 hour session. Everyone has kids to get home to and jobs in the morning. But what a ride it was.

Weather: Overcast

Yesterday the ratcatcher came to the sanctuary.

The rat-man was a nice man, bald, sunburnt red. His dogs were smart, wiry little fellows, seldom barking. Dogs with a job. But they couldn’t catch any that day. The rats would hear them coming and run into the thick sea of nettles past the henyard.

I remember that morning watching Mione’s fingers fidgeting, wavering, her hand clasping her wrist. “I hate doing this,” she said. “I hate it. They have as much a right to live as anyone else.” Mione’s life is animals. Vegan. Spends most days sitting on the porch watching the dogs. Has a cottage in Gartmore. She used to sleep there. But the thought of leaving the dogs to their own devices kept gnawing at her. Most times they were peaceful, but they always needed attention. The blind ones would blunder into others’ spaces and start fights. Old Bella with her silvering fur and weak back-legs might be stuck in her bed; or poor Dobby might have a seizure. So Mione lives, eats, and sleeps on site.

The local rats, Mione had said on the first day, were quite clean, didn’t bother the rescue animals or our quarters, and only took a little of the hen’s corn. All we had to do was ensure the boxes and bins of animal feed were sealed rightly.

While I agreed with her that traps were more humane a method than poison, I couldn’t help but wonder if the hens stopped laying because the rats were eating their food. Or something else getting in through the rats’ holes in the fence. Which animal was more important to her?