NIGHT WALKING
I dream of a place where I once felt at home; a place of cobbles and rock and stone, built into a hill. All roads led up to an open moor, wild and raw from the relentless winds that rattle and ravage it, sweeping the landscape and taking your breath. And, after a while, a broken quarry takes you down to earth again.
I dream of a place that is covered in snow and held together with ice. Where silver lights hang from trees and orange candle flames flicker in windows. I think there is music playing there, too.
The pull in my muscles as I head up the hill; tightening in my thighs and aching in my calves. My back is sore from bending forward. My jaw is fiercely set. But I can no longer feel my fingers and toes, and my mind is somewhere else.
I have devised a circuit and, every night, I walk it. I always leave the house at ten. Ten pm when the TV news is starting. I learn what I need from the radio (and I'm thinking of getting the paper delivered to the house).
I live on the outskirts of town, a cul-de-sac. If you look at a map the road goes nowhere. But, there is a footpath that crosses an industrial estate, a playground and a public park, and leads directly to the 24-hour Asda.
I walk for a couple of hours each night, till midnight. I walk through well-lit streets and pitch-black alleyways. I walk across tarmac and gravel and grass. I walk under the moon and the stars and the galaxies, but I never escape the sick-thick glow of the neighbouring city's light pollution.
I'm wondering: would it be cheating if I shopped at the supermarket late at night? If I kept my head down and used the self-service tills? The organic supplier doesn't stock all I need.
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