Lesson 31: This is where we find peace
My youngest Grandson Thom was tiny when we began hiking in the mountains as a family. Andy, his father, would tie him to a rope and to the rocky, narrow footpaths. Thom was oblivious to the peril. He confidently marched away on his little legs while we played a game called Thomas the Tank. He was the engine of course. The person on the other end of the rope was the carriage being dragged along in his wake. More than once the rope proved to be the tank’s saving grace, as the plucky youngster left the tracks for a steep road less traveled. In these moments, the intervention of a quick hand would redirect the tank engine to its task.
“Choo, choo Thomas,” we would chant. Surrounded by my grandchildren up the mountains we would go.
Staying at the empty cottage of my wonderful friend Olga, the Lake District, the hamlet of Borrowdale became a place of healing for all of us. On top of moss-clad mountains, and among thousands of chudding sheep, we would walk, play in the streams, and watch training fighter jets move so insanely fast, that their sonic boom would chase them through the valleys. It rained incessantly. Some days, the children would try and sell gooseberries by the gate to the lane, although they would be lucky to see five hikers in a single day, let alone a passing car. It was a tough lesson in business, but they all ate well. The gooseberries disappeared either way.
It was all as tranquil as it sounds.
This is where we find peace, I would often think to myself. Among the people we care about most deeply in the world, in beautiful spaces. I loved our time there.
In the evenings, my grandchildren would call us to the barn that housed a table tennis table, and oddly, a dusty old trapeze. This was the staging for a nightly concert. A program was usually designed with grandaughters Sophie, and Tessa performing acrobatic swings, while Thom was typically assigned the dual role of both drum player, and importantly, leaf thrower. Robin, the oldest of the performers, was typically the Master of Ceremony, while Toby, a little too old for it all by now, usually watched on in befuddlement with the adults. The show usually took dramatic twists and turns blending storytelling with trapeze displays. We were wowed of course.
On one of our hikes, I suffered the first broken bone of my life. Descending a mountain and immersed in telling children stories, I stepped upon a loose stone that gave way under my weight. There was a crack like the sound of a stick and it was agony. I limped the rest of the way reciting “Mary had a Little Lamb, her fleece as white as snow,” to take my mind off the pain.
“Where’ve you been?” Harold said, as we finally made it to the pub, his face turning ashen as he suddenly realized the extent of my injury. The men had marched ahead of course for a beer. I was promptly taken by taxi to the nearest hospital.
It would be the final hike of that particular trip, but not my last. We would return to the Lake District for many years and many memories, but Harold and I would step even further afield. This was a place of healing, but also a foundation.
Harold’s wanderlust was awoken. As was mine.
New journeys were just around the corner.
Lesson 32: Enjoy normal weekends, Friday, September 29th