The path behind the allotments
It smells of compost and wet wood. Nobody put it on a map, which is why I use it.
At dawn we left the allotments behind, where cabbage leaves shone with dew and Mr. Bell’s hens scratched at the gate. The narrow path climbed through thorn and yellow grass, then opened upon a country so vast that our talk fell quiet. Snow lay along the high ridges, and cloud drifted over the summits like smoke from a distant camp. We carried bread, cheese, a flask of tea, and no better map than the marks left by shepherds. Near noon the track crossed a cold stream. My brother slipped on a stone, and his pack struck the water; we hauled him out laughing, though his coat clung like a weight. Beyond the stream, the valley bent east. A line of dark peaks barred the way, and somewhere among them the old pass waited. We tightened our straps and followed the path upward.
