The Valley
Daniel Beardsmore, 24-26th April 2002
For Jenny Rasmussen
It is mid-afternoon on a summer’s day, hot yet not unbearably so, for a cool breeze is blowing through the air, gentle and refreshing. We stroll along the side of the road silently, dressed in light clothes, myself in a navy t-shirt and old baggy blue jeans, you in a off-white shirt with thin blue chequered stripes, and pale grey trousers.
We are on a hill overlooking a valley, not deeply cut, but a flat grassy plain between the shallow slopes of hills. The top of the long hill composing the near side of the valley is narrow and flat, and along it runs the road by which we reached this place. The hills along the far side, to our right, are taller and steeper-sided, undulating in shape. Running through the valley is a wide river, quite a few hundred feet across, and slow moving, its dark water stirred ever-so-slightly into ripples by the breeze.
We leave the roadside and descend the hill. To our left, the slope is liberally scattered with tall deciduous trees. We continue walking until we reach the foot of the slope, and we stop by the shade of a large oak tree. I deposit my wallet and PDA on the ground under the tree; looking across at the metal watch on your left wrist, I quietly suggest you leave that there, too. Seeing you looking at me with a bemused smile, I wonder whether you realise why I made the suggestion. If you didn’t, then you must trust my judgement anyhow, as you remove your watch and place it down beside my wallet, with a little grin. The items are quite safe there; no-one will take them, for there is no-one around, and the road behind us is silent of traffic. Only the rustling of the leaves on the trees, and the calls of the birds in the air above, break the silence in this haven of calm and beauty. The gentle sounds of the water can be heard also, if one stops to listen.
We resume our course, taking us not unintentionally towards the river, only 30 yards away now. As we walk along, you untie your hair; the long brown wavy locks fall around your shoulders, the ends tossed lightly by the breeze. I touch your hand with mine; you accept the suggestion and we take each other’s hand as we walk along. Together we reach the riverbank, only a few feet from us now.
The water is only a foot and a half deep at the edge, dark, and cold but not unpleasantly so. Lost in thought while you were walking, you see the water and think we plan to sit by the water’s edge and talk, and wait for me to sit down on the grass. However, still holding your hand, I lead you to the water. Fitting the pieces of the puzzle together, you realise what I have in mind. It feels weird to you, yet the sense of fun in you shrugs it off; “It’s a hot day,” you think, “I’ll dry,” as we step down into the water.
At first, the water comes up to our knees. It feels strange as the cold water fills my trainer shoes, wets my jeans, but the coldness is a refreshing sensation. Despite the temperature, we still maintain our silence; the broad grin on my face indicating my enjoyment, and the smile on yours showing that you feel game for a laugh. We tread carefully across the riverbed; mud stirred up by our feet clouds the water, and we take care not to be tripped by rocks we cannot see.
All this time, though, the thoughts that have been filling my mind, both of anticipation and now on the observation of reality, are exciting ones, and waves of thrill wash over me. My concentration rapidly falters, and I stumble in the water, almost pulling you in with me before regaining my balance.
The near fall and just the overall tension I feel from the emotions bottled inside of myself get the better of me, and as I stand up again I start to laugh uncontrollably. An amused grin shows on your face from my misfortune, increasing to a broad grin soon followed by a shriek as my emotions win out and I kick cold water up at you from the river.
Looking at me with feigned indignation from what I did, swift revenge ensues, and in fun I run away, deeper into the river, until the water reaches up to my waist and running through water of that height becomes too difficult. My pace slows to wading; my waterlogged jeans not aiding my struggle through the water. It is not long before my escape comes to an end as you catch up with me, giving me the inevitable splashing that my attempted escape only delayed. By now, the shock of cold water hitting my chest is much reduced, yet it is still fun; from the squeals of delight you make and the look of joy on your face, I know you feel the same.
Our water play slows to a halt, as we stop and slip into thought. Various thoughts fill your mind; you think back to times past where you have walked alongside water, and how you never pictured this. What really strikes you, though, as you stand waist deep in the river, water dripping from the front of your shirt, is how free and uninhibited you feel, released from the unspoken restrictions of behaviour that usually govern time spent outdoors.
Taking advantage of this new-found freedom, you go to sit down in the water, to feel it around you and enjoy it. However, your judgement is a little bit out and the water that had reached to your waist before, now comes right over your head; you soon resurface, standing up and spitting out water and laughing, water draining from your clothes and your hair plastered down your neck, glistening in the sun, the curls straightened out from the weight of the water.
As both I hoped and expected, my relatively dry state does not last long and from our further playing I soon end up just as soaked as you are. Finally, exhausted from all the fun, we both walk out of the river, laughing, and onto the grass bank, and lie down in the sun. We let the warmth of the sun begin to dry ourselves out as we chat, taking in our usual range of strange topics of conversation. Having not said a great deal thus far (other than threats of revenge for various wettings) the chance to lie down, rest and chat is a welcoming one. Even so, from time to time we just fall into silence and appreciate how tranquil, and indeed beautiful, the valley, is. Our valley.
Some time has passed now; you notice that the sun is beginning its descent from the sky, and tell me that it is time we were setting off back. We get up, and return to the oak tree to collect our belongings. Your shirt sleeves are rolled up, so it is no problem to replace your watch on your now dry arm; my jeans are still pretty damp, so I pull a thin plastic bag from my wallet and wrap both the wallet and my PDA in it, and place the bag in my pocket. That act elicits a grin from you.
Finally we cross the field away from the river, and ascend the gentle side of the valley, until we reach the road that runs along the top again. As the daylight is starting to come to an end, a stronger evening breeze begins to set in, giving the air a lovely scent. Walking along atop the ridge, we are more exposed to the wind than before, and we feel it chilling us in our damp clothes. Yet, under the continued presence of the sun, it is a refreshing feeling.
Still enjoying our pleasant conversation, we head off back into town. We brought no supply of food or drink with us, and something to eat and drink sounds good to us both. Once in town, we can each go home and don a change of clothes, before meeting up together again and going out to eat a pizza to finish off the day.