Susan E. Lloy
Inamorato
It felt familiar the minute her feet touched the ancient Welsh street as if she had been here only a minute ago instead of forty years prior. The fog embraced her like a tight bear hug. Snug and complete. Millie always loved fog. It feels mysterious and full of surprise. Romantic, in fact, as if some lovely stranger will suddenly burst through the dense cloud at any given minute. She often thought about Wales and coming back, but it has taken her this long to do so. Life simply got in the way.
Her surname, Breckon, is Welsh. When she first came and toured this country, she felt an immediate kinship with the land. Its rugged coastline and elevated terrains. She had even climbed Mount Snowden back in the day and remembered having to wait at its base until the army blew up some confiscated ammunition from the IRA, which seemed rather thrilling at the time. It’s as if she is some migrating beast who, for whatever unknown reason, was unable to return until now. She plans to do one of the pilgrimage walks–The North Wales Pilgrims Way. She does enjoy a good amble, but she’s here for one specific reason–to meet a man or to simply have a fling. It makes no difference to her whether she meets him on this excursion or in one of the local pubs, but hopefully someone with like interests. She’s so tired of the dating sites. She does have girlfriends who have had some luck with love apps, but she has never one of them. She simply likes the idea of a possible encounter or, at the very least, some serious flirting. It seems like decades since the presence of the opposite sex was in tactile proximity. This is an exaggeration, yet it does seem like a lifetime ago.
The route meanders by ancient churches, through woodlands, pastures, over rivers, into villages, along ocean paths and finally ends on Bardsey Island, which the original pilgrims believed to be the end of the world. Here the setting sun rested on the horizon and all that was beyond was baffling and unknown. This trek should take two weeks. She’s brought new hiking sneakers, water boots and a very compact backpack. She thought long and hard about what to bring and, in the end, came to the conclusion that she should only bring what’s absolutely necessary. And for once, she listened to herself.
She signed up for the trip online and is meeting up with her rambling crew today. There are ten of them. Six women and four men. She wonders what sort of folk they are. Spiritual, religious, sporty or cultural as she is? The leader of their group is Jon. He has done this journey too many times to count. He started this after surviving a severe coronary from a stress-filled desk job. After his recovery he decided to change his life, get in shape and take less pay. He tells them his story as they gather at their starting point–Basingwerk Abbey.
‘Now let’s introduce ourselves.’
They each state their names, yet Millie forgets every single one of them the minute they are uttered from their mouths. Jon asks every member of the group their reasoning for choosing this jaunt and they all express different motivations. When it comes to Millie she simply replies, ‘I love Wales, and have seen a lot of it and always wanted to return, so that’s why I’m here.’ The rest of the party smile in acceptance.
‘Well troupe, we will try to maintain fifteen to twenty miles per day depending on your will. If one of you feels like you can’t go on, then we will assess as a group and decide whether to drop you from the walk. Sounds fair right? OK, let’s get at it.’
They eagerly set off happily knowing midway through their journey they will stop at a village pub to rest and eat. Millie dreams of a hot stew with a buttered roll and a large lager to wash it down. As they plod along, Jon belts out all the items on the pub’s menu, which sounds delicious after walking for some time. Millie is totally enjoying her experience even though the men in her group are unappealing to her. No. None of them will do. As they are crossing a lovely pasture, they come to a set of ancient stone steps ascending to the top of a hill where an old church and a holy well were once a sacred stop for the Celtic saints.
She is wearing her new hiking boots and, as usual with all new footwear, she has an abundance of oozing blisters on the back of her heels and the sides of her little toes, causing her considerable discomfort. She has a small kit in her backpack for such troubles, but the minute she rests to reapply bandages they fall off soon after due to sweat and friction. The stone stairs are drenched and wet from the morning mist that has yet to burn off, making the uneven and broken stones slippery and somewhat treacherous. Midway up, her attention is averted by a gull shrieking across the sky, causing her to lose focus, slip on the stairs and fall backwards spraining both ankles. One of her fellow hikers tries to reach out to check her fall, but was not quick enough. Millie lets out a howl that could shatter windows if there were any around.
The members of her Pilgrim Walk gather around and assist her upright, gathering their hands under arms. She is practically fetal and cursing with each breath. Millie is unable to walk and a couple of her team search for things that can be used as crutches leading her to a level section of the field.
‘Well, Millie, looks like you’re done. What will we do with you now?’
‘Fucked if I know… can’t believe this has happened. What a waste of time and money.’
‘Now this could have happened to any one of us, but unfortunately this has happened to you. I have a friend who lives not far from here. He runs a small farm and for the cost of one of the B&Bs on our route along the way, I can ask him if you can convalesce there. How does this sound?’
‘Sure, why not. Can’t imagine what else I could get up to even if I wanted.’
At this junction Millie is in incredible pain and both ankles are beginning to swell beyond recognition. Jon walks over to a private spot away from the group and makes the call, she assumes, to his farmer friend. Millie watches Jon shake his hands in frustration, or it appears as such. Following his call, he comes and tells Millie that his friend, Dafydd, will be along to pick her up. The rest of the Pilgrim’s group continue on up the stairs to the ancient site.
A fair amount of time passes before Dafydd shows up. Millie is sitting on one of the bottom stone steps.
‘You must be Mille.’
‘Hey, yes me.’
‘Wait there a minute.’
He backs up his vehicle, which is an old orange Land Rover as close as he can to where Millie is positioned and puts it in Park. He exits the jeep with a pair of crutches.
‘Lucky, I kept these. They were my father’s. He’s long gone now. It was his farm originally, now it’s mine. Hope you won’t mind the rural solitude. It can seem rather lonely at times. But, there’s a few farm animals to keep you company. I think it best if we stop at the village pharmacy and get you something for the pain.’
‘Sure, I can use something.’
They drive a short distance to Holywel, a small village with a bustling market and make a stopover at the chemist. He pulls up in front of the shop.
‘I’ll go in and see what they suggest. You stay put and rest.’
He seems nice enough, Millie thinks. She guesses he’s about forty or so. A tad younger than herself. He’s tall and toned. In shape as one would expect of a farmer who must do all the physical work involved in the running of a farm. He has an abundance of brown hair with only a few strands of gray. A good face with honest eyes and a strong jawline. Very pleasing on the eyes.
Dafydd returns with a small paper bag. She opens it to discover a bottle of Paracetamol, Ibuprofen and an elastic bandage.
‘These should do the trick’, the chemist said. Elevation of course and icing for 15 to 20 minutes. Your receipt is in there too.’
‘Thank you, Dafydd.’
‘I think we should make a stop at the grocery shop. What sort of things do you like to eat? I have fresh eggs at the farm and chicken. There’s lamb and beef in the icebox and the garden is still producing.’
‘I’m easy, Dafydd. Get what you think we’ll need. I’ll contribute of course.’
‘No, that’s included in your board.’
‘Do you get many requests like me?’
‘Not often, before you only one. An older woman with hip issues who just gave up at one point along Pilgrim’s Way. Said she had had enough, so Jon asked if she could bunk for the remainder and I agreed. Jon and I go way back. Went to the same school as young lads. My farm is not too far from where you began the Pilgrim’s Walk.’
‘Dafydd have you ever done the walk?’
‘No, I haven’t. I walk enough already and I know Wales from head to toe. Have stomped over every inch of it – or nearly.’
‘Do you have a wife and children?’
‘No. Came close once, but no.’
‘Me neither.’
She smiles to herself, not caring if he witnesses this gleeful disclosure. They take a scenic route from the village, not the highway, then again everything is scenic here. That’s why she has returned like a bird to her annual breeding site. They travel past farmlands and gentle hills that are all shades of greens. The River Dee flows not far in the distance leading to the sea.
They roll onto Dafydd’s property and a long driveway that guides them to his house. The house is two-stories made of stone with a series of three windows on the second floor and two on the first, with the front door positioned symmetrically under the middle top window. The windows and door are deep set within the stone. The front door is painted a rich red, welcoming and contrasting with the emerald-hued fields. The windows are sash in style with small rectangular panes enclosed by thin wooden frames.
Dafydd opens the door for Millie and takes her arm gently, helping her out of the jeep. His touch feels warm and kind. Millie supports herself with the aid of the crutches and slowly hobbles to the front door, which Dafydd has opened for her. It’s an old interior lacking in modern touches: wooden ceiling beams and a large hearth centre the living and dining rooms. The floors are wide-planked and creak when walked upon. Old chairs embrace a large wooden table and a tattered sofa rests before the fireplace. The walls are whitewashed and appear to be the singular, redone addition to the home.
When they enter the house, a friendly dog bounces up to Millie and enthusiastically sniffs at her crotch.
‘Now Dew Dew, enough of that rude behaviour. Don’t worry, he’s nice and he’ll keep you company while I’m at work.’
He explains his daily routines: feeding the few animals here. One cow, one horse and a few chickens. He is a potato farmer who produces Pembrokeshire Earlies and it’s harvest season. Millie is given a spare bedroom on the ground floor, which is comfortable enough, but has an ambiance of a past time. Perhaps when his parents were still alive.
The first evening Dafydd prepares a simple dinner of beef stew and it’s surprisingly delicious. He retires soon after to face his morning tasks in the fields. When Millie awakens, he has written a little note pointing out where the coffee and tea reside in the kitchen as well as provisions for breakfast. She slowly moves throughout the kitchen finding the kettle and makes a pot of tea. She looks out the large window above the sink and sees Dafydd on his tractor gradually moving down the field. There is another man on the ground attending the rows of earth, which seem to go on forever. Dew Dew stays close hoping for a breakfast scrap to come his way.
Her ankles are still causing her considerable discomfort and she systematically applies ice every hour or so. The routine is boring, yet necessary. The second evening passes much the same as the previous. Dafydd makes the supper and goes to bed soon after. By the third day she is slightly more mobile and begins snooping around the house to amuse herself, discovering a little more about her host. During one of their meals together, Dafydd discloses that he is an only child. He did have a brother at one time, but he died of meningitis when he was three. His parents never got over it and died early. One after the other it seemed. He’s been alone on this farm for more than twenty years. The more he offers of himself, the clearer it becomes to her that she wants to stay in Wales. Assisting him on this farm, becoming his wife, as this would be necessary for immigration purposes. Now a local, even though she would always be considered an outsider.
One afternoon she stumbles upon a stack of letters tied with a sky-blue ribbon. She knows they are private and she should keep well clear, yet an undeniable force makes her unite them and begin to read. They’re love letters. From him to his girl and from her to him. They are filled with such passion that she feels like she is watching a film. Feeling every embrace and all the softheartedness that she has ever wished for herself. She wonders what happened to his girl. Does it really matter? As they say–shit happens. When she has finished reading every sentiment among the many words, she reassembles the stack back to its previous hiding place.
Dafydd has noticed that she is moving about much easier than when she first came tottering in. He wants his home to himself once again. Not with forced conversation after a long day in the fields.
‘So, Millie, seems like you’re on the mend. I guess you’ll be wanting to get back to your life.’
‘Oh yes, I’m much better than when I first showed up. That’s for sure.’
‘Are you planning on booking your flight soon?’
‘Yes, I am checking dates now.’ Don’t worry I’ll be out of your hair soon enough.’
‘Don’t worry – no rush. When you’re ready.’
The beginning of the following week Millie’s flight is reserved. Dafydd has taken a day from the farm to drive her to Cardiff. He has the jeep parked in front of the house whilst Millie takes a final look around to see if she’s forgotten anything. At the same time, she looks for anything to avert her departure. Something to trip over. Something to keep her here. But alas, she is unable to orchestrate a scenario without being completely obvious. As she climbs into the jeep Dew Dew arrives and takes one last sniff. AQ
