My Little Hill
I'm back from holidays. Back in London. It's a bit stormy out there. Milky London. The copper and golden trees are dancing, making the illusion of an early fall season. The hot summer left its mark. A rusty one.
I think about the little hill, a lot. A thirty-minute hike in the Scottish Highlands, near Rogart. An easy walk that became a pre-sunset holiday's routine, and turned out to be a revelation to me.
The walk begins with the tiny house. A very small abandoned stone house. Is it used as a manger by the shepherds? Maybe. Is this kind of shelter common in the countryside? Probably. I'm walking with the maisonette on my right, as I start the ascent of the hill. I'm curious, and attempt discovering what's inside the house. It's dark and scary. I can't explain why but it feels like it contains all my fears — the imps are staring at me from the inside. The little house is now behind me, along with its fictional fabric of self-construct chimeras.
Ten minutes later, I'm almost at the top of the hill, peak of my outdoor journey. Everything is beautiful. The silence is loud. I'm not used to it. Precious moment. The view is stunning. It becomes easy to detach myself from space and time — it seems this place is resistant to change. I could see myself, here, a century from now or a century ago.
Now, I begin the ten-minute loop. A path that takes me along the dense forest. The forest is emerald and mysterious. I'm staring at the valley on my left. Yet, I can't resist the attraction of the forest, being pulled by its beauty on my right. I don't know what's in the forest. I try to see something hidden, emerging among the trees. Nothing. The path is wild here, as if no one would adventure the loop. The sounds of my steps onto the wild vegetation is delicious. Very crunchy. Very satisfying.
I'm now ending the loop. Back on track to go down, leaving the forest behind me, caressing my back. As I go down, I do often look back at the forest. Is anyone there? Silly.
I suddenly stop as I hear a very deep sound, a whisper. I'm very next to a big rock, as tall as me, as heavy as History, as old as Earth. Could it be? Is the rock sending me a message, starting a conversation? Unlikely. I lay my hand on it, expecting the unexpected. Impossible. Was the noise triggered by a rodent? Or a big insect? Could it be just an echo?
I'm now reaching the end of the walk, leaving the small house on my left. I furtively look into it, from a reasonable three-meter distance. The tiny dwelling seems less significant now, at the end of my journey. I feel happy. The holiday's hike is over. Somehow, it persists. It's in me, forever. As if it contains one of life's mysteries. Does it? Why? Oh my dear little hill.
