Emergencies are not something you associate with the English countryside. You might expect dire situations where scorpions lie under rocks, or bears snuffle at your tent pegs. But get a coat that fends off the cold and drizzle, and you can cope with most situations in the UK.
I wrenched again at the clinging mud, but squeezing hands continued to pinch my ankles, like I am about to get pulled down. Pucel Bec came close to stealing my shoes. My socks would follow, and thirty minutes across freezing ground in bare feet was a guaranteed trip to hospitalisation.
'You ok for me to pull you out?'
The voice rose from the treeline on the right. A man stood on the edge of the path, his rain coat so tattered it was one rip from the bin. A chain of scars surrounded and wiped over his nose.
'My shoes,' I said, 'in the mud.' I gestured with a limp point. Not an answer to his question, but the idea of accepting support made my cheeks burn
‘Can't trust the mud round here,’ he said. ‘The mud likes a hug. No harm accepting a hand though.'
He scuffled around in the gloop, and held up a broken branch thicker than my arm.
'Hold tight. We will get you out, shoes and all.'
I wrapped my hand around a ragged fork at the end of the wood, and with surprising strength the man pulled me forward. A knot in the bark dug into my palm, and with a gurgle, I was free.
'Thanks,' I said. ‘I never thought something like this-‘
‘Worth sticking the path round here. Usually. Not today. The river swallowed the road ahead. No way across.’
He pointed to a hole in a chain link fence with his stick.
'That's your best bet. Straight up.'
'Oh well, I don't know if-'
'Trust me. It's up the hill or back the way you came. Or swim I suppose.'
He paused, looking at the water, then weaved back between the trees, taking a route somewhere between his two options.
I took a water break, and thought about which route to take. Perhaps the words of a stranger were not an ideal navigation system. But grey gloop saturated the path back, and a tattered opening was a possibility beneath the rusty barbed wire of the fence. This was at least a chance for adventure.
I dragged myself under like some kind of escapee from a prisoner of war camp. The trees had trunks the width of oil drums, and slippery mossy clung to the rocky ground. Many of the trunks have similar ripped marks to those at Fyxen Dun, and I trick myself that they form clear patterns across multiple trees. The landscape rose in a steep hill towards the foggy sunlight, and I had to grasp at roots and rotting leaves to pull myself up.
Thanks goodness a sold path lay at the top of the hill. I kicked mud from my shoes, and limped back to the car. Dry trainers and a warm flask were a welcome reward.
Please do not think that I dislike Pucel Bec. Remove the burst river bank, and you have a gorgeous walk. Check the weather, and plan ahead. Had my rescuer not come along, I may have been down more than just a pair of shoes.
::Can you give me your opinion on this Barbara? I am concerned about the language around the scarring, but I want to mention something. Makes him a bit less nondescript. Lovely guy anyway.
Don’t worry, I am keeping safe! Just two unfortunate incidents in three walks. Nothing to worry about. Desperately trying to find more about the markings on the trees, but nothing yet.::
