You might assume the top of Stan Miere was a natural clearing. Maybe the lack of trees was odd, but not that remarkable. A fun climb with strange mushrooms, but ultimately a few steps in your ongoing journey.
However, once you consider that this place is man made, you understand the bespoke nature of the landscape. How flat the top of the hill is due to where the structures sat. The neat patterns of grey stones shining through the grass like mirrors. How much the elevation shows off the surrounding area. Add a temple, and you have everything needed to worship a deity.
A thick atmosphere perfumes the air up here. I know that is nonsensical, but I still crept through like whatever was here had seeped into the ground.
Thoughts like these may be the reason my career in history never blossomed. When the Butter Mouse sales peaked I let my other interests drift away. I snatched a few pages of texts that bedtime, but apart from that it was kids books and writing all the way.
When Archie was still in primary school, and the weekend stretched like chewing gum, we tried out a few amphitheatres and stately homes. But he spent most of the time running round or whacking his head. Like a lot of people he wanted a castle with working cannons, or gem encrusted idols in a steamy jungle ruin. Not a few bricks and your imagination. We bought more ice creams than on sticker books of Romans.
For the first time in thirty years I had time to enjoy myself. I sat down on a spot sacred to humans for hundreds of years, and closed my eyes to enjoy the silence.
The following must be a coincidence. At the exact moment I sat down the trees creaked and their leaves whispered, like a strong breeze ran through them. But the wind did not even ruffle my hair. The something crunched through the surrounding forest, as if a group of people were shoving the forest, and smashing up the brambles.
I decided to stay still. Just in case this phenomena was dangerous. Even if it was someone clearing the woodland, there was still the risk of a fallen branch cracking my skull. In a weird way sitting here was an anchor, a protective shield. I kept my eyes closed, and ran my fingers over the cold stones.
In the end the noise receded to somewhere far from the path. I made sure that five minutes passed with little more than birds chirping, and said goodbye to Stan Miere. More mushrooms dotted the bark on this side, each group curled and hiding.
The walk back was level, gentle woodland, but I kept glancing over my shoulder. Just in case anything followed.
Stan Miere deserves more love. In some towns this fascinating site would be plumped and promoted to the chief local heritage site. But this lack of notoriety gives you a chance to enjoy the solitude, and find some peace. Assuming someone is not crashing through the landscape...
::Curious to see what you think of Barbara. Struggling to know if I am on to something with this book, or if the whole thing is too much of a hazy mess. This is not a writing memoir. This is not a walking guide. But is that too loose a pitch for the audience to understand?
Still looking into the nature side of things. Feel like there is an aspect I haven’t got to the bottom of yet. Even now there’s a snuffling outside the door. Most likely foxes, but I did not even know they were local. Full manuscript will have this fleshed out.
And what if the weirdness I experience at Stan Miere is a perfectly normal countryside phenomenon? What if my audience laughs for not knowing these are sounds of harvest or farming?
Should I go back to writing about talking mice?::
