The valley at first light
The mist had not yet lifted from the low fields when I set the kettle on. There is a particular hour before the world wakes, when even the birds keep their counsel, and the whole valley seems to hold its breath alongside you.
A quiet lane keeps its own hours; the lantern asks only for a hand to carry it, and the tea for a moment to steep.
What the morning asked for
A short reckoning, before the road takes the day:
- Bank the fire and let it settle to embers.
- Copy the eastern map while the ink is patient.
- Leave bread on the sill for whoever passes after.
In the order I mean to do them
- Water at the spring below the mossy stones.
- Mend the strap that frayed on the pass.
- Write to the keeper of the archive.
The kettle sang at last. I marked the passage worth keeping with a little amber underlining, the way one dog-ears a page not to be forgotten. A traveller learns to run the old command light the lantern without thinking, the way you learn a road by walking it.
By the time the sun cleared the ridge, the tea had gone the colour of old brass and the fields had given up their mist. Time, then, to fold the map and go.
