The Three Hill Walk.

The three hill walk is about eight or nine kilometres long.

That sounds like three kilometres a hill - but it isn’t.

Because it might only be seven or eight km.

Though it's definitely more than four.

At the side of the house – which might be the front – take the track leading up-hill away from the post box. If you meet the post-lady coming down, offer to take the mail.

Follow the track as far as the field on the donkey/horse corner, and at the crossroad take the track to the left.

You have completed the first of the three hills.

And maybe a kilometre.

The track dips down, towards the tree eating the metal sign - put there when both were young.

Just past the plum trees, the track starts the climb on the second hill.

At the road, nip across.

By the boundary-cross, continue up, and up and up.

Until you get to Thierry’s house and the top.

Another, almost-two kilometres.

If you knock, he might offer you a coffee.

Check his post-box, there’s a second name there!

From here, you enter the forest by climbing over the tree that has fallen across the path.

It’s a nice place to sit.

If you didn’t get the coffee.

Even if you did, but not so necessary.

It’s down-hill in the forest, make sure you look across to the mountains to the south-west. Sometimes you can see the remains of snow or, depending on the season, it’s new arrival.

At the bottom of the hill, a small plank helps the crossing of the ditch - no longer do you need to step into the ditch.

Opposite is the house where the daughter of the Satanist lived.

Once.

No more.

Hurry past, just in case.

There’s signs here, ignore them and take the smallest of the five roads.

It’s the third hill.

Through the pines. 

It becomes a track.

A deer will walk past into the trees.

Say hello and continue till you reach the top.

There are options here, an extension to the village where there are croissants and coffee and éclairs.

Not on Monday.

There was an option before - to further climb on the second hill until you get to the radio antennae.

Otherwise it’s down-hill, all the way back to the house.

Past the site of the eclipse.

Sun.

And moon.

 

 

 

 

 

Looking in the wrong dimension.

There’s a friend – lives nearby.

Let’s call him Mr P to preserve his anonymity.

He lives in a microscopic world, surrounded by metal tubes that allow him to observe the infinitesimally minute minutiae that reside at the far end of those tubes.

He rarely resurfaces.

When he does, he might go to the sea, collect some tidal mud and take it back to the land of microscopes and reverse telescopes.

He knows the technical name for a reverse telescope.

I don’t.

He wears glasses - they look normal but you can’t avoid thinking that maybe they magnify disproportionally, and he is in fact observing you in frightening detail.

Sometimes people ask me how he is.

It’s a difficult question to answer.

Mad?

I think he would agree.

Loveable and harmless?

The first, doubted-ley.

The second?

I wouldn’t choose to be his friend if I were an Artemia Franciscana or even a Moss Piglet come to that.

I’m neither - so I feel relatively safe.

In fact, he sent me a postcard last week – said, ‘haven’t seen you in a while.’

Well.

Not surprising.

He’s been looking in entirely the wrong dimension.