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| Folkestone, overlooking the sea |
North Downs path, Kent.
The back road goes downhill, to the village. Sunshine lightens the steps and half the road is in shade. In and out of the tree shadow.
The village is bright in the silent heat.
Two gardeners discuss, hidden by fences and trees.
A dog barks.
I turn off onto a path, just beyond the Old Railway Museum. Behind a barrier, a faint rumble of slow-moving trains. It’s the entrance to the Channel Tunnel and the trains slide past, invisible. Sounds of movement, of travel, of having a destination. And I too, I am moving, near-silent, on the path, bordered by so many green trees. I have a map with me. I follow the lines on the map, follow the path beneath my feet. I have no fixed destination.
The chalk horse on the hillside suddenly comes into view. No one else walks on the path. Just me and the trees and the view of the white horse caught in mid-stride.
The path then climbs upward.
In another field, two black and white ponies graze and ignore me.
The path passes above one of them, very close.
With one movement, I could jump onto its back.
What could be better than that?
A leap onto its bare white back?
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