The Unsuitable

There's a lane near the farm in Devon with a sign that reads "Unsuitable for Motors". I always referred to it as "The Unsuitable". It was a route I often took with my pony Syringa and the dog Blitz. In those days, the track was even unsuitable for ponies and I used to ride down the field to the bottom where it became passable again. Now, you can walk all the way through, though even a four-wheel-drive all-terrain vehicle might struggle a little.

On the way to the farm, after five hours in the car, I needed to stretch my legs, and so I went down here, to smell the smells of trees and water and soil that has never been ploughed.

I remembered the rides and I remembered splashing about in the stream and pushing through the remnant of wood in the valley. I only remember summer. Using bracken to swish the flies away from the pony's russet coat. Sucking the nectar from honeysuckle flowers. Using a hazel twig as a switch - not that Syringa ever required any urging on.

There is an abandoned farm at the bottom. My mother knew its name... I did once but neither my brother nor I could remember.

The past remains but is changed. Time flows like the stream and we flow with it.