Here’s the audiobook version of this episode — as usual it’s me, Alan Miles, reading the story. If you decide to listen, I suggest you read along at the same time, because you need to see the photo of The Watcher at the end of the story.
Dementia sometimes made it hard for my Swedish wife, Lena, to name and place things, but her imagination was just as strong as ever, as we see in this story of our Lake District adventures. From May 2015.
Coming down the country lane towards us, a silver-haired couple with all the right gear for the Lakeland fells: wind jackets, backpacks, walking boots, walking canes. Us? We were clearly amateurs. Shoes for city pavements, casual jumpers, and a shopping bag slung across my shoulder. But we hadn’t planned to go hiking. It was just a spur of the moment decision to follow a signpost.
GRASMERE – 5 MILES
Grasmere. The village home of one of our most famous poets, William Wordsworth. The place he described as “the loveliest spot that man hath ever found”. We probably wouldn’t go all the way there, but it was a lovely afternoon for a stroll. And we were well-provisioned, with a couple of oranges and a packet of crisps in my bag.
After an hour on the trail, we’d learnt the country code. At about ten yards distance, a smile then a nod to each of the passers-by, always maintaining eye-contact.
— Afternoon.
— Afternoon.
They were past, and walked away out of my life. But not Lena’s.
— That’s exactly where we saw them yesterday.
A month ago, I’d have reminded her that this time yesterday we were a hundred miles away. And that we’d never been here before. And probably never seen the couple. But I’m learning that it’s not worth arguing with Alzheimer’s logic.
— Mmm. Yes.
She’ll probably see them in the same place tomorrow, back at home in Salford. Unless, by a trillion to one chance, we actually do see them. Then she’ll deny it.
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They could easily have called this beautiful corner of north-west England ‘The Sheep District’ – although perhaps that wouldn’t have the same tourist appeal. Sheep are everywhere, grazing mostly, or sleeping. Lambs too at this time of year, bleating piteously half-way up a hillside, or vigorously pushing at a mother’s teats, little tails twirling.
All of them white, black-faced. Except for one, who stood watching us cautiously, wall-eyed, a few feet away. She was brown – and Lena called out:
— Baa baa brown sheep black …
If only I could come up with a tune.
+ + + + +
Get the inside story
There’s something about walking that seems to set the creative juices flowing. Not walking from A to B, just walking for the sake of it.
Every few minutes on that four-hour walk, Lena spotted something that reminded her of her brothers, her parents, the family summer-house in the Swedish countryside. A bluebell-carpeted bank, a glimpse of the stream below.
She struggles sometimes to name and place things, but there’s nothing wrong with her vision or imagination.
— Look at those trees.
There are a hundred trees. What’s she looking at?
— Where? Over there?
— Yes, two together … Look. My brothers made one like that.
Two together? Ah. Now I saw it. Two low-lying branches, coiled together, tensioned, a natural catapult at the side of the stream.
— So was it somewhere you played?
— Yes they were so nice to me. They always let me play.
I had visions of little sister Lena being catapulted through the air.
— Tell me about the games you played.
— I was with Bosse and Janne.
— Your brothers. Yes. But what did you play?
But my question wasn’t answered. We’d turned a corner on the track, and Lena gasped, standing there stock-still.
— Look at HIM!
— Who? There’s no-one here, Lena.
— No. Him! Look at his face.
— What are you talking about? There’s no face.
— No here. Come here.
She pulled me to her, pointed. And there, in the bank, he was. The watcher on the road.
— Afternoon.
This time I got no response.
But then he’s not a walker, and we won’t see him in Salford tomorrow. He’ll stay right here with his memories locked in forever. Everything he’s seen on this path over centuries and everything he’s heard, all perfectly preserved. Secrets he cannot share. And invisible to everyone — except those who have the imagination to see him.
Related posts from our Lake District adventure:
Leaving me and the truth behind
Sharing the present
Wiggling on Windermere
