The Journey (1966)

The distance from Willow Farm to the tiny village of Spinnywood is six miles. There is no road, only a muddy track which winds up hill and down dale, around streams and through meadows. The only means of transport is Warrior, an eight-year-old grey mare.

I leave the farm at ten o'clock in the morning. It is a fresh day, typical of mid-January. The pale yellow sun shines down on me as I ride steadily through field of grazing cows. Further along the track I meet the vicar exercising his pet beagle, and we exchange a few brief words about the weather before I set off again.

In the stark branches of the spinney pigeons are calling, and one or two can be seen foraging in the stubble of the meadow. On either side of the track, tall bare trees reach up towards the sky, with the remains of long-vacated crows' nests cradled in their branches.

At last I leave the track and canter along the narrow, uneven lane. Soon the first cottage appears, nestling cosily at the base of the hill on the outskirts of the village. Now the lane widens and, across the green, Mrs. Jenkins stoops, busily cleaning her doorstep. She runs the village's only shop. I dismount and give her my list of groceries and, as I go inside, the familiar, delicious smells of bread and bacon and sweet-stuffs greet me.

After Mrs. Jenkins has given me my groceries, I remount Warrior and we have soon left the village behind us. The cold grey church dominates the view, with its tall ivy-clad steeple.

Although I love the village with its green and ancient churchyard I am always glad to turn homewards again.

Cantering back I reflect on this and wonder why it is that I should feel as I do.

Turning into the gate, around the last bend I see the familiar farm, smoke rising from the chimney: and I know that, for me, this is my home, the happiest. warmest and most familiar place in the world.

N. FAZACKERLEY, 3B