The Hills

I remember the hills, the way we would set out on a Sunday morning, almost whatever the weather, to climb a peak, to stand on its summit and look around and rejoice in the achievement; in being alone, just the two or three of us, with not another human in sight.

This place was a paradise for the walker, miles and miles of rough country with hardly a fence to divide it, and with wonderful wildlife which, in the more remote areas, would encounter us with surprise, as if we had no right to trespass into the privacy of their realm.

We climbed all the hills at our end of the peninsula, some several times. We didn't bother with those further east, and certainly not with those that other people scaled because, despite the crowds with which they had to contend, they needed to be able to boast that they had done it.

Now those days are over. Yesterday afternoon, some of the younger members of our family set off to climb a hill and there was an unspoken understanding that we, the older ones, would not be going with them; that we could still be useful, for example by looking after one of the dogs, but that the challenge they had set themselves was now beyond us.

We cannot overcome the ravages of old age. All we can do is console ourselves by looking back with some satisfaction and remembering.... remembering the joy of those open landscapes and the immensity of the sky and the fresh wind on our cheeks, and the views.

We were there, once; others will follow.