Walking the Invisible by Michael Stewart

Author:Michael Stewart [Stewart, Michael]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
Published: 2021-05-15T00:00:00+00:00

The next morning, stretching my legs and filling my lungs with good clean air, I stand by the bridge where a famous battle took place in 1322 between a band of rebellious barons and King Edward II. The battle included the death of the Earl of Hereford. As he crossed the bridge, he was attacked by a pikeman hiding beneath who thrust his spear up through Hereford’s anus.

I drive back to Thorpe Green, stopping on the way to cook a breakfast of spinach, tomatoes and hash browns in my van. I didn’t like being fobbed off by the two goons last night, so I return to Queen Ethelburga’s Collegiate. It’s an open day, and as soon as I drive my van into the car park, I’m approached by two different security guards. They want to know what I’m doing here. I explain that I just want to look around. Have I been invited? Not as such. Is my name on the list? No. I look at all the 4x4 Porsches and Land and Range Rovers. All new models. Mercedes Benz, BMW, Jaguar. The mothers are glamorous, in that quilted jacket and tweed kind of way, and considerably younger than the fathers, who are in smart casual and well fed. Their tans are from holidays in Tuscany rather than the high-street sunbed shop. Their children look scrubbed and prosperous. I’m surrounded by sizeable sculptures and top-of-the-range sporting facilities. I drive back out onto the road.

I park up and set off from Great Ouseburn on foot, on a circular trip that is going to take me to Grafton Hill. But unlike yesterday, which was characterised by blue skies, the weather today is very misty. There is a milky haze over everything, and visibility is about three hundred yards. I’ll not see much from the top of the hill if it stays like this. Hopefully, the sun will burn through and the mist will lift.

I cross over the footbridge towards St Trinity Church that we know both Anne and Branwell attended. It’s not as idiosyncratic as the church at Aldwark but a very nice design nevertheless. A castellated tower and a wooden Tudor porch entrance.

I pass Little Ouseburn village hall. There is an advertising bill pinned to the board: a quiz-and-supper evening this Friday, with hot-pork rolls and stuffing. I walk through Little Ouseburn and turn right at the boarded-up Green Tree pub. The path goes up towards Brunsell Field, and another path takes me to Brunsell Hill, which at fifty-eight metres above sea level is hardly fitting of the description. A dozen rooks, witches on broomsticks, flap and cackle above me. The path cuts through two ploughed fields that slope down like hip bones as Wolfie and I approach a wooded area called The Dale. The woods are scarved in mist. They have a haunted, Hansel-and-Gretel feel to them. A few leaves cling to the sycamores like sleeping bats. The rest of the branches are bare. In the middle of the wood is a clearing and a little wooden footbridge over a dried-up beck.

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