Snowy Peaks. Always hard to know where to go with these moorland scenes. Was it last year or the one before where I did the stranded motorist?
Here’s the photo, and the piece is 260 words.
“Why are we climbing this hill, Roscoe?”
“It’s the border, Nev. Right at the top of these snowy peaks. The crossing point. At least in this part of the world.”
“I thought the crossing point was at the turn of tide on the beach.”
“In Norfolk, Nev. That’s right for Norfolk. But we’re up on the high ground now.”
Neville said nothing, just put his head down and followed in Roscoe’s footsteps, as usual.
Roscoe stopped, and gazed around him. “There. Isn’t it beautiful?”
“It’s a bit cold.”
“You shouldn’t be feeling the cold now.” Roscoe nuzzled Neville’s hair, teasing out the bits where snow had matted it, and then warming his hairy feet for him. “Better?”
“Yes. I feel warm too, now. What next?”
It might have been an hour. It might have been more, or less. Time didn’t really matter in that place.
“Ah!” Roscoe stood to attention. Neville straightened up beside him.
“There she is, coming up from the other side.”
“Do we go down to greet her?”
“No, she has to make the journey up this final part on her own. We just wait till she gets here. And take her down our side to where all her friends and family are waiting.”
“She’ll like that.”
“She will. It’s been a long journey for her. But it’s over now.”
Neville said nothing, just watched the small figure stumble up the hill towards them, her face losing all the signs of pain and suffering, and breaking into a smile as she recognised her welcoming party.