Memories

Stepping out of the car I take a deep breath of the fresh country air that I remember so well. It is still the same, only the faint smell of a coal fire in the distance to taint its purity. I have returned to this place, after much trepidation, in the hope of recovering some childhood memories that I fear may be lost. 

         Standing with my back towards my Grandma’s house I look out across the field where I spent most of my childhood growing up. Walking into the field through the gate I notice how easily it swings open. The one that used to be here was much different. Its hinges were dropped and as a small child I had to rely on my sister or parents to open it for me. It used to drag along the floor making a groaning and creaking sound as it was forced open, just as I am doing to my memories right now. Once inside the gate there used to be a large stone that the farmers would trust you place against the bottom corner of it to keep it shut, ensuring that the roaming sheep where kept safe. Now, however, the gate is attached to a spring that closes it automatically.

         Walking through the field now I can see a path of worn down earth snaking through the thick grass. As a child walking through this field there was no such guidance. I would just wander wherever I pleased. The small brook that dissects the field was a brilliant place to catch minnows. I had a green fishing net mounted on a bamboo stick and I would spend hours, alongside my sister, trying to catch the little fish. The net would get tangled in the reeds as the brook is quite shallow and extremely narrow. You could jump from one side to the other without much effort, the grassy tufts under foot making it a nice spongy landing. There is no need to jump the brook anymore as a grassy bridge has been made by filling in part of the it and directing the flow of water under ground by way of tubes. I take this bridge and walk towards the river.

         The wide river with its slow moving, shallow water is just how I remember it. I stand here and let myself dig out yet another memory which is so vivid that I can almost see it playing out on the scene before me.                    

         I am stood in the middle of the river with water lapping against my Wellingtons, only about an inch from the top. In my hands I have a large stone, which I have just disturbed from the bottom of the river bed; consequently it is slippery as it has a layer of algae underneath it. I struggle with the stone against my body, water dripping down my forearms and soaking my sleeves that are rolled up at my elbows. I place the stone with the others that my sister and I have already moved, forming a damn. My mother and father are stood together on the bank of the river and I turn to grin at them. At this point in the memory it is as though I have come face to face with a younger version of myself. This highlights to me the inner conflict I have with wanting to unearth these memories but in the same instance being petrified about the outcome(of what I might find). Leaving this memory alone I turn right and walk alongside the river, another route I walked in much smaller shoes.

         Reaching the Pooh Sticks bridge I stop short in my tracks. The disappointment I feel tugs at my insides. The small, wooden footbridge that I used to know has been replaced by an oversized metal monstrosity. I do not want to step onto the bridge but know I have to in order to completely enjoy the memory that is conjuring inside my head. I find a small twig and walk to the centre of the bridge. There is wire mesh that runs along each side of the railings in order to stop children leaning over and looking into the water below. Had this been here when I was young this memory would be very different. Dropping the stick into the water I am transported back to one of my fondest memories.          

         My sister is at my side, her stick is twice the length of mine, we both lean through the wooden railings and on the count of three drop our Pooh Sticks into the water. I have butterflies in my tummy and I am giggling heartily as I quickly turn round, being careful not to hit my head on the railing above me. Stepping swiftly across the bridge, the sound of feet against wood gives me a safe and homely feeling; I see a smile spread across my sister’s face. She has a glint in her eye, as though she is sure she will win, I think differently. Peering eagerly down at the water on the other side we both wait anxiously to see whose stick will emerge first. When only one stick appears I am pulled back to reality so quickly that it feels as though I have been dropped onto the harsh metal that now stands beneath me.

         I watch the single stick float downstream; my sister’s no longer exists. It drifted far from mine a long time ago, as in reality our bond has drifted, pulled apart by the current of life.