Onwards

 

I will describe our wonderful day spent cycling along the lanes and roads across the beautiful and productive landscape that surrounds the walled city when I get chance. For now, I must pack and prepare myself for the next stage of our journey; onwards by a small train on an old fashioned narrow gauge railway then on foot with accompanying horse and cart to Ghia.

*

Chapter VIII

Ghia - Place by a river

There is no sign at Ghia's station. A large piece of driftwood propped up against the rickety wooden fence around the platform bears an old and faded painting of the river which runs through its middle. The end of the monorail line is denoted by a large red rusting car carcass festooned with plants and flowers. A wooden plaque invites us to fill our water bottles at the tap below. The remainder of the journey will be on foot beside the cart which is being loaded from a large container with equipment and provisions, delivered there by some unseen hand. 

As we leave the station, I look back at the tiny train, once used as a tourist attraction, and marvel at how it's been kept going through the recent turbulent times. Diesel has become a rare commodity I know and perhaps one day soon the whole of the journey from the Garden City to Ghia will be carried out on foot and these places become even more remote from the rest of our evolving society. My resolve to make as best use as I can of my time here hardens with this thought.

We set off and start our walk along the rough paths, cleared by those who've gone before us, taking in the wonder of the tall pines which give us welcome shelter from the sudden soaring temperature, I reluctantly think about possible futures for us all. 

To look forwards can seem easier than to look back, unless we are brutally honest. My thoughts tune themselves to the uncertain rhythm of my cautious feet over this rough terrain which nature rightly keeps trying to reclaim in our absence. I know how easy it is to dream, to bathe our destination in a gentle light, sun or moon, with intermittent soft rainfall, sufficient for growth and sustenance, but not enough to flood the land around us, yet, the past, experience, wags its warning at me. The finger points to hardship and struggle of a magnitude perhaps never imagined, even in ancient times. 

I observe my fellow sojourners up ahead: Petra, long dark plait hooked over her small back pack, wide brimmed felt hat, simple, indigo dyed loose fitting ankle-length dress, soft leather ankle boots, walking light-footedly, seemingly well-prepared, carefree, in her element here as she looks up intermittently, shading her eyes from the filtering light which pours through the tall pines creating their cathedral effect. 

Further up ahead, the family with two teenagers which surprised and cheered me. It can't be easy leaving techno life behind to learn how to manage off-grid.

At times I have felt a loss at not having children of my own, but over recent years I admit to feeling mostly relief. And yet, this I feel is due to a lack of courage on my part and today the urgency of working towards creating a hopeful future looms large inside me and this I know involves the heavy responsibility of preparing younger generations for how to thrive. It feels arduous, but not impossible. 

There's an elderly man infront taking the lead. He joined us at the station and seems like he knows the way walking with a lofty, knowing air. Our local guide walks silently beside the huge carthorse who stops occasionally to drink from one of the many rivulets running beside our slightly raised path. A sudden pang of joy hits me at the thought that the guide considers the water pure enough for the horse to drink. Perhaps things are already healing. 

*