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It’s hard to imagine now how she’ll ever see vineyards terraced above a sparkling sea, olives ripening silver-leaved or a sunlit orange grove.
The track turns and runs back under the trees, rivulets carrying soil and sand towards the loch, patterns of sediment like ripples on a beach. Not much point going down just to turn round and come up again, she could turn here. It’s not that she minds hills, not when they happen to be where she’s going, but she doesn’t go looking for them, doesn’t do training, intervals and hill reps, doesn’t join the running club, doesn’t race against anyone but herself. But you could probably run a marathon, Vicky tells her, Vicky who starts Couch to 5K every six months and gives up because she’s too busy or
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of course the right to roam is fantastic only it would actually be easier if there were public footpaths that were both on the ground and on the map, it’s all very well being allowed to walk anywhere but we seem to spend ages trying to find paths.
Coming at the same time suggests a perfect symmetry of desire.
It’s not easy, running your own business, there’s no one else to blame if your cash-flow goes tits up.
No such thing as bad weather, Dad says, only bad kit,
Bloody fucking rock. Assholes. Cunts.
They’ll be back in the world soon enough, you probably don’t get many days like this, days when love is your primary activity, in your whole life.
people don’t say much, not to your face, but you know that they know. They know that you know that they know.
