Worcester Trip 3: The Hills, (their colours running in the rain that came down all day)

Eight days ago now, and the narrative thread that immediately accompanies days is starting to fade, leaving only a series of still pictures.
Pale colours, washed away by the sound of the rain

(because it rained all day)
There was some discussion whether or not to go. I remember Worcestershire having days like this; continual heavy rain, soporific and deep. Grey skies like headache and sleep. But this was Bank Holiday Monday and we would be returning to Brighton the following day.

1. Malvern. Sloping roads. A bookshop where I bought nothing. In the tourist centre I buy a small pamphlet entitled 'A History of Malvern's Gas Lamps'. A supermarket. I consider buying four canvases in 'The Works' as there is no longer a branch in Brighton.

2. Foreboding. The skies deepen and grey ever more infinitely. The rain continues.

3. The lower reaches of the hills. I had forgotten how green the hills were. Deep overhanging branches and tangled leaves enveloping the hills in a kind of night-time. We are not sure whether the horse-head on the trunk of the tree is natural or carved. I stand at the top of the embankment, but in the photograph I am lost in the tones around me.

4. A sudden shock. I remember this place. The Fire Festival of April 1997. I remember that cliff-face. I spilt a bottle of wine walking up the hill to here. I remember feeling ill and headache-y even before I began my other bottle of wine. Where we built our fires is now overgrown. Fourteen years have passed by since I was last year.

5. The Summit. The fog comes down fast and we are soaked. There are other walkers in the white.

6. There seems to be a thousand steps down. We saw no steps coming up, why now, when we go down; -steps, and alleys and stairs, and gas lamps?

7. I can't remember the train ride back, but after the Fire Festival on a Sunday morning, I fell asleep at a bench here. Sick and hungover, I think it was Al who woke me from what could have been only five minutes of dream; I was in a darkened room with a woman who said to me 'here we are, kissing without touching again'. Al woke me, the train had arrive. I remember the bright interrogative sun of that day when I had only just turned 25.

I wish I had written this earlier, and I do not feel like writing tonight, eight days later, because I am sleepy and full up from dinner, but if I do not write this now I never will, because the memories are already fading, and even the blurry snapshots left are starting to fade.
Their colours running in the rain that came down all day.