*
The glorious adventure was fading – this really was hopeless. If only they were three years older. Old enough to hire a car or better yet a four wheel drive and thunder up to Taffy’s Folly. They would be home and dry by now. Instead Rhyllann was tired, hungry and cold. Wren hadn’t used mud to protect his face. He’d used cow pats. The only way to scrub most of it away had been to use the hoodie. Now Rhyllann shivered inside a thin t-shirt as he followed Wren round yet another corner, to be confronted with yet another stretch of the narrow lane they’d been trudging along for the past hour.
‘But Annie – we’re like knights – on a quest. Sir Rhyllann and Sir Wren! Come on – I’ll carry your bag!’
More like demented hobbits he thought, eyeing Wren’s jumper enviously, half wishing he’d kept the hoodie in spite of the stench.
The lane ran between two steep banks which sunlight never penetrated, making it dank and chilly. Just when he could stand no more, the banks lowered into dry stone walls; and delicate wild flowers sprouted from the many crevices, with tiny petals of blues, white and pink. Rhyllann’s goose bumps faded in the sun’s warmth. Without warning, the hedgerow dropped away and they reached a plateau. A soft greenness lapped at their feet: Bodmin Moor. Islands of golden gorse and boulders, some solitary, some heaped like a careless child’s building blocks, littered the expanse of rugged greenery which rolled away into the horizon. A breeze swept Rhyllann's brow like a soft caress as he drunk in the view, taking deep gulps of the thick honey flavoured air, hearing unseen birds chittering. In the far distance where the green met the blue, two hills rose, purple splodges painted against the skyline.
This is heaven. We’ve stumbled upon heaven Rhyllann thought. His lungs filled with untainted pure air, pumping his blood with so much oxygen he felt giddy and drunk. He took a step forward. Underfoot, the grass sprung upward to support his weight. He took another step, then another, then another. Wren bounded beside him, just as giddy. Every step they took bounced them upwards – a giggle escaped Rhyllann, his body seemed lighter – less cumbersome. They sprung from tussock to tussock calling and laughing and spinning.
‘Look! I'm like that nun – you know … "The Sound of Music."’ Flapping his arms theatrically Wren skipped up a hillock warbling. ‘The Hills are alive.’
‘With the sound of music …’ Rhyllann trilled. Adding: ‘Your foot’s better then!’
Wren sat down cross-legged, grinning madly. Turning the bag upside down he shook the contents out.
‘Yes!’ He snatched up a forgotten Snickers bar. ‘Let not poor little Annie starve!’
‘Did you take that poor man’s scale ruler and maps?’
Wren giggled. ‘You took his plane.’
‘Borrowed. I’m gonna give it back.’
Wren stuffed his plunder back in Rhyllann’s bag, and broke the chocolate bar in two, still gurgling with laughter.
Accepting his half, Rhyllann got the petrol station’s map from his bag, and sat down.
‘So where next?’ On the map page, Bodmin Moor measured five inches, a mere hand-span.
Wren turned it this way and that, peering thoughtfully.
‘Dunno. If we’re here – then the next village along will be St Bernnard. But if we’re here.’ He twisted the book upside down – ‘then we’re closer to Delabole. That lake would be Dozemary, or Pendragon. Take your pick. We can either cut across the moors – or go through all these villages.’
Pendragon lake was one of a series of lakes on the other side, towards the bottom right of the moors. Rhyllann squinted at the map again.
‘We need to head for St Judgey, that’s the nearest village. I say this way.’
Wren disagreed. ‘If you’re right – St Bernnard’s just over there. Let’s get something to eat. Please. There might even be a camping place where we can buy a shovel.’ His face shone at the prospect.
Rhyllann doubted that. But the Snickers bar had only woken his stomach up and left his mouth coated and furry. He nodded.
‘C’mon then – rock and roll!’
Rhyllann almost wished they were here on a camping holiday: It wasn’t all springy grass, now and then they had to scramble over boulders, here and there were marshy patches; but that just added to the adventure. They found a clear stream and stopped to splash water at each other, then scrubbed at their faces, gulping noisily as they did so.
‘I think I could live on this water alone.’ Wren said.
Rhyllann pulled a face, but didn’t disagree. Stone dry walls began to appear hemming the moor land into tiny fields, minutes later they found an asphalt lane leading to a huddle of houses.
To one side of the village, moors stretched into a gauzy infinity; the other had a steep drop into a valley gouged out by a river which glistened below. Rhyllann thought of wilderness films, shot in Canada, or maybe even New Zealand.
‘My god, imagine living here. Imagine waking up to that view.’ Wren said. ‘Wonder where the shops are?’ he added.
Rhyllann grimaced. ‘I think we’re walking down the high street now. Pub! Look there’s a pub. It's bound to do ploughman’s lunches.’ He broke into a trot.
‘Lashings of ginger beer!’ Wren called as he tried to keep up.
Rhyllann gripped his side, laughing. ‘Dork!’
Outside the pub they paused.
‘You’d better wait here – they’re looking for two youths.’
Wren nodded, his face flushed with exertion. ‘Get lots. Lots and lots and lots. And get directions to Taffy’s Folly.’
Rhyllann nodded, run a hand through his hair, then patted down his jeans. ‘Do I look ok?’
‘You look fine – go on!’ Wren settled himself on a nearby wall.
The pub’s interior was gloomy. A scattering of regulars looked up as Rhyllann entered with a show of confidence he didn't quite feel under the hostile scrutiny. He half expected one to say. “This is a local pub for local people.”
But then his attention was caught by a transparent plastic dome covering a pile of French bread, filled with ham, cheese and succulent looking beef. Swallowing down the salvia flooding his mouth, Rhyllann's stomach cramped with anticipation. Eyeing the large fridge stacked with bottles of cola, he almost purred with pleasure, imagining chugging the sweetness down his throat without pause.
‘Hey you. Can’t you read?’ The barman rapped the sign behind him, beneath a mono-brow his eyes glittered spitefully in an otherwise immobile face.
“No unaccompanied children.”
‘That’s okay – I’m only after …’
‘No children allowed.’ This time his lips twisted into a sneer.
‘But I only want some of those rolls and ….’
‘No kids. Out.’
‘But….’
‘Out. I’m not serving you.’
The locals didn’t bother to hide their grins, Rhyllann accepted defeat. He couldn’t risk the man calling the police.
‘Okay okay, I’m going – can you just tell me the way …’
‘This is a pub. Not a public information service. Out.’
The door creaked open to admit a swarm of lycra clad middle aged cyclists. The bartender’s face filled with horror.
Rhyllann smirked. ‘Have a nice day. Have a nice life.’ He said, squeezing through the door as two late comers joined their party amid cheers and jeers and calls to ‘Mine host serve up your finest ale! Bring forth your serving wenches!’
Wren stood guard over a huddle of cycles.
‘Them nice people done gave me three shiny coins to keep eye on their bikes.’ He said. Rhyllann burst out laughing. Wren did look like a candidate for the village idiot, smears of cow muck still streaked his face and his eyes shone from the exhilaration of the moors.
Wren gave a wicked grin. ‘I think those will do.’ He pointed to two pannier laden bikes, with smart plastic wallets complete with inlaid compasses o
ver the handlebars.
‘Are those O.S. maps?’ Rhyllann asked. A nod. ‘I suppose those panniers are stuffed with eats?’ Wren gave another very happy nod.
‘And look! Look at this!’ He actually caressed the small digital device on the handlebars. Rhyllann looked over intrigued.
‘Big whoop! That’s neat. We can measure how many miles we do.’
Rhyllann never cared much for push bikes, but this machine was in a different league. It's probably worth more than mum’s car, he thought with a twinge of guilt. They freewheeled down hills to coast halfway up the other side before hitting the pedals again.
They kept to the lanes, skirting villages that surrounded the moors like beads on a necklace. According to the handle bar mounted gadget that measured distance, they'd cycled twenty eight miles already. By now Rhyllann felt faint with hunger, hearing a church bell chime twice, he demanded they halt for lunch. Rummaging through the panniers he failed to notice the awkwardness of Wren’s dismount.
‘Jeez!’ He said staring in disbelief at the crustless sandwich. ‘I don’t bloody believe it! Fish paste in brown bread.’ He sniffed it for confirmation, then looked across to Wren, still peering into his panniers. ‘What have you got?’ he demanded.
‘Marmite.’ Wren replied dully.
‘Jeez.’ Rhyllann repeated. Wrinkling his nose he bit into the sandwich, the pungent filing smearing the roof of his mouth, coating his teeth with a slimy film. He swallowed miserably, forcing it down, already debating about the next mouthful.
‘Joke!’ Wren held two plain white bags aloft in either hand – grease turning the paper translucent. Rhyllann caught a wonderful whiff of ‘Pasties!’ and lunged at Wren, swiping at his grinning face, and snatching two of the bags.
Propping the bikes against the wall, they sat on a grass verge to bury their faces into the pasties. Chucks of chewy peppery meat mingled with fluffy potatoes and swede, strands of oily onions, wrapped in a pastry that melted into a satisfying stodginess. They grunted with pleasure, then sucked their fingers clean of grease. Then they ate their seconds more slowly savouring every mouthful.
‘Next time check the saddle bags before you nick the bikes.’ Rhyllann scolded, still annoyed at having been tricked into eating fish paste. He got up to inspect Wren’s bags again, rewarded by a slab of saffron cake and a large bottle of orange squash.
‘Suppose coke would be too good to be true.’ He complained half heartedly.
‘I bet my bike belonged to fatty in the pink lycra.’ Wren said reaching over for his share of cake. Adding ‘Saffron’s more valuable than gold.’
Rhyllann didn’t bother to re-examine his panniers. He felt disgusted with his cyclist, and hoped the bartender ended up slapping him.