I tossed the small, bronze object from hand to hand. Just lying in the sand, a chisel. I marvelled at it’s delicate, tactile, feel. I was familiar with bronze statues, sculpted, sensual, in gardens or on antique, period tables. This though, was a tool.
I placed it in my pocket, placing my palm on a giant limestone block, one of thousands shaped by such tools. The still bright, painted hieroglyphs telling their stories. Through my translation I realised that this one told of an overseer stabbed to death by a haunted chisel. My pocket twitched and suddenly felt lighter.
We have been walking for ages, will we ever rest.
Donovan had committed the unthinkable. Whilst being groomed ready for the North of England livestock fair he had suddenly gone berserk. With a furious snort he turned and kicked Old Bill, the farmhand and groomer. While he lay winded Donovan had stamped upon his heaving chest then thrust his horns directly into Bill’s stomach. By the time they had controlled the bull, poor Bill was dead through shock and loss of blood. These countrymen were superstitious, Donovan could not go unpunished. Custom decreed that Donovan must die and the punishment had to be hanging. There was one problem, gallows had not been used for many years and the wooden beams would never hold his weight. At once the solution became clear. The old railway bridge. The central girder was strong enough. That evening honour was satisfied. Later in the evening the unexpected ox roast went well.
This day was summer when the sun shone, and biting winter when clouds overtook the sky, a tumultuous mix of seasons in the span of an afternoon. An apt description of Exmoor, an unforgiving place. In one day you can walk through a whole year of weather, warm, wet, cold the whole shebang. It is all part of it’s magic and sometimes mystery.
