#204

The girl at the front desk, which was also the bar, gave me a map of the surrounding area because I wanted to do a long walk, yet I feel I should have trusted my own instincts instead, as the map was askew, and it took me a while to understand where I was.

Where was I?

Maybe twenty miles outside Oxford, starting out in the afternoon, it was late autumn, and I had taken a look at the time of the sunset, knowing well that the sheep paths and public walkways I was headed for wouldn’t be lit. A few miles outside the village, I came across another walker - he had two whippets with him, which I misidentified as greyhounds, but self-corrected. We chatted, and I admired his well-worn tweed coat and his matching wellies. They went off in one direction, across a field that seemed more mud than grass, the dogs, gracefully running ahead to the distant hedge.

I followed along the path I was on, having looked at the map and stuffed it into my pocket, I more or less knew where I was headed - the loop would take me back to the inn, where I had booked an early dinner at 6:30, and had planned on whiskey near the fireplace after. At the last quarter of a mile, two choices - around the old church ruins, and back onto the road, or, alongside a field, as the map suggested. I took the latter, and found myself quickly stuck in a muddy bog, with wet dirt up to my calf. Worried I’d lose my boots, I twisted my leg, and with a strange amount of force, given the ground I was on, freed myself and jumped a few feet to a stone, where I backtracked and found the path around the church ruins, but with two feet that were several pounds heavier.

I stomped and dragged the boots across grass and rock, and when I felt I could get no more off, I made my way back to the inn. Now, the darkness had truly fallen, and I snuck up to my room, where I peeled off all the sodden clothes and laid them on towels.

Later, after dinner, I sat hoping that the small heater would dry the residual mud enough to get it off by morning, knowing that I had planned an entire day of walking pub to pub, with an end goal in mind.

By the fire that night, perhaps swayed by whiskey, I laughed so hard at myself, at the day that had started out so perfect, but in reality, a bit flat, and ended with something to look at and laugh and say, there, that’s it, that’s what happens - no one had to see it. No one had to comment. It just happened, and you live and you drink whiskey, and have dinner, and realize you have a story to tell next time someone asks.