Anne Appelboam, Creative Writing 3

A perfect day for a walk, sun from a cerulean sky, a cool but gentle breeze barely rippling the leaves on the new spring growth. How lucky we are to live in such a delightful village in such a beautiful part of North Hampshire.

I strolled down the drive, crossed the road and, after passing through a kissing gate, started climbing the field opposite. New born lambs scattered in front of me, frantically seeking their mothers who watched anxiously from a distance. I had done this walk countless times and every twist and turn was comfortingly familiar. Continuing on my way I followed a path past an old chalk pit, then up and down dale, and eventually entered a wood awash with bluebells. This was my favourite part, the deep blue of the delicate flowers contrasting with the fresh green of the unfurling spring leaves, and their delicate aroma perfuming the air.

After another mile or so, after which I was expecting to emerge into a field of yellow rape, the trees grew denser and darker, dour pine trees that blocked the sunlight and had a vaguely menacing air. How strange. Then the path became rockier and harder to follow, the air became chill, and my initial euphoria evaporated. There were menacing animal sounds from the undergrowth, a snake of considerable length slithered across in front of me. I screamed and started to run, stumbling and only just avoiding a twisted ankle. The trees became so dense that it became impossible to perceive any right of way. Panicking I pushed my way through the sharp bristly branches for what seemed an eternity, and then suddenly I was in fresh air.

I emerged from the woods on to a road paved with large stone slabs which ran straight as a die in both directions. In the distance I could see movement and the glitter of sun on metal. What appeared to be a small army of men was getting closer. I turned to dodge back into the woods, but they had mysteriously disappeared, and behind me now were fields of what might be wheat, and to one side a red tiled building with a pillared portico which had a decidedly Mediterranean appearance. The men, who wore tunics under some kind of armour, and cloaks, marched straight past without seeming to notice me. In fact one of them bumped into me, but I felt nothing.

Feeling decidedly unsettled, I crossed the road and took a track through a copse of deciduous trees, and rounding a corner found myself in the expected field of yellow flowers. What was that all about, had I been dreaming? Continuing on my way, and hoping for no more surprises, I followed the familiar paths back home.

It was only that night that I remembered that the Roman road from Chichester to Silchester had run though the centre of Upton Grey, and that there were stories of people hearing the clatter of carriages on the road on some dark nights.