Old Country Ways

Rob Blower set this for the March meeting, and here is his story:

ONE LAST TRAMP IN THE COUNTRY

The old man stretched and shook the webs of gossamer from his mop of thick black hair.

“A beautiful night, was it not?” he yawned. “Replete with dreams, under the star-strewn velvet night, with the merest hint of a breeze to ease our thoughts into the start of a new day.”

The young man next to him was curled up on the ground, shivering.

“I didn’t sleep a bloody wink,” he said. “And something bit my toe, I swear.”

“I’m not surprised,” said the old man. “Why did you venture into these wild woods at even-tide, with scarce comfort to endure nature’s ways.”

“I went out for a walk and got lost,” said the young man.

“We are all lost, me lad, in the eyes of the Lord. But none of us are beyond redemption. Confession is good for the soul.”

“OK, I admit it. I absconded.”

“From prison, was it?”

“From boarding school,” said the young man. “The dormitories are cold and damp. The food is revolting. And I suffer unspeakable tyranny.”

“Obedience kills instinct, that’s what I always said.”

“My father insists I go into financial accounting. He has my whole future mapped out, to the smallest detail.”

“Oh well,” said the old man. “We should get moving. Dawn is when we have but the slightest of burdens on our shoulders and heart.”

“Where are we heading, exactly?”

“The destination is inconsequential. The experience is everything. Sometimes I travel for a week and end up exactly where I started.”

“But I can’t go without breakfast. What do you have?”

“What does the forest have? That is the question.”

The old man pokes a stick in the undergrowth and pulls out…

“What on earth is that?” said the young man.

“It’s a type of mushroom, called Slippery Jack.”

“Sounds like someone I share a dorm with.”

“Perhaps you would prefer to eat a toadstool?”

“I refuse to eat any part of a toad, thank you very much. Can’t you just ‘phone Deliveroo?

“Deliver who?”

The old man offered a handful of glistening dock leaves.

“Try these.”

“Looks like a badger has peed on them.”

“Never did me any harm.”

“But you’re used to it. You are a bum, after all.”

The old man, bristled with indignation. “I’ve a good mind to knock your block off. A bum is someone who stays in one place and begs for handouts. I am not a bum.”

“A hobo then?”

“How dare you. A hobo is someone who travels and looks for work. I do travel, I grant you, but I most certainly do not look for work.”

“So, you’re a vagrant? A vagabond?”

The old man stood up to his full height.

“I am a Gentleman of the Road. My altar is the roughly made fire, my carpet the moss-laden wooded grove, my comfort the infinite universe above my head, and my creed is not the craving of empty pleasures but the pursuit of pure happiness.”

“Good for you. Now, what about breakfast?”

But the old man was in full flow.

“My way is not the strict and narrow way of the puritan, nor the broad, featureless highways trod by infantries and wage-slaves. No, I frequent the soft, glades of peace, away from the thoroughfares and their stench of purpose and utility.”

“I can’t stand much more of this,” said the young man.

“When I was your age, I learned to keep warm by stuffing discarded newspapers down my trousers. I favoured the Telegraph. I would have a good read once the pages had dried off. But alas, no one reads quality newspapers anymore.”

“And as I walked the railways, I would find lumps of anthracite that had fallen from the wagons, so I could start a fire to warm my nights. But no one uses coal anymore.”

“I suppose,” said the young man, “ that all you have to look forward to is…. nostalgia.”

“I have no regrets. The only time I shed a tear, is for the young lasses I left behind, and the hearts I broke along the way.”

“Oh, I can see it now,” said the young man. “The Casanova of the hedgerows.”

“I’ve had my share of carnal knowledge, and I am not talking about the Kennet and Avon.”

“But you’re alone now,” said the young man.

“By financial necessity. If you are courting, a penny bun costs twopence.”

“But, old man, your way is a cul-de-sac… a dead end.”

“And your way? Where is the poetry in financial accounting. Think on, I could avail you of a priceless gift: the principled philosophies of the happy wanderer. You could carry the baton… further the cause.”

“Why would I want to do that?

“You spotty little ingrate! You insufferable milksop! I am proposing to teach you the sweet mysteries of the forest, the hidden glories of the old country ways.”

“Not interested.”

“And to think,” said the old man, “that I was about to enrol you in….  tramp university.”

“That’s it. I’m off.”

“Forsooth, why?

“You call this freedom? There’s too much preaching, and too many rules and regulations. And what is there to eat? It makes school dinners seem like ambrosia.”

“But I have planned a rare delicacy for lunch,” said the old man.

“What might that be?”

“Snail porridge, me lad. With wilted nettles… temptingly adorned with cuckoo spit.”

“That is most definitely it,” said the young man. “I’m going to throw myself on the mercy of the principal, even if it does mean ten lashes of the birch.”

The young man walked towards the light at the edge of the wood.

“Begone, then,” yelled the old man. “I will always have the heavens above me, and the road before me.”

He drew his overcoat around him and tightened his belt of rope.

“What possible need have I of…. companionship.”