And Rest Can Never Dwell

Lost, west. I took a steering direction from the wrong person. From you. It’s my own fault.

We cruised through towns and villages, avoiding cities and motorways. We saw post boxes and post offices. Duck ponds and small, functional bridges. We saw planted trees and boxes of tomatoes on windowsills. We passed horses and bos-eyed rabbits. Nature couldn’t touch us.

Through windscreen, past broken fly bones and red smears, we viewed tiny paths of escape. The best thing about it all? The pubs. The best thing about anything? The pubs. We drank until we were drunk and ignored the locals. We drove, drunk, taking the risk of colliding with goatherds. The devil took us.

And we drove like devils through the vast joyless grubs of new eco-towns. Eco hamlets. Me mashed on the finest lager, you destroyed by the shittiest cider. We hoped – openly, loudly – that we would never get lost again.