Thursday, 20 October 2016

Pagan Country

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My dad has never liked motorways; they didn't have them when he was young, he’d mutter. Nothing to see, he’d to say, same old same old, he’d explain. He always, when possible, took the scenic route as he used to call it. The B roads and C roads and D roads that crisscrossed Britain ignored by the sensible masses. What's another half an hour on the journey? he’d say as we trundled along behind a hay lorry for three miles through Wiltshire and Gloucestershire.
I hated those roads full of standing stones and ley lines. This was witch country with spells and hexes waiting to be cast. The curves and bends revealing strange shadows and shapes that lurked in the hedgerows as the sun set and twilight faded into night. The countryside rolled away into the darkness and night brought a chill, a goose pimple cold. Owls' hoots and lambs’ bleats, dark clouds and nighttime sky blues added to the mystery. Sometimes the moon would increase my fears, casting its creepy glow on the haunted landscape, but the nights I really feared were the moonless ones; when darkness enveloped the road and the only light was the weak headlights of our old Lada.  Every night was Halloween on those roads. Behind each bush pagan rituals summoned evil spirits, from their purgatory; the beasties and ghouls of my nightmares. I never said anything, never told of my fears, just shivered my way through those byways waiting for the M4 to take me back to sanity. 

1 comment:

  1. wow:-) this really gave me goose pimples:-) love this atmosphere. I often felt like that as a child, and even now it happens sometimes