For Another Day
I close the door to my cabin behind me, and turn around to the wind blowing gently through the emerald green hills that surround my home, and the soft bleating of several hundred head of sheep. I live in a quiet stone cabin tucked into the natural cul-de-sac that the hills make. Hills that could pass for small mountains, etched with grey stone protruding like natures own age lines; these are what makes the area I live in so famous. There isn’t a soul for miles around and I am left to myself. I am perhaps the worst kind of person in the minds of some; a writer looking to understand something he doesn’t for the sake of a book. The way I see it; if Peter Mayle can do it in France, why can’t I do the same thing here? The only difference between he and I seems to be that I may have lied about my intentions in coming here in the first place. I have been here for well over a year now and I have no intention of stopping what I am doing. You can call me a coward if it makes you feel better. I think the only reason I stay is because I don’t miss what I had at home. Back home it was deadlines, facebook, e-mail, advertising that would not cease until I defined my life by their products; I jumped at this chance. My desire to get away from all of the noise of back home was the leading reason behind this new adventure, and I do not regret it. I know what you might be thinking; “Oh great, another self righteous bohemian.” And maybe you’re right; your conclusion does not bother me in the slightest though. I have learned a new level of responsibility I have never known in my life. I am not a parent, I do not have children; what I do have, and in abundance now, is sheep; and my dog, a lappinonian herder named Eli. I have never cared for lives so small, so fragile, and at the same time so stupid.
Sheep are by no means the brightest animal I have ever encountered, but there is something to caring for them that seems to resonate with me. The other shepherds in the area think I have a tinge of lunacy for feeling so, but perhaps it is because all of this is so new to me. I cannot help but love these animals, and the level of responsibility that comes with them. I feel ever ounce of joy those little lambs feel as they jump about and play with one another. I feel every ounce of sorrow and pain that the ones who stray from the flock do; and even more so for the ones who do not return. The whole thing makes a stewardship for this planet and its creatures, which we are all born with, become so much more alive than before I came into this work. The truth is I have no book that I am working on, I only have a journal. And as I continue to read my journal from its first entry to its last, I begin to like the main character more and more.
It had been raining all day and the clouds, in their own majesty were every shade of grey that could be offered; merely adding to the vast expanse of the place I now call home. Eli comes bounding up to me, tail wagging happily; tongue hanging out in a smile that only a dog could have. Eli has a black coat with white hair around his paws and a small white tuft of hair on his chest; normally it would have an incredible sheen coming off of it, but given the state of the weather, his hair was to remain matte. I scratch Eli under his chin and pick up a small tennis ball and throw it off into the distance. With incredible speed Eli was off, the ball bouncing up and down the soft earth, dirt kicking up after each of Eli’s strides. I can’t help but laugh slightly as the bleating of the sheep increases and the sounds of small feet thumping across the soft earth all around me as Eli tackles his ball amidst the flock. Trotting back, Eli places the ball at my feet and sits down with a look of accomplishment across his panting face; I give him a pet on his head and with a sharp whistle and hand signal, I send him on his way.
The grass pathway that leads from my land has now faded into a dirt road, and crunching of gravel underfoot lulls me into a tiny sense of rhythm. I am heading into town to meet with the many people that I have come into contact with during my time here, though there is one person in particular that I am interested in seeing. She is a young woman who has been visiting a relative in the village. I know her from back home, though she is not from there either. The two of us worked together for the same paper, she was our receptionist, spending a year in our country before heading off to another part of the world that called to her. I would be lying to you if I said we had gotten on with one another almost immediately. It wasn’t that either of us couldn’t stand to be in one another’s presence or anything like that, it was more that she just didn’t jump out at me. I said hello every now and then to her when the occasion called for being more social than normal, but that was about it. It wasn’t until her going away party that I knew I had made some sort of mistake, that I had missed out on something. She was getting a drink and was wearing a beautiful red dress and she had her hair done in a way I had never seen it before. I had walked over to get myself a drink; I was behaving the same way I always do in those kinds of social situations. My friends went and spoke with their friends and I was left to listen to their conversations, or at least look like I was while my mind wandered. Often there were times were I initiated conversations with people, though most times I would wait for them to do so.
“Thanks for coming out tonight.” She said as she poured herself a drink.
“Don’t mention it. I am always one for being social.” That was a lie; I hadn’t talked to anyone for more than five minutes that night. At least I knew her name; that was bound to make a conversation with a person I had not taken the time to really get to know better.
“So Elise, what new adventure is pulling you away from us?”
She smiled over her drink and ran a hand through her hair, “Well, first I am going to visit a relative of mine then I thought I might look into some work more directly related to what I studied in Uni.”
“Back home then?”
“Work or visiting?”
“Both I suppose.”
“Neither; I don’t think I am ready to go back home just yet.” I remember her mentioning that she was going someplace that had nothing to do with home. One of the many pieces of information I had forgotten while sitting upon the fringe of the office social network.
“So what are you hoping to for work while away from home?” Because I had absolutely no idea what she took in school to know what field of work she was looking for. She smiles at me; she knows I know nothing about her. Is she enjoying this?
“I want to work with children!”
The conversation continued onward from there. Elise didn’t seem to mind that I hadn’t paid her any attention during her time with the paper and that I was scamming free food and drink at her going away party. No; the two of us just spent the majority of our evening chatting with one another and that all too familiar feeling of regret came creeping up. Why hadn’t I gotten to know this person when I had the chance? Well, as things would have it, I had another opportunity. Or at least another missed one.
The sun is setting lower now as I crest over the hill just above the town. I can see a few lights scattered about the valley. There is a larger one in the center of the town that interests me more though. It is the pub. Now contrary to what you might believe, this establishment, like all real pubs, does not serve food. It is home to, however, many good drinks, local music, and many, many, long nights. This is the epicentre of social activity for this town. Every night is alive with friends sharing the stories of their day over a drink or two. Tonight however is special. It is the anniversary of the town and they are hosting a night filled with music and dancing. Everyone partakes in this event, in one form or another. This is my debut with the penny whistle. I am not that great with it, but that fact won’t stop me from trying. It doesn’t really matter anyway, these towns folk just want to know you are enjoying yourself. As I walk down this hill I start remembering when I ran into Elise in this very same pub.
I had just landed and was now taking a train to the first small town that would then connect me to another small town by bus, which would then have a person waiting for me to give me a ride to the sheep farm I now call my home. As I was riding the train; first class no less, I began to check my Facebook account, for what was to be the last time I can assure you. I had let everyone know where I was going to be, and Elise, who was now my “Facebook Friend” due to our small exchange at her going away party, had sent me a message.
I am going to be in your small town in your small new patch of the world this weekend, let’s catch up! Meet me at the Ram Horn pub in the center of the town this Friday night.
In a new country for a couple of hours and already a familiar face to meet up with, who would say no to that? The small stone cabin looked as though it had been there for millennia, and maybe it had been. Most of the places in this country had homes and buildings that were older than my country. I was past the point of no return now, and as soon as I stepped over the threshold of my new home, I was committed to at the very least, one year of a new life in this strange place. This was the first moment I stepped foot into the cabin. The old man who picked me up from the bus station was the man who was to give me a tour of my new property. As the old man continued to show me around the cabin, he told me a little bit about its history and its previous owner. It appeared its last owner died with no heirs and that it was a stroke of fortune that I had come looking. At least that is what I gathered from it. In two days time, I was going to the center of that town and I was going to meet up with a friend. I just needed to get through this tour first.
The room was dark, illuminated by small lights in distant places of the establishment and the two small windows and wide open door that made up the front wall of the pub. When this town had gotten electricity, this must have been the first place to get it, the lights look about as old as the establishment itself. Elise and I were tucked into a small corner of the place, a table to ourselves, and our voices lifted a little higher than the soft murmur of the pubs more long serving patrons.
“You’ve taken up shepherding? That is a step back isn’t it?” Elise smiled with her arms crossed on the table, her drink in front of her.
“It’s for the paper, a fluffy piece to take people away to a place they think they want to be a part of.” I took a deep sip of my drink and wiped the foam off my moustache.
“That is a serious amount of dedication to an article; I don’t think I could do that.”
“Maybe this is the piece that earns me a book deal, fame and fortune.”
“Nobody wants to read a story about a North American going over sea to be a shepherd. Though, you may do well with the blue haired reading demographic.” Her laughter was beautiful, as was her smile. Her whole face became alive with the joy of laughter. I felt lost a little bit in that moment. And like the last time we met and talked, it was to be for but a few hours. The night grew old and we both needed to go our way.
“Well, it was good seeing you again Elise.”
“Likewise Brett, we’ll have to keep in touch.”
“I would like that...send a post to me here in town. I am afraid I will be out of touch with the world for the next while.”
“Of course, I’ll see you later.”
“See you around Elise.”
The next moment was awkward to say the least. We were both standing there looking at one another in silence, neither of us moving, as though something were supposed to happen. Finally when I couldn’t stand it anymore, I moved in and gave her a strong hug goodbye. When she left, I felt as though I had missed out on something again. Over the course of the year, we sent a couple letters, but not many. She had given up on work for a bit and went home, and then traveled around a little bit more. I didn’t hear from her much, and eventually just succumbed to my routine. That was until just a few days ago when I received a letter from her in town saying she was passing through and wanted to see me. And now hear I am, on my way to see Elise in the same pub that we hung out in, roughly one year ago.
The dull and muffled sounds of fiddles and whistles become a roaring cacophony of rhythm and livelihood as I open the door to the Ram Horn pub. I am greeted by cheers from various people in the pub, all of them excited to see me and all of them offering me a place to sit during the nights festivities. I politely decline their offers and explain to them about how I am meeting a friend of mine that I have not seen for some time. I briefly describe her to them in the hopes that maybe they have seen her.
“Ah, yes we have, she was the one sitting all on her lonesome, and well, that does not happen long here as you are no doubt aware friend. You have stiff competition tonight!”
Normally this would be off-putting if my stiff competition wasn’t old men, long attached to wives, in their never ending flattery towards young women. Sure enough, my ears perk at the sound of all too familiar laughter emanating from an all too familiar corner of the pub. Sure enough, among a score of old men whose dearest wish is to never see a beautiful young lady go unattended at such an esteemed social occasion were doting on Elise with tall tales often reserved for whatever tourist may be tromping through this county.
“Gentleman, may interrupt you and speak with the lady?”
“No.” The small man with the round face and impish grin laughed and patted me on the back. “Of course boyo, go right ahead. Miss, if this young upstart gives you any trouble, we are a here a waiting!”
“Young upstart? You’ve made a name for yourself in this town!”
“No, Finnegan just knows how to push my buttons. Rather, he knows how to push anyone’s buttons. I believe he has spent a life time devoted to his craft. It is so good to see you again Elise!”
“Ai, yes, and it is great to see you again Brett!”
“Let me grab you a drink!”
I return from the bar and we get to catching up with what one another has been doing, things that can never be properly communicated in a letter, lest you end up wasting the readers time. It is great to hear about all of her adventures out there in the world, and I love watching her eyes react to the many stories I have developed during my time out here. After sharing our stories with one another, exchanges of what exciting new things are going on in our lives, we begin to talk about anything we can think of; silly names, what God has been doing in our own lives, how we have been growing, and then finally we just sit in silence. We are almost oblivious to the sounds of music playing around the bar, until someone grabbing at my shoulder pulls me out of my moment and the events around me come swirling back in.
“Let’s have a dance Brett!”
It is the old woman whose husband owned the pub. I, of course, oblige her request and begin to dance about the pub in tune with the music, as do many other people. The wooden floor is alive with the sounds of running feet and brilliant laughter. I can tell you something; if you are not sweating by the end of your first dance at one of these parties, then you have not been dancing. All of the dances have some sort of step to them, an order, but often these go ignored for the sake of enjoyment! When I finally do get back to my seat with Elise, I am sweating like a cat in a dog pound.
“You’re quite good, I didn’t know you could dance!”
“Well, I could brag and say it was something I’ve always been gifted with, but I am afraid any skill in this area I may have is owed to the fine folks of this town.”
“So when will you show me a dance?”
“How about right now?” I extend my hand to Elise and begin to pull her to the floor. The moment we get ready for our dance, the band changes the tune to a slower song.
“Oh come on!” I shout, more than a little embarrassed and the band laughs at me before striking something a little faster. They have all seen me for the last year, and in that time, they have seen me as a single man and it has been the butt of more than one joke. Our dance is a fast one, but an enjoyable one and when it finishes, she goes back to her table, but I join the band to play a song that I had learned on my penny whistle. The crowd all laughs and cheers me on, ignoring my mistakes but instead continuing to praise my effort. Finished I return to my table with Elise.
“Where in town are you staying?”
“Just outside of town, actually, with a relative of mine.”
“Would you like to go for a walk? Maybe you can come see the old homestead I call home.”
She smiles and nods, “I’d love to see your sheep!”
It isn’t a short walk back to my place from town, and it is already late as we begin the hike back. The sky is pitch black, but I know that as we start to get nearer to my home, that it will transition to a cool purple and dark grey clouds. The silence around us on the lonesome pathway home is almost crushing. The shrill notes of a happy ceilidh band that cut into the night’s sky from the Rams Horn Pub had long vanished in the distance. There are moments when things are quiet, and I mean truly quiet, crushingly so; where silence sits so heavy it is as if it were around you like a physical blanket. Most of our walk back to the hills and the stone cottage is like this. I love moments like this; there is an intensity about them that I cannot fully explain, perhaps it is because in silent moments like this one, I expect some great revelation; I can hear the still small voice in these moments. I look over at Elise and smile a little bit.
“Do you ever have regrets?”
“I suppose,” She doesn’t even look at me; instead she looks ahead in silent contemplation. “I suppose we all do, but I think there are times where we misunderstand what regrets are.”
“What do you think they are?”
“I don’t think regrets are moments that we wish we could go back and relive. That would suggest that we lost opportunities to live, and I don’t think those opportunities just go away. I believe that we certainly have the tendency to fuddle those kinds of moments, but until we’ve died, we just push them to a later date. Regret should not be about a missed chance, a missed opportunity; rather regret should be the realization that we must now take a longer route to a chance, an opportunity.”
“That is profound.” I grab hold of Elise’s hand as I continue. “And it makes a great deal of sense to me. I am only sorry it took so long to see what was right there for a whole year.”
Elise smiles at me and pushes a stray lock of hair out the way of her face. She doesn’t say anything. I don’t know if this is something she expected or if it is just something she welcomed. Either way is fine with me, it just feels nice to finally be doing something instead of sitting on the fringe wondering about what I could be doing.
