| « Friday night | Not on the Irish Sea » |
The Empty Quarter
I ventured into the Empty Quarter yesterday--the silent flatlands between Leyland and Southport--and had a too short afternoon with Trina in Croston, a village which is still pretty even with its lines of sandbags along the streets. I phoned ahead to make sure the Yarrow hadn't broken its banks again, but the landlady of the Grapes assured me that rubberwear was entirely optional.
I was glad when the train arrived at Croston; it meant I could stop reading this month's book club choice, Kate Atkinson's Started Early, Took My Dog, with its colourless prose and Radio 4-in-the-afternoon humour. "He had tried zipping the dog inside his jacket but it made him look as if he was pregnant. Not a good look. Not on a man anyway." It's like reading a digest of Facebook comments.
On the pavement of the main road, a stray hen pecked her way through some rotting windfallen pears. In the last of the pubs, after Trina had left, there was merry craic and some speculation about why I'd come to Croston to do my courting. As one of the inquisitive blokes was leaving, he bid farewell to each of us, and extended his hand towards me.
"Where are you from anyway?"
"Lancaster."
"What are you doing here?"
"Seeing my bird."
"Who is she?"
"I'm not fucking telling you that!"
"We'll find out--it's a village!"
On the deserted single platform at Croston station, a beautiful gunmetal dusk over the saturated flat fields, a gloss of sunset on the long crystal palaces of nurseries; busy avian chatter. I texted Trina to tell her that I think she's beautiful. In the far distance, the headlights of the train glossed closer.
Feedback awaiting moderation
This post has 13 feedbacks awaiting moderation...
Form is loading...
