In Which Witchy Get Caught in the Uplands

8/2/2019 In Which Witchy Get Caught in the Uplands

1/4

We catch up with Witchy winding her way through a great maze of cars. She cant remember which

bike rack her broomstick is chained to. Like everywhere in this drought-ridden island it is raining.

She attempts to button up the collar of her mackintosh while still forging ahead towards the rack she

thinks she left the broomstick. It is not there. Angrily she looks out across the sea of cars to locate

the next bike rack and at the same time uses this as an excuse to see if anyone has witnessed the

humiliation. No, everyone else is heads down, intent on their own discomfort.

The rain has been falling for so long the tarmac is covered in large puddles that are gradually joining

up to produce a lake. Cars plough slowly through pushing out waves high enough to wet an ankle.

Witchy has to shove her trolley back down the row and then back up the next. Her fingers are now

cold and one is turning white. The wide brim of her essential pointy hat has the advantage of acting

like an umbrella (and a parasol in the summerits how she maintains her porcelain complexion).

Unfortunately it is also windy today. Last weeks joyous April showers are now replaced by serious

squalls. Whenever she raises her head water throws itself against her face.

The errant broomstick is located. Under the perspex roof of the rack she heaves her shopping bag

onto the brush end and tries to secure it with a bungee cord but the grapefruit arent cooperating.

They squeeze out a box of Mr Kiplings bakewell tarts. Witchy is tempted to leave it there but she is

not the kind of woman to abandon cake. Firmly repositioning her provisions the whole bag is

brought back into obedience and she is ready to leave.

She pauses a moment to gather herself for the ride home and looks across the wide prairie of cars

that reaches to the far horizon. Together they morph into a field of silver grey punctuated by the

hollow darkness of empty windows. Water rills of sleek metallic bodies, drips from wheel arches and

grimy bumpers to join the expanding oily lake.

Its not that Witchy has anything against rain per se. She has performed a raindance or two in her

time.

Weather is life. She rejoices in its unpredictability and mischievous refusal to accommodate human

affairs. As soon as a drought is declared nature heaves a rain system over the land. Marvellous. On

a personal level it may be annoying to have soggy socks but such discomfort is fair price to pay to

live in this beautifully unquiet world.


2/4

No, she just feels that if she is going to have to endure rain on a momentous scale then it would be

better done somewhere other than in this swamp of suburban conformity. It is difficult to connect

with the spirit of Gaia in a Tesco car park.

If the Elements are to be flung in your face it is best to abandon yourself to the full experience.

Resolved, off she zooms, this time in a more northerly direction to the one we last accompanied her

to.

On this occasion the journey is shorter. It is not long before we find ourselves balancing uncertainly

on the jelly-like surface of a peat bog. We may look like sodden sheep, our backs hunched against afierce wind, with a doleful look on our faces, but Witchy stands tall, her chin valiantly raised into the

oncoming deluge.

This, now, is rain! None of that namby pamby drippy town stuff, she may shout to us, if we were

really there with her.

She whoops into the wind and runs higher up the slope to get a better view of the vista.

There is nothing all around. Its like being on the moon. Entirely featureless, soft mountains flow far

into the distance. Their massive forms are open, defenceless against a sky that drags heavy curtains

of dark rain across their shoulders. It is an ancient landscape of water. Earth and sky facing each

other over millennia have created moorland proud of its stoicism. Desolate, it doesnt need or

welcome the touch of human feet.

Witchy is beginning to sense the damp resentment. She turns back to the broomstick, gives the

moor a nod of respect, then flies off. Time spent on a bleak Yorkshire fell is a more refreshing

experience than time spent in a bleak car park but neither has to be endured for long.

With less noble thoughts of central heating and dry under-garments Witchy knuckles down and

speeds home. She tilts her head so the hat brim shields her from the still falling rain, but this means

she cannot see where she is going. It is only when her trailing skirts snag on a weathervane attached

to an old stone barn does she realises she has gone a little astray. Hovering, she tugs but the old

cock wont let go.


3/4

From below a voice shouts Let me help. The tines of a long pitch fork are thrust towards her and

with some wrenching manage to untangle her. She shouts a thank you and is about to fly off but is

stalled by the warm smell of home baking wafting up from the cottage her rescuer came from.

Fat Rascals.

Pardon?

Fat Rascals. Ive just got them out of the oven. Come inside out of the rain and have one with a

cup of tea.

Never one to refuse a bun Witchy quickly finds herself sitting in a saggy but comfy armchair by a

peat fire. Her rescuer, a Hannah Hauxwell, is fetching butter from the larder. Hannah is a woman

who has lived by the moors all her life. Her face is etched with all the extremes cold and sunshine

can throw at her. She lives contentedly alone on her small farm, raising a few scrawny sheep that

she sells at market twice a year. They dont bring in much money, but she doesnt want for much.

She gets by.

Through steam rising from a cup of strong tea Witchy sees an old photograph of a man in a

waistcoat and flat cap sat on an ancient tractor. Thats my father Hannah explains. He managed

the farm before me. It was bigger then of course. She rummages in a dresser drawer and brings

out a leather-bound photo album. Inside are pictures of similarly dressed men. Instead of tractors

there are horses and the sheep are plump with rosettes stuck to their halters. Thats my

grandfather and his brothers, Hannah points with an arthritic finger.

Your family has lived here for a long time?

Generations. All buried in the church up the hill. Weve always been here.

Witchy wonders if Hannah has seen many changes. The farming families have left, she concedes,

and the landlords wear suits now and go about in Range Rovers. I had some suits knocking on my

door last year talking about extensification. I told them I didnt know what they were talking about,but I could take them up on the moor if they wanted to see it. They didnt.


4/4

Later in the afternoon the rain stops and Witchy flies home. She generously leaves her box of Mr

Kiplings bakewell tarts as a gift.

Documents

In Which Witchy Get Caught in the Uplands