Chapter 8: Squires Valley

Don’s car glints in the sunlight as it proceeds along the high ridge road, appearing to be the only moving object amongst the downland sheep grazing on the late spring grass. Spread below was Squires valley; it’s patchwork of green pasture and crops, punctuated by an occasional cottage or barn and a lake, but prominent was Squires Lodge.

Don’s progression brings an ancient roadside tree into his view. It’s mostly dead, yet still surviving, standing knarred and alone, close to the burial mounds of Old Winchester Hill. It impressed Don and he bought the Cortina to a gentle halt on the deserted road to gaze at the lonely tree.

Down in the valley, through powerful field glasses someone had noticed him stop and so, took stock of Don sat at the wheel in his open necked shirt. Yes she thought idly, he looked the sales rep type expected at the Swan today. sort of able bodied and confidant yet not unattractive with it?

Don, who at just 29, was sometimes referred to as the Old Survivor by younger reps, was thus humbled by the tree’s example of epic tenacity. Don rode this jibe; he could wipe the squash floor with most of them anyway. He took pride in his fitness. But for how much longer he glumly wondered? Squash was a young mans game; as was being a Yellow Pages rep. Sometimes the job’s pressures made him want to drop out and join the hippies on some far away shore; or rejoin the merchant navy and jump ship abroad.

He looked out across the valley and took in its stunning beauty. “Far from the madding crowd” quoted Don to himself. It was a crystal clear morning and everything in the valley was focused in fine detail.