Pastoral Trip
︎︎︎ Lydia McKimm
︎ Mar 11, 2025
We caught a train out the city and played I spy through the window.
There was the melting clocktower, suspension bridge o’er the valley, the gilded ruins and cathedral of silent bells up on the hill.
Our faces smushed against the glass leaving sodden marks.
Like children we thought not of bacteria or hygiene, only the views.
The skyline spread before our eyes like butter. The engine chugged but burnt no fuel.
Soon the landscape turned to cereal fields and we arrived.
It was early afternoon and the sun was bright and high. Immediately I applied sunscreen to my pale lover’s face, neck, nape, and arms.
We walked through fields of cereal, of wheat and corn and barley.
We walked till exhaustion and collapsed in tall grasses where we lay for some time bathing in sunshine and a strong odour of wheat.
I took my lover’s hollowed-out face between two hands, told him I lived for moments like these.
Never leave me, I added, perhaps ruining the moment. He had a terrified look on his face and said nothing.
We continued on our way.
The air grew cool and light dim as dusk crept over the fields making it harder to navigate the tall grasses.
My lover grew tired and complained of aches in his lower back and right tibia.
I bribed him with boiled sweets and reluctantly he agreed to go on.
En route we happened upon a family of harvest mice who had just sat down for dinner round a miniature table laden with seasonal produce and a gingham cloth.
They were rudely interrupted as we nearly crushed them to death ‘neath our feet.
Gradually the grasses began to thin and open onto clearer pastures.
From here we could see the old dame’s cottage on the horizon, broad and low, mustard in colour with porthole windows and a straw roof.
We took the floating path that led straight up to it.
The old dame greeted us at the door, took me in her soft bosom and gave my lover a firm pat on the back.
Her plump and elderly figure recalled memories of childhood, both fond and not so.
She ushered us inside so my lover could warm himself by the roaring fire. He was cold, tired and trembling like a traumatised animal.
The fire spat and crackled but burnt no fuel. My lover held his bony hands up close to it.
The old dame handed us steaming bowls of perpetual stew containing root vegetables and unidentifiable meats.
My lover was fed an extra-large portion. He looked like he needed it, said the old dame.
It’s true he was incredibly thin and fragile like a sallow and sickly Victorian child.
The old dame looked upon him pitifully before directing her wretched gaze towards me.
You hardly visit anymore, she chided. The plump and elderly figure was my mother.
It’s just so far from the city, I replied.
There was the melting clocktower, suspension bridge o’er the valley, the gilded ruins and cathedral of silent bells up on the hill.
Our faces smushed against the glass leaving sodden marks.
Like children we thought not of bacteria or hygiene, only the views.
The skyline spread before our eyes like butter. The engine chugged but burnt no fuel.
Soon the landscape turned to cereal fields and we arrived.
It was early afternoon and the sun was bright and high. Immediately I applied sunscreen to my pale lover’s face, neck, nape, and arms.
We walked through fields of cereal, of wheat and corn and barley.
We walked till exhaustion and collapsed in tall grasses where we lay for some time bathing in sunshine and a strong odour of wheat.
I took my lover’s hollowed-out face between two hands, told him I lived for moments like these.
Never leave me, I added, perhaps ruining the moment. He had a terrified look on his face and said nothing.
We continued on our way.
The air grew cool and light dim as dusk crept over the fields making it harder to navigate the tall grasses.
My lover grew tired and complained of aches in his lower back and right tibia.
I bribed him with boiled sweets and reluctantly he agreed to go on.
En route we happened upon a family of harvest mice who had just sat down for dinner round a miniature table laden with seasonal produce and a gingham cloth.
They were rudely interrupted as we nearly crushed them to death ‘neath our feet.
Gradually the grasses began to thin and open onto clearer pastures.
From here we could see the old dame’s cottage on the horizon, broad and low, mustard in colour with porthole windows and a straw roof.
We took the floating path that led straight up to it.
The old dame greeted us at the door, took me in her soft bosom and gave my lover a firm pat on the back.
Her plump and elderly figure recalled memories of childhood, both fond and not so.
She ushered us inside so my lover could warm himself by the roaring fire. He was cold, tired and trembling like a traumatised animal.
The fire spat and crackled but burnt no fuel. My lover held his bony hands up close to it.
The old dame handed us steaming bowls of perpetual stew containing root vegetables and unidentifiable meats.
My lover was fed an extra-large portion. He looked like he needed it, said the old dame.
It’s true he was incredibly thin and fragile like a sallow and sickly Victorian child.
The old dame looked upon him pitifully before directing her wretched gaze towards me.
You hardly visit anymore, she chided. The plump and elderly figure was my mother.
It’s just so far from the city, I replied.
Lydia McKimm is a writer from London.