The Day We Meet Again. Miranda Dickinson
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driving. To take my mind off the scarily narrow road ahead I look out at the landscape, the sight of the sea and moorland, hills and mountains summoning so many memories.
We’ve been driving for a while when I’m struck by the strongest need to be out in the wild, open beauty of my birthplace.
‘Wait – can we stop for a second?’
‘Er, sure, hang on.’ Niven frowns but he doesn’t question my request.
We pull into a small muddy passing place beside a hummock of wild grass, looking out across miles of empty moor. I open the door and jump out, shaking the stiffness from my legs.
Out here the wind blows unabated from sea to land, across dramatic craggy moorland peppered with pink granite, the vivid swathes of green bracken dancing with the first flush of purple heather. I plant my feet on the soft peaty earth, my body braced against the buffeting breeze.
Suddenly, everything returns. The scent of salt and heather on the air, the light from my earliest memories of life, the colours… For a moment, I can’t move; scared it will all vanish if I do. I want to capture everything just as it is now. I’ve forgotten it once: I don’t ever want to do that again.
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