I’ve been trying to work out what to write about the passing places, or about Passing Place as a video. Here’s a little… story?
It is dark. It is well past your bedtime, but you think, you would rather be in bed. You are bored. Mum and dad are tired. There is a black Labrador asleep on your legs. Your brother is leant on the window, fast asleep. Before you left the motorway, there were lights to watch, strange wagons with lights striking through the world against the flow, great magical caterpillars on mysterious journeys to places far away to the North or South. Before you left the A-road, there was a dashed white line to watch, cats’ eyes winking on and off just for you. On the B-road, there is nothing so regular to watch and count to feel the rhythmic pulse of as the family car continues. The smell of dog, of milky flasks of instant coffee, of sweaty cheese sandwiches in cling-film reasserts itself.
You can’t follow the radio’s stories – it’s the news, which is boring. You’re six or seven or eight or nine or ten years old, and you don’t understand it in any full sort of way yet.
The news ends; it is midnight. The bongs vibrate through standard-model speakers, you count
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
It’s tomorrow already, as late as you can remember being up. Then it’s time to turn off the B-road, onto the unclassified, into the unclassified.
A soothing prayer for flat seas and smooth sailors is solemnly reflected upon by the family. Dad winds down his window because he is tired. The cold is bitter and aggravating. It bites, makes time elongate along the tarmac. You complain but you know the window won’t be shut until you have arrived. The shipping forecast continues its chant of foreign seas out there in the dark. You don’t live near the sea, and you’re moving further inland up a valley, but its night-time endless dark is sucking in around the car from all directions.
There’s one last thing to count. Through the blank bubble of moonless night, shining beacons appear! Bright white flags of surrender stand, held by the road that knows it is almost over.
As I travel home from town, before I lie in bed and start to write, I lift my phone to photograph a hare, running ahead of me. Sometimes they seem to just… not be able to stop. This one started not far past the cattle grid that marks the forest boundary, and shows no signs of slowing. The photo shows two bright spots. The animal. The sign.
p.s. If you’ve enjoyed reading my blog, you’re welcome! It’s here for free for you to enjoy. If you’d like to support my work and can afford to, please consider joining my Patreon or buying me a Coffee, or even buying a thing!
p.p.s. Yes I know the shipping forecast isn’t broadcast at midnight, it’s an early draft.
Jessie x
Jessie Growden 