In the blur of the late luteal phase, I stray away from my usual afternoon dog walk. I find myself high up, on rust-coloured moorland. Beds of bracken offer the only pop of colour on an otherwise muted October day. Puddles lie black and opaque, refusing reflection in the dwindling light. The sky is pale, enclosed by a dome of milky haze.
I become aware of movement to my right, across the valley. Clouds shift and gather, pressing down, making my universe feel smaller. I consider retreating, but I can’t face returning home to the even tighter walls of my study. I need to stay in motion.
It’s cold on top of the moors, yet heat prickles at my collarbones and my legs buzz with manic energy. My mind is foggy with resentment after another clash with you. Going back would mean admitting defeat. I can’t be stagnant—not when the energy inside me is charged, restless, like the angry clouds above, desperate to break.
In my peripheral vision, I see clouds in various shades of grey group together as if conspiring. I can feel their oppressive presence as the land around me goes quiet. The air grows warmer, thick with an unsettling stillness. Then, a pheasant bursts from the shrubbery, releasing her raspy call in short bursts. The dog startles, ears pricked up.
The wind picks up from the right, stirring her wispy fur. A hulking rectangular mass is forming in the sky, its edges sharpening to something that almost looks manmade. I keep my gaze on the uneven stones of the old millworkers' path, avoiding the ominous formation. My steps grow hurried, hands pushed into the pockets of my hoodie.
The dog looks back at me, scanning my face with her head tilted, waiting for me to catch up. She stays close as the rumbling begins, head down to the ground.
‘Come on then, let’s go home.’
I start a jog. The end of the path is still out of sight, curving downward on the horizon. The heat spreads from my chest to my neck, across my face, through my shoulders, arms, and into my hands, where it tingles and stiffens my fingers. My mouth goes dry in the close air.
The thundery formation gains momentum, charging toward me like a lorry barrelling the wrong way down a motorway. I have nowhere to go but flat moorland. The cobbled path is my only escape route, as the bracken is coarse and the ground underneath jagged and uneven.
Do I accept my fate, hope for the best, or shall I start running?
The dog quickens to a hurried trot—her long, thin legs wobble under the force of the wind. Her unsteady footing reminds me of the deer I saw stumbling across the road after a collision with a vehicle. The cloud-lorry charges closer.
The manic energy accumulates in my limbs. A sudden current surges through my muscles. My legs jolt, and I break into a sprint. I have to find shelter, get myself to lower ground, and hide beneath a thick canopy. To my left, the crown of a tree-covered dell promises the safety of woodland. I know it the be planted by man in the wake of the industrial revolution. I dart left and veer off the path towards the wooded dip. Water seeps into my shoes.
On this Autumn afternoon, I don’t belong in the moorland. It’s a barren place, an empty stage set for a performance of the elements. Soon, wind, rain, and thunder will reign here. The gorge feels out of reach, and I want to lie down, take the shape of a boulder, and dissolve into the landscape. But I keep running, the dog at my side to the sound of thunder. Lightning hits the other side of the valley.
Growing up in a flat space, adults warned me that weather can quickly turn on you.
‘Don’t stand in the middle of a field. Lightning can kill you in an instant.’
‘Don’t put up your umbrella in a thunderstorm.’
‘Don’t hide underneath a tree.’
It’s in my city-dweller DNA to hide in buildings, of which there are none on the moors.
I’m just a small speck in the weather’s vast universe, and today’s problems suddenly seem insignificant. Rain beats down on my head. I whip my phone out and I call you. I need your help.
‘Please, come get me.’
