Excerpt from Waypoints
Returning to the underpass, I feel strangely uneasy about who or what I might find. I even begin to wonder if that silent figure in the shadows is some kind of gateway guardian. As I drop into the tunnel, I find myself silently rehearsing what I might say. It’s only when my eyes adjust to the lack of light that I realize my friend is nowhere to be seen. Empty carrier bags and boxes, all from the village shop, are stacked neatly against the side wall. A bowl containing empty cigarette butts is positioned next to a laid out camping mat with a makeshift seat at its head. There is no sign of any creature of my imagination. This is clearly someone who has taken some care. There must be other people visiting or supplying gifts. A few bags hold groceries and are thoughtfully stored next to the mat. This is someone’s home… I can’t tell in the dark if I am completely alone and don’t wait to look around. I place my meagre offering and move on. The resident has seemingly vanished, or perhaps is waiting for me to leave. I think about how I have been alone and craved the silence of the hills. But also how, in my darker moments, a friendly hand has helped me. I long to speak to this person, at least hear their story or offer them some warmth. Or am I being a fool, thinking this person cares or even wants my help? ‘Stupid Actor’, I scold myself as I begin to climb back up the pine needle path to the crossroads above, letting my imagination get the better of me. As I pass the ancient forest and silent trees, who have witnessed this whole episode, the hairs on the back of my neck vibrate. I still wonder if I am alone. I hope the woods at least provide some comfort to the tunnel resident. I vow that I will do something more to help upon my return – I will look to support homeless projects – and I wish him, or her, some peace and comfort.
