He wondered if he had been right to bother, as he pushed the branches aside, carefully so that they didn't whip back in his face. The track from where the car park used to be was so overgrown, a stranger to these parts wouldn't have found their way. But some sort of satisfaction flowed to his head as he realised that the shape and feel of the path through the soles of his feet was familiar. And when the undergrowth thinned and his view opened out he felt a wave of recognition as he saw the little curved beach of mauve and purple slate shards, with the lakeside water lapping gently at its edge. And there was the bench, sitting empty and cold. But where was the tree, a hint of fear in his mind as his old eyes scanned to the right, fearful some wanton vandals had triumphed where others had failed? A frantic intense look into the poor light and then he noticed the shape, a bit further to the right than he remembered: ahhhh!. The Padarn Lone Tree lives on! Still looking much like it did when he was younger.
Younger? Younger, when he was last here aged 62?. For now it was exactly twenty years on, and progress across the beach of slate slivers was tricky under stiff legs and ankles. Yes, he had to admit he was pretty frail now, conscious of his age, as he carefully and slowly swivelled round to lower himself onto the bench. Why the hell hadn't they made it face down the lake towards the pass at Nant Peris? Well, no one else was about in the early morning gloom, to hear his whinge, as he weighed up if he thought, with a bit of effort he could get his legs up on the wood so he could sit looking out to the tree and the dark shape of his beloved Dinorwic, above and beyond.
It seemed strange there were no togs jostling for position with set up tripods and adjusted filters. But that was a long time ago. Before the pandemic. Life had changed. People didn't travel anymore, living literally in their own bubbles or spheres, stupid big plastic domes over their heads like fish bowls. But the world was now on Covid 25. Tens of millions had died in the last two decades. And now with this latest one, where criminal gangs had stolen viruses from the Russian laboratory and were currently holding the world to ransom while they hid in secret hidden lairs, there seemed no end in sight to the human misery.
He should have had his environment dome on this morning but he no longer gave a shit, too old to care any more. Too long lived to be scared.
He sat there, absorbing the view, savouring the fresh cool air as his mind chewed over what he was doing there. So many times he had been to this spot in happier times. With her. So many years he had followed her pert little butt, all over the country but especially in Snowdonia. She had such personality, character and a sense of fun. He had loved her right down to the little grey and white hairs that covered her bum. No, he wasn't some sort of perve but the little schnauzer had been far more than just a friend to him. On their own he could talk to her about anything, and although she had always been the yappy type, when they disagreed, he knew he would always win. But she was no longer with him. That was in the past.
Now it was so quiet. And it was chilly. Two mallards paddled past, swiftly without saying a word as if they were on their way to a meeting. And then everything was still again, the water flat, no breeze to rustle the leaves in the trees. He was alone with his thoughts. Until he remembered he had brought something special with him. It was hard and big against his thigh and he struggled to pull it out of his coat pocket but with relief he managed to get it free and hold it up in front of his face. Hmmm. As an afterthought when he left the house he had rammed a bottle of Hibiki Japanese Harmony whisky in his pocket. Now a smile formed on his face as he twisted the glass stopper and put the bottle to his lips. He only let a little flow into his mouth closing his lips around it and letting the spirit bathe his tongue in the smoothest rich, fiery golden honey on earth. And when he swallowed after a bit, wow, the sensation went all the way to his soul. His personal trainer had a twinkle in her eye when she said it was bad for him at his age. But he had an understanding with her, he thought, that meant it was alright.
How he wished he was her age again. All the things he had done: should he have done things differently? One life. With every day passed, one day less left to live. And he wanted to live. For another adventure. His eyes looked out to the lone tree and then cast a little left to the dark forboding shape of the quarry above, where he guessed his goats still lived. Yes, Life........... A thought crossed his mind. He heard Jim Bowen's voice on the vintage TV gameshow, Bullseye. "Look what you could have won!"
Shit, What could he have won if he had done things differently? Could he have been happier? His mind was hovering on that point, trying to imagine the possibilities when there was a rustle in the bushes behind the bench. Suddenly he remembered Darcy: He spun round. Where was she? Had she wandered off into the bushes whilst his mind had drifted? But the rustling intensified and out popped a white face with terrifying, crazy eyes. And short horns on its head. But his fear dissolved almost instantly. It was Esmerelda, a goat he had come to know in the quarry several years ago when he came across her in a slate shed with her hour old kid. No; not Darcy. She was long gone.
Esmerelda stayed with him then for a bit, chewing at the branches and low hanging fruit as he turned to look down the lake again. Yes, what if? What if he had his time again, even just from the age of 62? What should he have done differently in this one life? What could he have won instead? He was still thinking about that when he felt he should have another swig from the bottle and raised it to his lips. But it was already empty.