He feels it rather than hears it. It is like a deep, piercing, heart-felt, gut-wrenching feeling that tears his limbs apart. And yet, it is also a sound screeching out of the earth and the sea, sent, like a screaming banshee from the heart of his homeland to the depths of his mind, insistent, taking shape both as a vision of the grey coast (tasting the salt) and snow-capped hills, and a persistent, nagging voice, continually asking him what he is going to do about it, and just when…exactly…will he return?
Later, having acquiesced, but unable to sit still on the train, Khalid burst through the window as a bird taking flight, soaring above the land. He feels the cold, bracing against the wind, but relishes the feeling of refreshment and liberation as he shoots up into the sky. The noise and the rhythm of the train serve only as a reminder of another, inferior life to that of his current, witnessing self.
Looking down upon the land, he had imagined that he would have been met only with a grey winter landscape, frost-bitten and hard for all of nature to endure. Instead, he sees a wide variety of colours. The predominant colours are browns and greens, but with many shades of these. In some instances, the smell of the rich, freshly-turned earth is like a tonic to him, filling his lungs and invigorating his body. There are also some yellows amongst the billowing vegetation, and some white and greys when flying over buildings.
The busy-ness of people and animals is shown everywhere, with lots of evidence of nature thriving and surviving in the raw. His fellow birds look at him strangely. They are not used to one as large as him. Perhaps they wonder how he stays in the air. They laugh at his crude attempts at flight, although some stay to show him better technique.
Stone cottages with slate roofs, villages in valleys, snow on hills. Beautiful country — parts of England that are as far removed from the capital as Australia.
Streams lazily flowing, as if they were following the line of the road, when the opposite is true. How many hundreds or thousands of years ago were the roads first built? However long it was, the streams were there before.
Back on the train, the four train-spotters enjoy each other’s company, with their joyous babble of friendship, but miss everything worth seeing.
Snow spills down from the hills within spitting distance of the train, but it stops short of invading the tracks.
He has always loved the Cumbrian hills with the deep ruts, where water gushes down, patches of rock jutting through, with brown and grey velvety moss and vegetation.
In the fields, straight young trees, wooden gates and stone dykes. Cows and horses (with coats).
Winding stone paths through the hills and pylons placed as giant steps over huge vistas. Houses for sale, and wistful thinking, ignoring the fact that quaint still comes at a price.
Heavy cloud cover, it looks like rain, but maybe just getting closer to Scotland — where it often looks like that.
White cottages with abandoned boulders in corners of fields. Ditches, muddy water and tired, engineering workers by rusting rail tracks.
Farm buildings, dating from the 19th century, incongruously co-existing with modern farm machinery, yet neither looking out of place.
Withered grass and sparse-looking trees. Then, suddenly, stockpiled fertiliser in bright, white, plastic bags. A seven-arched viaduct, standing alone amidst arable land gains a flicker of interest from the gang of four spotters.
Forests of fir and crossings over motorways. How the landscape changes so rapidly. Puddles, pools and lakes — the water is muddy, clear or deeply grey.
Telephone wires dipping rhythmically and hypnotically. Skeletal trees reach out, their limbs like talons, keeping a fierce grip on life until spring comes and releases the spasmodic nature of them.
Brown dirt fields with the first hint of green seedlings. And the rhythm……and the rhythm……and the rhythm of the train sends him into a deep slumber.
Fraser
August 2023