Friday afternoon

MissM said we must go to Fingle Bridge
so we go. It is late afternoon.

After climbing all the way through the woods
we reach the Hunters' path. We are quite alone.

As soon as we are out of the trees
the landscape unfolds: woods, moor, sky.

The path takes us down to the bottom of the gorge
to cross the brook by a tiny hanging bridge

and then we follow a long granite wall
through the densely wooded valley,

past the wheels and walls of the old mill,
across the narrow stone packhorse bridge.

It is a fine evening as we drive back to our cottage
and stroll down to the village pub for a pint of cider.

This is how I imagined it would be
and I am so very grateful.