Stories

George returned from our walk today vampire-like, dripping blood.

Two Alsatians pinned him down (although I think one was only an egger-on) and I assume the cut lip is the result. I've bathed and germolened his cut and we'll wait and see if it settles.

There was an old gentleman Harvey and I used to see on our walks up the bike path in Clyne valley. He was tall and lean. (If you've seen Babe, the film version of The Sheep-pig, then think of the farmer in that.) And he always carried a long walking stick. A proper stick not a walking stick as bought in shops. He never spoke to us or even acknowledged us and he looked very sad. I used to make up stories about a recently-deceased wife.

Well, George and I have seen him a few times recently and he's smiled and greeted us each time. He must be getting over the death of his wife. Or perhaps he's found a new love.

Today we walked as far as the Railway Inn. The cycle/walking path through Clyne valley follows the route of the old mid-Wales train line, hence the Railway Inn at the side.

Many years ago, not-yet-Husband, another friend and I went there for an evening drink. We sat outside and not-yet-Husband told me a story. It was about a car breaking down on a lonely road at night. The man left his wife in the car while he went to get help. She was sitting there when there was a tremendous banging on the roof of the car. She sat petrified as the banging continued and, just as an axe was breaking through, her husband returned in another car, and the mad axe murderer ran off.

Of course, this was a shaggy dog story/urban legend/call it what you will but I didn't know that at the time and not-yet-Husband told it very well - much better and in more graphic detail than I have related it. It was years before I could even drive past the Railway Inn without remembering the story and shuddering.