Recently, I met up with Marylyn - we meet far too infrequently - when I was a headteacher, she was my PA - she was a formidable keeper of secrets - whenever she had to tell me dire news, she had the gentlest of smiles -
Whenever we see each other, we go for walks - I hear gossip from a world I've left - I remember the faces which were once so familiar to me, their voices and mannerisms, too -
This August, we walked the first part of the Rodmell Trail - Anne was unable to come with us - she was saying goodbye to Maire, who'd been with us for the weekend - Maire is one of Anne's closest and oldest friends - they'd known each other in their catholic childhoods - they'd been taught by nuns and Christian Brothers -
John, Marylyn's husband, was with her - he'd recovered from his hip replacement operation - I always felt calm in his relaxed company -
The Trail follows the route of the old railway line to the Isle of Portland - it starts not far from the centre of Weymouth - you can see the river, with its swing bridge and clustered yachts - to get there, you first have to drive past forbidding chippies, sinister Victorian pubs, sleek retail units with airstrips for car parks - there's a shop selling camo gear and air rifles -
But once arrived, there's no air of disquiet - you walk in a shady corridor, under the branches of burgeoning trees - you follow the invisible rails through cuttings, past the sad platforms of ghost stations and halts - you look out at Portland Harbour, embraced by its breakwaters -
I was much taken by the severe pool in the formal garden in front of Sandsfoot Castle, and by the elegant shape of the eroded masonry -
I felt, for a moment, the breath of time against my skin - I smelt its strange, unsettling, scent - I heard the hiss of steam - I saw glowing pennants, unfolding from brave masts -
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