The Journey from Barnard Castle

I followed a car out of the car park of Barnard Castle; a family car with a family inside.

After a journey of about 150 miles, give or take, no stops, they pulled into a driveway of what I assumed to be their house.

Pulling up alongside the curb on the road outside, I got out of the car and stretched, nodding, with a smile, to the driver, the matriarch of the group.

While I eased out the stiffness, the assembled family, standing on the driveway, continued to look at me a bit agog.

“Not a bad journey,” I said, winding my shoulders. “Not bad at all.”

I gave a thumbs up to the one of the kids, who had stayed in the car.

“You were following us,” said the matriarch. “All the way from County Durham. I told you he was.”

“I was,” I agreed.

“Do you want to . . . explain yourself?” said the patriarch uncertainly, standing just behind the matriarch.

“I know, it does seem like a bit of a coincidence,” I said, directed to the matriarch, who seemed to be in control. “But I couldn’t remember the way home, so it was helpful to have someone going the same way.”

“But . . . you don’t live here,” the matriarch replied. “This isn’t your home. You couldn’t have known you were going the right way.”

“That’s a good and fair point,” I replied. “But I know where I am now,” I said, walking towards the back of the trailer. “I’ll just feed the horses and be on my way.”

I peered through the grill, checking on my foals. They were a bit hungry, but no worse for wear, all told.

vss #23