7 thoughts on “Ribble Valley

  1. I know that there is still a spark – nothing less than the Mind of God, a genuinely perfect treasure to be sought out (and even the likes of Perkins believed this), awaiting new incarnation. I know that it cannot die; I witnessed it once. Admittedly, the man who bore the flame within is now long dead and buried but that kind of flame cannot be extinguished for it is written within us all a little – on our hearts, as he would have said.
    When that new incarnation will be, of course, only He knows. I have been lucky enough to see that spark catch the parched, bleached hay in August, to light up the dales and drift smouldering as a plume of life along the watersheds of the fells, just above the heads of some folk and passing right through the frames of others – those who trudge the highest footsteps, descending into the valleys, lingering amongst the unknowing kine down by the Ribble and along the damp, moss-harvesting walls of cottages.
    Although time has passed those were not short years. I may overestimate them now but they were perhaps the best part of two decades; twenty years of sweet Spirit and harmony with the radiant curate and some few others – even if I only shared a few of them. There was no doubt that we were alive then; there was a joy that lit us up inside; a joy like life – well, it was what made life joyous then.
    So, I have returned to this place where so much happened, this island of memory from nearly forty years ago now and from up here I can look down upon all sorts of other shores which form both my history and my imagination.

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