R
Robert Harrison
Guest
JOHN
There was no need for me to rush this morning,
no time trials, no standing starts, and no tapes to break.
No rivals to beat and no breaking into a sweat during
my last breathless effort to reach the finishing line.
My cycle ride was to be just that, a ride, in unhurried
leisure to Pershore. The morning was perfect apart from
the head wind, which seemed to be determined to push
me back home?
I saw him sitting on the grass verge surrounded by
springs buttercup and dandelion, a Hawthorn hedge
his backrest. John was a gentleman of the road.
How long had it been, three months since we last
spoke. It was at Stratford upon Avon if memory
serves me well. We enjoyed the hospitality of the
towns transport café, a refuge for lorry drivers, either
on their way or returning from some destination.
He nodded in recognition as I sat next to him.
John, I never knew his surname, but that did not matter,
it was his friendship that I enjoyed.
John was of an age when most men would be content
to sit in front of a warm fire, a Red Setter at their slipperd
feet, content in their domesticity to puff away at their
old pipe watching the blue smoke curl up towards well
oiled beams.
Not John, he had given all of that away for open road,
with the wind at his back, his old army greatcoats tails
acting like sails helping him along upon his journey to
the end of the road and beyond.
John, learned in Philosophy and History, taught his knowledge
to young men at an expensive school in St Albans. Taking walks
in his spare time along the lanes that boarded the town.
One had to guess why he chose to give teaching up. Perhaps
the answer lay in his clear brown eyes, for they were young
eyes, clear and alive, which belied his age.
He was a wise man, full of a learned mans learning, and the
wind and the rain lived in his face. He had come to terms with his
chosen life, but also remembered that his beloved countryside
could easily do without him.
We shared a meal together while sitting on the grass. Talked, not
giving to much laughter. I said my good by. I do not think that
John remembered my name but it did not matter. I was his pupil.
There was no need for me to rush this morning,
no time trials, no standing starts, and no tapes to break.
No rivals to beat and no breaking into a sweat during
my last breathless effort to reach the finishing line.
My cycle ride was to be just that, a ride, in unhurried
leisure to Pershore. The morning was perfect apart from
the head wind, which seemed to be determined to push
me back home?
I saw him sitting on the grass verge surrounded by
springs buttercup and dandelion, a Hawthorn hedge
his backrest. John was a gentleman of the road.
How long had it been, three months since we last
spoke. It was at Stratford upon Avon if memory
serves me well. We enjoyed the hospitality of the
towns transport café, a refuge for lorry drivers, either
on their way or returning from some destination.
He nodded in recognition as I sat next to him.
John, I never knew his surname, but that did not matter,
it was his friendship that I enjoyed.
John was of an age when most men would be content
to sit in front of a warm fire, a Red Setter at their slipperd
feet, content in their domesticity to puff away at their
old pipe watching the blue smoke curl up towards well
oiled beams.
Not John, he had given all of that away for open road,
with the wind at his back, his old army greatcoats tails
acting like sails helping him along upon his journey to
the end of the road and beyond.
John, learned in Philosophy and History, taught his knowledge
to young men at an expensive school in St Albans. Taking walks
in his spare time along the lanes that boarded the town.
One had to guess why he chose to give teaching up. Perhaps
the answer lay in his clear brown eyes, for they were young
eyes, clear and alive, which belied his age.
He was a wise man, full of a learned mans learning, and the
wind and the rain lived in his face. He had come to terms with his
chosen life, but also remembered that his beloved countryside
could easily do without him.
We shared a meal together while sitting on the grass. Talked, not
giving to much laughter. I said my good by. I do not think that
John remembered my name but it did not matter. I was his pupil.
