Melissa Davies

I experience fear when the valley vanishes entirely into mist. At the point when I no longer see undulating curtains of rain, like aurora; instead I’m gazing over the auburn edge of bracken into white. I felt alone before. Beautifully alone to sing, to greet particularly fine herdwicks as I pass. Suddenly, I’m aware of being alone in a way that I no longer feel I am and the physical urge to check behind me as I slither down moss is overwhelming. I surrender to it. 

Rather than rationalising my imagination I consider the impact on my sense of connection. 

My self is erased. If I go further into the fog to reach White Moss stone circle—which will be exquisite in this weather—I risk losing my way. The path is quickly being lost in bog as sheep trail, quad track and overflow of becks intertwine in all directions. Which one is for me? Which is the proper path.

Then I remember: none are for me. 

A realisation which leaves my feet hovering millimetres above moss, with soaking mist a layer between them and land. The sheer indifference of this landscape on a day of poor visibility throws me momentarily into doubt over the whole project. I’m almost laughing at the egotism of us, humans who put a microscope to our own connection as if it’s a one way concept. 

Of course the land is alive, has a voice and we should listen. Connection. Should we be talking about relationship instead?

On a given day it can mean one thing to be in this place of water, bracken, death and bloody births marred together and snagged on browning branches of gorse flower in October as our autumns warm. While it can come out sounding entirely different if, for example, spoken about while away from the land itself. Is the simple presence of the land a form of voice? 

*

I reach the valley bottom sodden to my underwear. Yet doubt fades with fire warmth and cordial as I write at a sturdy wooden bench in The Boot Inn. I decide to visit Ravenglass before it gets dark, where the river Esk spills into the Irish Sea. I know the source of the river well, regularly swim in the upper Esk and consider it a place where I have connection through experience, or more accurately familiarity. Yet I have not once gazed upon the mouth of the river. 

It’s time to be a stranger again. 

Off the moss I’m calmer. Know my decision was the right one. Time in the valley is never a waste and it’s today that I understood how slippery a sense of connection can be. 

I’m beginning to understand how many factors will shape the responses I gather from participants – do I acknowledge these and draw on them, or put them aside and simply accept what I hear in the moment it is offered?