Three kilometres are wandered with a toddler shoulder perched.
The path rings half way on the hillside: a view of roots elbowing through soft rock and on the other side, tree tops.
She wants to see a horse, the child says, pulling up the earflap on a woollen hat to share a dream.
Like magic then two horses round the stony corner, the wind curls their tails as they pass.
Pin drops of rain press the walk on, on through the car park out to the café.
A pasty is the object sought, this time. There's none: there's a sausage roll. Hot in a paper bag?
Later she tells her Grandad: there was no pasty but there was sausage rolls!
Like a good punch line.
Crumbs down her jumper.
Her Grandma smiles and raids the fridge.
|(Three horses passing on a sunnier day.)|