Home.

It seemed presumptuous to label a first-time destination as such, but then she’d never had this feeling before. Not quite déjà vu, yet she instinctively knew she’d been in this place – had stood on this very spot – a lifetime ago.

Several lifetimes, actually. Eight generations, if the genealogical researcher she’d hired was to be believed. He’d come highly recommended by one of her mother’s Hampton cronies, a tiresome dowager who, on every occasion possible, reminded all within earshot that she was descended from Miles Standish.  The genealogist, a Mr. Lazanby who was himself the distant progeny of a Scottish kings, had been very thorough, tracing her father’s family back to rural Regency England. Beyond that, connections began to thin, and sources became increasingly difficult to verify, but she’d reviewed the records, had photographed them before stepping on the plane so she’d have them with her, just in case.  She’d paid Mr. Lazanby well for his efforts, well enough that he was now on a family holiday in Ibiza while she stood at the top of Mam Tor, the bitter October wind slicing its way through her clothes, like it was rending her garments and she was naked, exposed for all the world to see. But she wouldn’t trade places with him, wouldn’t walk away from this for any sunny beach or all the money in the world because this … THIS … was what she’d been searching for all her life.

The valley below was still lush and green, the warmth of the early autumnal sun giving it the strength to fight off the encroaching winter for just one more day. The raw beauty of the landscape and the sheer power of nature’s force displayed in the thunderous clouds above left her breathless and speechless and shivering, with both cold and emotion.

Behind her, she could hear the other hikers talking and laughing as they unpacked refreshments and settled in for a short rest. But she didn’t want food. She wanted to kneel down and sink her fingers into the fragrant, loamy sod along the side of the path, to burrow deep into the dirt and connect on a primal level with the earth. She’d never considered herself spiritual and had rarely entertained thoughts of the climate crisis beyond her backyard recycling bin. Yet she had never been more aware, and she imagined, in that moment, that she could feel the earth beneath her feet hum with the vibrancy of a hundred thousand seasons past. Was it a mere flight of fancy that she sensed a collective consciousness, the perceived memories from an untold number of travelers over that ancient stone path which now danced on the edges of her mind, toying with her sense of logic and begging her indulgence? The very idea made her heart pound concussively in her ears.

She was overwhelmed.

A thermos cup of steaming tea was pressed into her hand and she wrapped gloved fingers around it, instantly appreciating its warmth. “Here, drink this. It’ll help.”  She’d listened to that deep, melodic baritone all morning as their guide, Andy, had regaled them with local history and folklore. Now he stood beside her, the vapor from his own beverage curling until his exhaled breath dissipated it, only to have it reappear on the inhale. He took a sip, then nodded toward the vista spread before them. “Impressive, innit?”

She had no words that would adequately convey what she was thinking and feeling, so she settled for a simple nod.

Apparently cognizant of her emotional state, his voice gentled to a mere whisper, isolating their conversation from the other hikers and imbuing a reverence to his words. “Y’know, when I was young, I couldn’t get out of this place fast enough. I had big dreams, big plans. I was going to move to the city and tackle the world.” He chuckled to himself. “And for a while, I succeeded. University and a job in London, conferences all over Europe. But later, after the shine had worn off, I realized I needed to come home, to rediscover who I was at a basic level.”

She pursed her lips despite the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “And you never left?”

“And I never left,” he confirmed, his answering grin lighting up his face. “Everybody belongs somewhere. For some people, it takes a lifetime to find that place. Others may find it, but don’t have the luxury of making it their home. And some poor sods, they remain forever lost. I’m one of the lucky ones … I’ve always known where my heart called home, I just forgot … no, not forgot. That implies it was out of my control. I refused to acknowledge it for a while.” He hesitated, then said, “I think you’re one of the lucky ones, too.”

She returned her gaze to the landscape, wanting to burn the image into her memory, fully knowing the camera on her iPhone could never, ever do it justice. But more than the image, she desperately wanted to capture the feeling, the rightness of it all, so she could take it along back to her overpriced apartment and the cubicle hell where she endured her workdays. And then, wherever she went for the rest of her life, she would know exactly where home really was, what it looked like and smelled like and felt like. 

As he turned to go back to the others, Andy leaned close, pressing his shoulder to hers. “I know an estate agent in Castleton, if you’re interested.” Then he wandered back to the laughter and his waiting lunch, leaving her staggered by a rush of possibilities.

As the sun broke through the clouds, bathing her in golden light, she closed her eyes and began to mentally compose her letter of resignation.

Originally published September 26, 2015

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International License.