The Hill

The hill was there again this morning, which I note only because I had rather hoped, after yesterday's exertions, that someone might have seen to it overnight. Nobody had. It sat exactly where it always sits, between me and the terrace with the good knocker, looking pleased with itself.

I want to be clear that I do not object to hills in principle. A hill, used sparingly, has its place in a landscape. This one, however, has made a career of itself. It gets no steeper and no shorter, year upon year, and yet every single morning it behaves as though we have never met.

I took it at the pace befitting a professional, which is to say slowly, with frequent pauses to admire the view and recover my breathing, in no particular order. A sheep watched the whole performance from a field and said nothing, though I felt judged regardless.

At the top I permitted myself one moment of triumph before remembering that the hill goes down the other side as well, which is its own sort of insult, gravity doing in ten seconds what effort had taken ten minutes to earn.

The satchel was lighter by the time I reached the bottom. The hill was not. It never is. I shall see it tomorrow, and it will pretend, as ever, to be surprised.