The Wanderer above the sea of fog : an oil painting by the German Romantic artist Caspar David Fredrick
“The reproduction leapt off the page of the old volume I’d picked up as I browsed in the enticing interior of a second-hand book shop in Balham. A nightmare vision: huge craggy rocks, fog hiding the terrain below and a man, inappropriately dressed in a dark green overcoat, standing dangerously near the edge of a rock. He stood alone with no one to witness or come to his rescue if he fell. My heart began to pound; my hands felt clammy. I’m often overawed by the immensity and ruggedness of nature but my reaction to this image seemed extreme even for me.
Then it came to me: Summer 1968, the Lake District and the day I used up one of my nine lives.“
That was how I began a piece written on a creative writing course in June 2021. We were shown a picture of Caspar Fredric’s oil painting and asked to use it to trigger our imaginations; to take the narrative in whatever direction this led us. My first look at the picture brought up an all too familiar sensation of dismay that lodges itself in the pit of my stomach. What on earth was I going to do with this? All the reservations I had had about signing up for the course came surging back. I had been along this road before on some dispiriting creative writing forays. Then I remembered that life has moved on and, in retirement, I now have a clear focus for my writing: a life review. Was there anything here that spoke to me from my past? Looking again at the man standing in such a precarious position, an image of myself frozen to the spot in the face of a similar hazard of nature flashed into my head. Memories came flooding back and I went on to write an account of the forgotten incident inthe Lake District. I had indeed used up one of my nine lives on that summer’s day.
I was doing a waitressing job at an hotel in Ambleside after graduating from Keele University in Staffordshire with a joint Honours degree in French and English. I had spent five enjoyable years as a student which included a year studying in France, but what now? What did the future hold? All my previous summers I had looked forward to returning to friends and the familiar landscape of Keele. This vacation was filled with anxiety and uncertainty about the future.
I knew I would be going onto a postgraduate teacher training course at Didsbury College of Education in the Autumn. But, with no real desire or intention to teach, wasn’t looking forward to the coming academic year. I was not ready for the world of work and this was simply a means of remaining in an academic environment while I pondered my next steps in life. So here I was doing this summer job, far from anyone I knew and apprehensive about the future.
One mildly warm but overcast afternoon I went out for a solitary walk. The path I took began as a gentle climb. I made my way up and up, enjoying the soft breeze and the sights and sounds around me. I went higher and higher, on and on. Eventually I realised it was now late afternoon. I had wandered for longer and farther than intended. The weather had deteriorated and a misty drizzle had begun to fall. The landscape now felt less inviting. My shivers were caused by more than just chill, damp air. It was definitely time to retrace my steps. Encouraged by the earlier warmth I had, uncharacteristically, left the path and gone exploring so wasn’t sure which way to go to get back to the hotel. I’d climbed so it seemed logical to find a way to descend. Visibility was becoming quite poor. I heard water flowing somewhere on my left and decided to focus on that sound to orientate myself while making my descent.
I was enveloped in mist with only the rippling sound of water to guide me. My sense of unease deepened. How far up had I gone? Where was I going? My steps faltering, I moved more and more slowly. Surely this incline was much steeper than the one I’d so happily and easily clambered up? “Caution, this does not feel right”, a small inner voice murmured. I became increasingly anxious but kept moving. Then, it seemed as if a stern, though inaudible voice thundered right through me: “Stop, go no further!” I stopped, stood very still, and peered through the mist.
I was a couple of steps away from a steep drop where, to my left, a stream cascaded into unseen depths.
I can still feel my heart pounding and blood thudding through the veins in my forehead exactly as though, once again I was standing frozen in panicked realisation of an only just averted disaster.
I have a vague recollection of backing away carefully then scrambling up the steep slope that had brought me to the edge of a precipice. Somehow, I found my way onto a path and got back to the hotel. I told no one about my narrow escape but thought a lot about the fact that the future about which I was feeling so apprehensive had nearly been eliminated. I was grateful for the chance to go on to the next stage of my life.
Twenty year later, in 1988, I became a Buddhist. This practice involves saying prayers at the start of each day and, at a certain point, reciting the words: “I give thanks for the immeasurable benefits I have received”. Increasingly, as years have gone by, the conviction has grown that, in myriad ways, I have indeed been guided and protected. I certainly was on this occasion.