My everyday life is lived in a storybook world. Yes there are woods with wild creatures, an ocean down the hill, old caves in old cliffs, surprising creatures washing up on the stoney shore, winds that move landscapes, snow that buries the familiar, night skies often beyond imagining and tides who follow the moon's instructions to great heights and then call the water far from shore, but there is something more.
We are now well into June, approaching the important day when day and night are balanced. At such times the otherworldly slips into the ordinary.
It was at such a time that my little grandson came for an overnight visit. After dinner, we set down the hill and over the bridge to visit a little friend, who is just his age, but is far more familiar with the happenings of the place because his home is right there beside the river and across the road from the harbour. This is the place he knows.
The little boys are so alike and different. They race along a path by the water to MaryMarks. A house of fresh cider, warm cookies and adventures. My little ginger headed grandson lacks some of the confidence, but has his fair share of awe.
The grand chickens get fed, the gate is opened to explore the emerging life in the vegetable garden and then the boys, not so carefully, slide down to the river. The tide is out so the water is low in this tidal stream. MaryMark point out the new piles of pine brush that have been placed on the other side, to prevent erosion. This apparently is also a splendid new home for trolls. There is no end of possible entrances. The little local, fist clenched threateningly strides almost unaided to the other shore, stepping on stone by stone, to find and punch a troll. My grandson listens to his own wisdom to wait and watch to see what transpires. I am not sure he knows about trolls. All this is new to me.
There is some movement above the opposite river bank. It seems unlikely that a medieval winged spear is emerging from the garage window, but indeed it is. It is joined by another. They appear around the corner and then outside the door. I ask my entranced grandson if he is scared. He dismisses my question.
No one is alarmed, when a stooped hooded creature emerges, a spear in each hand.
My grandson does not join Local the Brave, who advances with fist still forward. The roar of the creature frightens this small valiant soul, until he catches a glimpse of a face under the hood. Forward he goes, to grab a spear for himself. In no time at all, the creature is locked in a fenced, covered enclosure built for a large outside dog. It is no time again until Local the Valiant has opened the gate and has joined the creature, laughing merrily. The creature exalts in the success of his finds from the nearby university town's Dump and Run, accounting for the two medieval winged spears.
My little fellow remains on his side of the river, intrigued and amused by the spontaneous production, but not ready to join in. Before too long he is joined by his little friend, where he sits. He runs off behind him along the river towards a new adventure.
This is one more chapter in my storybook world. Before long, we walk back home, beyond the hill of emerging lupins. This was not a Midsummer Dream.
