The Worn Stones

Travelling in time through a place

I looked down on the worn stones under my feet. Grey, smooth, a patchwork street.

How many thousands of people have trodden these stones before me? How many car tyres? How many horse’s hooves and cart’s wheels? How many boots, soft-soled slippers, dog paws?

I close my eyes. Feel the uneven shapes of the cobbles underfoot.

I breathe in.

I transport myself to the hustle and bustle of a market, where women’s long skirts brush the cobbles, dust and straw collecting on their hems. Baskets in arms, they traverse the market stalls, stopping to buy a bunch of carrots here, a loaf of fresh bread there, a bunch of lavender to sweeten the air at home, a piece of soft cheese to eat for supper.

Children run, chasing each other through legs, stalls, horses, carts. They laugh, catching each other, then continuing the chase. A stallholder yells, “Oi! Watch it!” as they brush too close to his fruit stand, his pile of apples teetering, close to falling all over the cobbles.

I breathe in.

I smell the soft warmth of the baker’s fresh bread fill my nostrils, mouth-watering. A hint of lavender on the breeze, fresh, restorative, reminding me of my once-upon-a-time garden. The pungent smell of horse. I feel their warmth. Bodies moving, restless, shifting their weight, waiting for instructions to move, never coming.

Hops and malt waft on the breeze. The Ale House brew, dark or light, your choice, enjoyed by a small, gruff group standing around the door. They shuffle their feet, sip contentedly, pondering the week that’s been.

I breathe in.

Dust motes dance in the sun’s rays over the patchwork cobbles stones. I return. To the present. Birdsong fills the air as the large tree overhanging the street stretches towards the sky. It’s quiet, otherwise. No cars, no people. The streets, deserted. Everyone is home. Such are the times. No hustle and bustle to wear the stones a little more. No one running over the uneven, grey stones.

I look towards the buildings, the old Ale House, the houses fringing the market square. Stone, warmed in the afternoon sun. Windows reflecting the square. Thatched rooves like a pretty straw hat. Closed. Quiet. Waiting. How long will they wait? Another hundred years?

I breathe out.

I long for the throng of the market. The sights and sounds. People mingling. Buying freshly baked bread, a piece of crumbly cheese, a jar of heather-scented honey. The hustle and bustle of a small city’s centre on a Saturday morning.

For now, I’ll just have to make do with a little time travel in my mind.

This piece of writing is inspired by the book Invisible Cities by Italo Calvino.

The idea of travelling is always with me. As actual travel seems a distant memory in current times, I travel to exotic places, different times, in my mind. I read books, another form of time travel, I guess.

I’ve always been fascinated by the memories that objects and places hold. Old things — human-made or natural — or places can hold such incredible energy. I often wonder, when I’ve visited old cities or walked old paths in a forest, who has come before me? Who has stepped where I have stepped? How many feet have worn the cobbles? What have these ghost-people seen, heard, smelt? Who have they loved and lost?

Thank you, to Trisha Traughber for the lovely writing inspiration.

Lisa is a a poet, writer and creative, changing her brain, one book at a time. If you’re interested in joining her and a group of amazing women from all over the world who share, discuss, and support each other, check out The Garden of Neuro.