Lenham to Charing (ish) – 5.8 miles

The Bowl, the orb and the hermit

  Nestled at the feet of the Misty Downs, a damp drizzle drifted lazily through the quiet streets of Lenham, a small village inhabited by simple folk – farmers, blacksmiths, stonemasons, the usual sort – who on this most uninspiring of spring mornings, huddled close together about the hearths of their small, thatched cottages.
  Within one such cottage, beside one particular fireplace, a strange group of travellers gathered close, heeding close the words of a wise old hermit.
  “Across yonder hills you must seek.  Through mud you must trudge, past beast you must brave, then, and only then, will you find what you seek… The Lost Bowl of Charing.”
  “Do you know the way to such a place?” they all asked.
  “Yes.”
  The small party had arrived at the hermit’s abode earlier that same day through the rain, hoping to find answers to their quest.  And so they had, for the strange old hermit seemed confident of his ability to navigate the foreboding downs above, claiming an almost mythical sense of direction.  And so, with renewed hope, they set out into the miserable day, following the hermit and his faithful hound, Pumpkin, out of the comfort of Lenham, and into the wilderness beyond.
  Four it was that followed the old hermit and his hound.  At the rear, wearing a green cloak, one of the party remained highly suspicious of the hermit, whom she did not entirely trust with such an important task.  So it was that she cautiously held in the pocket of her green cloak, a magic orb which may provide guidance in their hour of need.
  Up, up and away they climbed, leaving the safety of the village behind them.  Shortly after Pumpkin took her third piss in as many minutes, the Hermit deviated sharply off road, taking them steeply up toward the symbol of an ancient faith, carved into the chalky hillside.  Beyond, the path trailed away, yet the hermit continued, hound diligently at his side.
  In her pocket, Green Cloak felt the orb tingle, and sensed that, despite having only gone a short way from the village, it might be time to check the orb for additional guidance.  She beheld the orb, and was gifted great foresight, for she could see that this way, surely, would lead to an abyss of no return.  She shared her wisdom with her companions, who agreed that this was not the way.  Thoroughly disgruntled, the hermit turned back from the cross, agreeing to try it their way on this occasion.  Pumpkin, just happy to be there, stopped for another piss.
  They walked on, eventually arriving at a path foreseen in the future vision given by the orb.  Their guide scoffed and mocked, saying with absolute surety, that they shall not pass.
  “Tis nought but a waste of time,” he proclaimed with blunt confidence, “the lords of the land have long since deemed it prudent to stop the likes of you and I wandering this way.  You fools may pursue this venture, should you desire, but I assure you, far is not where you will get.”
  Despite the warning of the old hermit and his hound, the travellers decided that their destiny was to try the lost path.  The old gods and the new must have been on their side that day, because the hermit was once again proved wrong, and their way was clear and free of peril.
  On they travelled for a while, yet as they reached the top of the high downs, they found themselves shrouded in a thick fog, leaving them blind to all but each other.  They boldly went forward into the mist, knowing that the Lost Bowl lay somewhere ahead, and that to go back would mean nothing short of defeat.
  Through crop and hedge they trudged, even passing a party of lost souls wandering lifelessly through the mist, spirits sapped by the bleak wilderness in which they would remain forever lost.
  By strange path and abandoned building they passed, navigating treacherous stiles that attempted to thwart them.  No sooner had they recovered from their dual with the wobbly plank of wood, than the brave, brave hound, almost fell prey to fear, as she was attacked by the twigs of a fallen branch.  Desire to turn back burned in her racing heart, yet with great courage, and someone to carry her over, she continued on her way.
 After sneaking quietly past what were undeniably the largest sheep any did see, grown freakishly large in that high, damp place, their guide waved a hand to the horizon.
 “Destiny lies yonder,” he announced to the weary travellers, “behold the Bowl is nigh.”
 He set off in the direction he had indicated.
  Just as they were set to follow, Green Cloak once more felt the orb tingling in her pocket, drawing her to an abrupt halt.  Upon consulting her orb, it once again revealed to her a great truth.
  Their guide was going the wrong way.
  Once more an argument broke out, with much cursing and near-drawn swords.  Yet once more, the truth of the orb won out and they turned away from the old hermit and hound, to follow its guidance.  Begrudgingly, he followed suit, but when mere yards down the road he turned left and the orb corrected him to right, he began to rather detest the orb, praying that it would be cast into the abyss.
  The orb’s guidance led them down yonder track, when ahead, they beheld a fierce beast.  The horse – the meanest one there ever was – stood between them and their goal; a formidable, undefeatable foe.
  It was in this moment, when all hope had faded, that Pumpkin, hound of the hermit, stood up to the horse.  Though she was small, afraid and somehow still full of urine, she summoned the hidden power of her ancestors from deep within, and did great battle with the enemy, thwarting her in a one-on-one stare-off.
  The horse, monster of the downs, was defeated.
  In their hour of need, Pumpkin had been the hero they had needed, and her legend will live on through the great myths of time.  Thanks to this simple hound, the quest was not yet at its end, and together they set off in their search of the Lost Bowl.
  Their path was soon blocked once more, this time by a great, murky lake of fathomless depths.  Clinging desperately to the hedge-lined banks, they cautiously passed it by, one careful step at a time, lest they be plunged into its dark waters and devoured by the hidden beasts below.
  As the next fork in the road appeared before them, Green Cloak watched as the hermit went one way, and she once again felt the orb tugging in the other.  She watched as her companions followed, unaware of their peril.  With a sigh, she did her best to ignore the tingling, so tired was she of arguing with the hermit.  Yet so aware of their guide’s incompetence had they become, that her companions could not fail to notice Green Cloak’s hesitation.  The orb, clutched urgently between them, showed that their path lay the other way, though the guide was sure this was fake news.
  And so they once more took the way revealed by the orb, up a muddy path, as bellies began to grumble and visions of pints danced through their heads.  As they skirted along the edge of an enchanted woodland, so urgent had their journey become that the spirit of the forest herself was revealed to them in humanlike form, to impart upon them much-forgotten knowledge – yet so hangry had Green Cloak grown, that they passed her by without a second glance.
  Thus came the final road, on which both the hermit and the orb, finally, agreed that the Bowl Rested.  One last decision lay before them, a decision which had proved troublesome time, and time again; left, or right?  The hermit glanced around, sniffing the air.  He took in every detail, every blade of grass, every fallen leaf taken into consideration, as he made his final decision.
  Right.
  Off he set, Pumpkin trotting diligently at his side, confidant that he had, finally, made the right decision.
  And lo, the orb revealed to them one final, great truth.
  Their guide did not know what he was doing.
  And so, the travellers turned left, away from the hermit one final time, knowing that the Bowl was almost in their grasp.  They glanced over their shoulders, watching as he and his hound disappeared into the mist.
  It was tempting to let him go – truly, it was – to wander the downs in a state of eternal lost, for had he not almost done the same to them on several occasions?  And yet…through much they had travelled together, and many a foe overcome, so that somehow they could not abandon him now.
  And anyway, he had Pumpkin with him, and we like Pumpkin.
  Hearing their cries, he turned, realising his final mistake.  He ran back toward them, hound running alongside, tongue lolling, finally grateful of their guidance.
  And so, desperate for a pint, the weary travellers trod their final road, knowing that the Bowl would soon surely be revealed to them.
  The Bowl.
  The answer to everything.
  Life’s meaning.
  Death’s answer.
  …journey’s end.
  Captain Sense of Direction halted, pointing ahead through the mist.
  “Behold.”
  Together, they raised their heads to the drizzle.
   And there it was, sat unassumingly before them, a beacon of hope in the greyness of the Misty North Downs.
  The Bowl Inn.
  Wet socks, muddy boots, our bedraggled companions gratefully crossed the threshold of this welcoming Ye Olde pub.
  Inside was a roaring fire, and a rosy-cheeked barmaid waiting to pull those most deserved of pints.  At the sight of her, Pumpkin the hound began tip-toing, jaw a-quiver, and the old hermit approached her with an unexpected familiarity.
  With a kiss on the cheek and a “Hello Love,” he greeted his young wife, who had waited long for his return.  She rested a hand lightly on her belly, where it was revealed their plum-sized babe rested peacefully.
  Suddenly they were greatly relieved that they had not abandoned their guide to his fate, so that he may raise a child who would, someday, claim to have a sense of direction too.
  Together they toasted to their success, feasting and drinking, until the end of their day, when they were whisked away by chariots, into the night.