The Water Tower Watches Over Us
Sometimes the walk is worth the wobble.
When I used to go and stay with my biological mother and her husband on Anglesey, North Wales, we used to go for walks all over the island, and across to Snowdonia too, if we were feeling energetic and the clouds were high.
They had two walking rules. One was set by Peter, her husband, and that was that each walk had to be circular, he absolutely hated to retrace his steps and would rather slurp through a bog than go back along a firmer trail. The second rule was set by Colette. Every walk had to reveal some sort of treasure, and they weren’t allowed to return home until they had found it. There was often some argument between them as to what actually counted as treasure, but I think it depended more on how much one or the other of them wanted to head home for a cup of tea.
Treasure could be anything. A coin. A particularly interesting piece of driftwood. A wild flower. An abandoned, broken, deck chair. A pretty stone. But they were both adamant that treasure needed to be found. Their house, an old chapel, was full of strange and wonderful finds.
I have to say that I haven’t taken those two rules of the road to heart as much as they had, but I don’t really like having to go back the way I’ve just come, and I always try and keep my eyes open along the way, just in case some treasure is to be found.
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The other day was my daughter’s birthday. As the weather was okay, she wanted to walk up to the water tower just by our house, to look at the view and to pay homage to the tower, which stands guard over us, a steadfast defender in all weathers and all emotions. There are a number of ways to get up to it, including a paved access road, but for her birthday she wanted to take the really steep scramble path that means you sometimes have to be on almost all fours to get to the top.
As she was scrambling up the path, she wobbled a little, and put her hands out to steady herself, and as she did so one hand caught on something small, hard and shiny, under the dirt. She picked it up and rubbed it clean with her hands. “Look Dad, see what I found,” she said excitedly, holding it out in front of her.
“Treasure,” I said. “And birthday treasure at that.”
When we got to the top of the hill we cleaned the stone up even more, and it really was treasure. Quartz-like and glittery, all pale purples and pinks, and lovely and rough in your hand, so you could feel the life and energy trapped within it.
When the world gives you a present, on your birthday, it feels like a really special day. You don’t have to wonder too much about where it comes from, whether it’s a gift from the planet, reminding you about what’s important and real, or a token from the water tower, promising to carry on looking after you, or even treasure from a grandmother you never really knew, a hard little crack of love to carry with you.
It’s just a glimpse of a deeper world all around us, and a reminder that there’s always a little bit of magic, just under the surface, if you aren’t afraid to look for it.
