I Never Did See Battle

The night spent sleeping in a Prius in the car park of the King’s Arms in Frating was warmed by the generosity of the patrons in that village pub. In the morning I arrived, by walking and hitching along the A120, at a Premier Inn outside Colchester where I took breakfast. From there I had gotten to Enfield, then Slough, and eventually to Bexhill. Eager to visit the site where King Harold II fell on my way back north, I began to inspect the BMW as the air felt suddenly cool: a salty scent; thunder, like a raised cudgel, caused me to flinch; the warm rain spattered off the concrete like sparks from an angle grinder.

            Dismissing the inspection and hastily acquiring a signature, I drove away without attaching my trade plates and made it to Middlewich before an observant policeman pulled me over.

I never did see Battle.