Flux

towards their destination; the trip had already started and there was no need to rush.
    Leaving the motorway, the landscape was transformed and they were soon travelling along quiet roads flanked by the woodlands and rolling hills of the Cotswolds, punctuated every now and again by hamlets and villages constructed of the same, local yellow stone.
    A brace of pheasants ran from the hedgerow in front of the car; an explosion of feathers as they bounced off the grille.
    “Fuck, did you see that?” exclaimed Gary, after tapping the brakes, deciding he was travelling too fast but not making any attempt to stop.
    “Would have made a good dinner,” Dave’s input.
    Iain turned his neck to see out of the rear window, but there was no sign of the birds; the empty road stretched out behind them. An apparition of a little girl stood on the white line, staring after them. Iain turned his head to face forward again, ignoring the spectre.
    Finally, they reached Stow. The sun was now blazing and they couldn’t wait to stop and stretch their legs. Knowing exactly where they were going, they turned off the busy main road, down a side street and then onto a small single track dirt road which led them to the back of the youth hostel. There, the car would stay untouched until they were ready to leave on Sunday afternoon. Stuffing rucksacks with cans of lager from the boot, the three friends first walked back along the track, and into town to purchase sausage rolls and sandwiches for the long day ahead.
    The main and only square in the town was bustling with people; mostly tourists like themselves, many of whom had travelled from much further away.
    “Anyone fancy a pint?” Iain asked the others, eyeing up the tables outside the Old Stocks hotel; so called because of its proximity to the real medieval stocks, now rotting and fragile with age, which occupied a patch of grass at one end of the square. He enjoyed watching people pass by as the three of them sat drinking, listening to different accents and languages from around the world; American, Japanese and a multitude of others.
    Iain felt relaxed with the sun on his face and smiled to himself.
    “You OK?” Dave asked.
    “Never been better.” And he meant it.
    After returning their glasses to the bar, the boys, for that is what they now were again, picked up their bags and headed out of town, to the well and the field beyond.
    The well is a rectangular stone structure which sits at the edge of the lane half a mile from the town. About three feet deep, it’s fed from a natural spring in the side of a small earth bank, and heralds from an age before mains water was piped into Stow.
    As they passed, the boys paused for a minute to watch a frog swim across the surface, sending out ripples to all sides. Iain thought he saw something on the bottom, something pale; a corpse. He looked away in an instant while still able to fool his brain into thinking it was an illusion. He didn’t want anything to spoil his idyllic day, and his current state of contentment.
    Beyond the well, up the small bank and over the fence lay the field; where the grass around the edges grew tall and the corn taller still. Moving to where the two met, the three friends sat down, concealed from the world outside. Iain removed his tee shirt, feeling hot sun on his skin was divine. Each rummaging in their own bag for drinks and metal tins full of smoking paraphernalia, they rolled a spliff each, cracked open a can and settled in for the afternoon.
    Spreading his tee shirt on the ground, Iain lay down watching the top of the grass gently swaying in the breeze. Not far away, a kestrel hovered, its keen eye on the lookout for a shrew, field mouse or other tasty morsel. He was glad he’d decided not to kill himself.
    The youth hostel opened its doors at five; fuzzy headed, the three of them decided to walk back down the lane before they managed to get in an even worse state. His skin pink from the sun, Iain realised he’d burnt when pulling on his tee shirt. He didn’t mind, the subtle sting felt good.
    Entering through the rear door, by the car park, they fetched the keys, went to make up their beds and left again straight away through the front, which opened onto the main square.
    “Anyone for food?” asked Iain.
    The answer was in the affirmative all round. They headed across the square to the Queens Head, another pub and directly opposite the Old Stocks, which was known to serve good meals. At the bar,