The Day of Medlars and Miles

He woke hollow-headed, the kind of morning where the tongue feels like an old boot and the brain’s full of static. No drama, no theatrics — just that quiet admission: “Right. I’ve overdone it.”

So he did what he always does when the walls start pressing in — laced up, stepped out, and pointed himself away from Um.

Out past Crabtree Lane. Over the Wharfe. Through Linton. Six miles without thinkin’, really. The body walked; the mind dragged behind like a sulky child. Every now and then anxiety jabbed him in the ribs — that feeling of wanting to be somewhere before he’d arrived. Familiar, irritating, survivable.

Messages pinged. Sister wanting favours. Mum’s old refrain — “Emma works hard.” Same tune, same sting. He felt that old injustice rise — all he gives, never enough. So instead of turning toward 42 Braine Road, he turned away. Self-preservation masquerading as route choice.

He came for medlars — and he got ‘em. A pocket full of brown, ugly little treasures. Rosehips and blackthorn on the way, like nature slipping him quiet medicine. No applause. No audience. Just small sustenance on a long walk.

Sat in Raby Park. Lost, but not defeated. Tired, but not broken. The river going about its business without caring who was angry at who. That helped.

Then — bus home. No big goodbye. Just a decision: Not today. Not them. Not that house.

And back in 69, something shifted. Boots polished. Flat cleaned. Food cooked slow and steady — plantain, sweet potato, onions, chorizo — as if he was rebuilding himself ingredient by ingredient. Water instead of ale. Stillness instead of noise.

By evening he wasn’t cured, wasn’t enlightened, wasn’t “fixed.” But he was standing. Fed. Calmer. In his own space.

A day that started in the wreckage and ended in a kind of fragile order.

No grand lesson. Just this:

He walked it off. He carried himself. And he’s still here.