Days Like This by Amy Cochrane
These do not have to be days that we remember because we wore a beautiful white dress, or waved goodbye to our mothers who stood anxiously waving from the far side of the school gates as we set off without a care in the world into the unknown wilderness of the playground, taking those all important first steps on the journey that would carry us through our lives. The former I have yet to experience, being as I am, only sixteen years old and not yet beginning to think abut the great commitment of matrimony. The latter has of course come and gone, swallowed up in a whirlwind of days similar. These are days we remember, not because they stand out particularly, nor because they hold some great sentimental value. These are the days that come in between. The casual memories that string together to form the long and otherwise boring years that we live, those that contain a meaning just because they were.
The days of which I write are those of my early childhood. The scene is set; a calm little river that rolls playfully in many exciting twists and turns, set in a rolling landscape of hills that lie just below Langholm. The sky is brilliant blue, and a gentle breeze carries with it the luscious scent of summer, and of the country, a familiar smell of cut grass, flowers, and a laziness that can no longer be permitted. The water trickles and stills at its leisure, teasing and tantalising the leaf that floats on its surface, a child's boat, adventuring on the open sea. The fields stretch here and there, no real fences or pickets dividing the meadows. On the far bank there are cows grazing, lolling in the sun and feeding on the juicy grass. The faint sound of a bumblebee, busy and quick, proficiently collecting its troll and returning to the hive. The flowers sway in the breeze, wild, buttercups, daisies, a patchwork of white and yellow on the green carpet. Everywhere the hazy heat of summer.
Add to this a picnic blanket, and a couple of cars, parked in the shade of the trees. Four young children stand by the water, each daring the others to go in, to let the cool flow trickle over their hot sandaled feet. Their laughter and shrieks as they finally take the steps reaches the adults, who relax a little way back from the water. Some lie on the blanket, others have seats, organised, experienced picnickers, they recline in shorts and t-shirts, exclaiming at their milky legs having seen no sunshine during the long months beneath trousers. The older children strike up an energetic game of rounders, a clear example of their youth, running barefoot round the stumps. The call will soon come for lunch, and everyone vi1l gather round for a plastic camper's plate and a lucky dip sandwich, topped off by a sausage roll, and a packet of crisps.
In this manner I sent many days of my childhood summers. With my brother, my mum and dad, and members of what is a very large family, ranging in age from seventy to five. A morning would dawn, the sun would shine, my mother would smile and say, ‘Let's go to the river', and we'd pack the car full of blankets, sandwiches, and children. We would rumble into the little field by the river - discovered quite by accident, and unknown to this day what it is called - followed by several other carloads of relatives. It would be ‘last in the water is a scardie cat' and off we'd go, my cousins, my brother and I, not caring for changing our clothes, there was excitement to be had. It was a mission to get to the opposite side without letting the current push us flat on our backsides. There were nooks and crannies aplenty to be happened upon, damns to be built, fishing to be done, all of this before lunch. After that the occasional adult would stroll casually to the water's edge, feigning maturity, but secretly wanting nothing more than to be in the water with us, splashing about and playing.
I remember a particular day when my cousins and I were feeling mischievous. Having already lost one playmate to sunstroke I was taking no chances. We waded out into the river and made our way along, further and further, further than we had ever been before, letting the current push us, encourage us on our way. I was the youngest, and surrounded by boys, and feeling dignity bound to go on. And the fruits of our trail? Just another stretch of river, beyond a small bay of trees. But we thought it magnificent, a new and unchartered place. Here we were completely hidden from the responsible and watchful view of any adults, and it was as if we'd found paradise. Of course, soon after, we were discovered, and brought back to the well known and deemed safe area we had left.
If the water became boring, or it was decided the sun had become too harsh, we would settle our active bodies to a game of Frisbee, or football, that, saw us through the afternoon. When the sun began to droop in the sky, the way it will after a long day of shining warm and hard, we would reluctantly return to where a group of tired adults had spent the day gossiping and chatting about grown up things. They would say ‘it's time to go now' as they do, and we would all pile back into our separate cars. I would tumble into bed that night shattered.
Days like this are the kinds that lighten a dull moment when we think about them. They remind me of the days, pre-school, pre-exams, pre-boys, pre-stress and before all notion of growing up and becoming independent had ever entered my mind. The way we were as children, so carefree and innocent, and so easily amused. Everything could be turned into an adventure, and spending a day at a stretch of river - which on revisiting has lost so much of its attraction - was better fun than shopping, and going to the cinema, or the swimming pool. Now, having travelled, and shopped, and experienced the world of heartache that comes with a developing interest in members of the opposite sex, and the stress of continual exams and tests and homework, we can look back on days like this and smile.
