Brief Encounter

We spent most of last week in Bristol, as my partner had to take part in the viva voce interrogation of a PhD candidate there. Unfortunately for me, this coincided with not one but two "named storms", Isha and Jocelyn, so I spent much of the time admiring the view through the streaming rain being flung against our fourth-floor flat's window with surprising violence. So when the weather cleared up on Wednesday, I was keen to get out.

The extensive green area at the top of the Avon Gorge known as Clifton Downs is conveniently nearby, so that was where I headed. The atmosphere was still pretty waterlogged, so everything beyond a hundred yards or so was softened into a mist, which is not ideal for photographic purposes, mine anyway, but you work with what you're given. Unless, of course, it's an unwanted gift: Wednesday afternoons are traditionally devoted to "games" at British schools and universities, so the Downs get temporarily converted into a dozen or so football pitches where muddied oafs (oaves?) can chase balls and shout abuse at each other. It's very lively, but I lost interest in all that when I left school, and it's just not my thing; I don't even pretend to follow any football team, despite living among fervid Saints fans. But, running down through the western cliff of Clifton Downs, all the way down to the Portway 300 feet below, is a narrow rocky ravine once known as Walcombe Slade but now called Goat Gully, for the simple reason that it is inhabited by a small herd of goats, introduced in 2011. I decided to head there instead.

Goat Gully makes a remarkable contrast to the grassy plain of the Downs, which – even on non-Wednesdays – is always busy with runners, dog-walkers, and groups doing various outdoor exercise routines. You pass into a bit of woodland, through a narrow barrier gate, and suddenly you're in a different world: in summer, when the rock has been absorbing sunlight all morning, it can feel as if you were somewhere like the Dordogne: hot, scrubby, rocky, and precipitously steep. I love it, not least because it has that magic combination of elevation, voluminous void, and a spectacular view, plus surprisingly few people ever seem to go there, so it's always peaceful. For obvious, goat-related reasons, dogs are banned.

The misty, soft light meant it was clearly not going to be a great day for photography, so after clambering around for a bit I ended up standing on a rocky edge near the venerable rockslide, polished smooth by the backsides of many generations of Bristol's children, back when "children" were still a species often spotted in flocks playing out of doors, a rarity now. Like many people inclined towards visual art, I enjoy just gazing in a contemplative, switched-off mood which, paradoxically, seems to make one more, not less aware of what is going on around, especially at the periphery. I imagine our distant ancestors on the grassy plains of Africa entered a similar state of all-around unfocussed watchfulness as they foraged for roots and berries, or discussed the advantages of bipedalism. 

So it was no surprise that a movement off to my left interrupted my reverie. Now, there may no longer be large predators like wolves in these parts, but their human counterpart is not unknown, and there is a particular silhouette – narrow track-suit bottoms and dark hoodies – and a particular purposeful slouch that can trigger a mild alarm, particularly when three such silhouettes are heading towards you, when standing on the edge of a steep rocky drop.

But the closer they came, the more I relaxed. It was late afternoon, and these young lads were clearly coming off some labouring job – they were covered in what looked like plaster dust and shreds of paper – for a crafty spliff or a couple of beers and a laugh before heading home. It was also clear they realised they had nothing to fear from me: in the old formula, you can take the boy out of the tribe, but you can't take the tribe out of the boy. Fifty years may have passed since I was their age, but it seems you acquire some indelible markers in those youthful years. Perhaps it's the way I stand, perhaps it's the clothes I wear. Whatever, they sidled up in a friendly way – I was clearly standing in their favoured spot – and we began a companionable chat, gazing down towards the Suspension Bridge, only half visible in the mist.

After a while I decided I needed to head back, and leave them to their fun. But before I went, I said, "Listen, guys, do you want to know a secret?" And this is what I said, in spirit, but perhaps not entirely in these words:

You don't know it now, but these are the best years. You've got work, but no real responsibilities, and nothing to spend your money on beyond whatever fun and mischief you've got lined up for the coming weekend. You've got good friends – I bet you've known each other for years – and you're having adventures you'll remember for the rest of your life. Sure, if you're lucky sometime you'll meet a girl, settle down, have kids, maybe even start your own business and buy a house, and that will all be great, but when, like me, you're a few weeks away from turning seventy, it's these days that will start coming back to haunt you, and you'll wonder why you can't go back to the way it was at the beginning, when everything and anything was possible, and life was still your best friend. So, enjoy it now, and maybe in fifty years or so one of you will come up here again for old times' sake, sit on the edge and remember your old friends and the stuff you got up to, and perhaps even recall how, long ago, some white-haired geezer told you that this was how it was going to be.

And, to my enormous gratification, not one of them laughed as I walked away. Job done! And I didn't even tell them the thing about shooting the albatross...