Sue Vincent’s #writephoto prompt this week is
Tricia Ashe led a quiet, rather mundane existence. Quiet because she was deaf. Mundane because that how things happened in Viceroy-on-Twistle. She rose at 6.30, had tea and put the lead on Sherpa the dog. Whatever the weather, Tricia and Sherpa set out for the moors no later than 7, setting a brisk if undemanding pace. Their route never varied, circling the small knoll before climbing Gavin’s Bottom, crossing the style at the top and heading back via Donald’s bakery.
This particular morning, in early December, Trica paused at the summit, stunned by the beautiful sunrise that appeared in front of her in a spectacular explosion of colours. It took her a moment to register the shaking ground, the apparent snow falling from a clear sky and shooting flames belching from the hills opposite for her to realise this was, indeed, a spectacular explosion.
Tricia might have flunked geography at school but she was fairly sure that the Yorkshire Moors were not considered to be active, volcanically. The snow began to lie in thick drifts across the heather – it took her another moment to recognise it as ash. It was wonderful.
Sherpa began to yowl, not that Tricia heard but she could see the signs. ‘What is it boy?’ She followed where Shera seemed to be pointing. The small Crescent Brook was steaming and appeared to be filling quickly as whatever it was poured down the slopes and headed in the direction of the village, still asleep and unaware of the doom hurtling in its direction.
Tricia set off at pace, her gumboots flapping as she tried to out run the molten torrent that she just knew was catching up with her. Sherpa, off his lead, was far ahead and might be able to warn the Donalds to leave their bakery, which straddled the Brook as it entered the village.
Tricia mused on the irony of her asking, only the day before, if Mr Donald might not turn his hand to something different from his usual split tin and large whites that were the staple of his baking.
‘What sort of bread does thee want, missus?’ he had asked gruffly.
Tricia held his gaze, reading his lips. ‘What about lava?’ she had suggested.
‘Humpf. Over me dead body,’ came the reply.
If she didn’t speed up, thought Tricia, Mr Donald might turn out to be both a good baker and unexpectedly prescient.