The Wedding Cake Tree by Melanie Hudson

village the path veered before turning in the right direction. I knew that if I carried on, straight down at a right angle to the side of the hill, then that would be the quickest way back – wouldn’t it? I remembered Alasdair’s lecture regarding contouring, but guessed the concept would only apply going up a hill, not down. I reckoned it would take about half an hour to get back to the hotel if I took the direct route. My hands felt brutally cold, even though they were tucked into Alasdair’s oversized sleeves.
    Decision made : direct route.
    Before too long my path was blocked by a stone wall – not surprising considering my location. Squinting through the mist, I peered down the length of the wall for any sign of a gate or a stile. There wasn’t one. My only option was to climb over. The stone felt like wet sandpaper but it was relatively easy to scale. The next field was steep and I was elated to be losing height rapidly. I started to run. Another wall – over – another steep field, and so my rapid descent down the hill continued. I hit the second plateau within ten minutes of leaving the path and realised I could just about make out the village in the distance – a dim light from a cottage window appeared like a beacon through the low cloud and rain.
    The light ning was frighteningly close though, and a decision had to be made; find myself in the middle of an open field in a storm, or hanker down. I tried to remember a TV programme I had seen recently about thunderstorms. Crouch down beside a stone wall? Was that what I should do?
    With my body now completely soaked, I carried on. I couldn’t believe how cold I was. It was spring, and yet I felt like I’d been shut in the freezer. Only my feet were warm and dry.
    I sprinted across the fields as if chased by a pack of wolves. The mist closed in again and I could no longer see more than ten feet in front of me. My right foot became caught in a rabbit hole and I fell forwards, landing hard on the sodden grass; a sharp pain darted up my wrist. With no time to lick my wounds, I jumped up and carried on running, but before too long my path was blocked by another wall. I decided to push on – up and over. Although it was easy enough to gain a foothold in the stone, I only had one good hand to steady me – my other wrist was still throbbing from the fall – so I gritted my teeth and hurled myself up, allowing my legs to take all of the strain. I managed to throw one leg over the top and twisted my body to face the wall on the other side. Relief washed over me as my foot touched the earth on the other side, but as I turned to continue my run down the hill, I stopped, petrified.
    On turning I noticed a dilapidated barn; a fraction of a second later I caught sight of an enormous ram, furious at being disturbed from his shelter. He postulated aggressively, lowered his head to display his horns, and snorted whilst grinding his hooves.
    W ith my back to the wall I stood, frozen; unable to act, unable to think.
    The ram edged clo ser. It would be suicide to just stand there, but he would be impossible to out-run. Trapped, I edged a foot backwards to try and gain a hold in the stone behind me. Maybe I could clamber back up the wall?
    A voice cried out from the mist.
    ‘Grace! Don’t move unless he does. Stay still.’
    It was Alasdair . Thank God.
    What happ ened next was both a blur and a miracle. Alasdair flung me over his shoulder and hurled me – albeit as gently as possible given the circumstances – back over the wall. I landed on my injured wrist and cried out in pain.
    T he falling rain had geared up to something like an Indian monsoon. Lightning pierced the earth around the valley at increasingly regular intervals while the acoustics of the Dale made the claps of thunder horrifyingly loud. I huddled with my back against the wall. Alasdair also crouched low and hurried to unclip his rucksack.
    H e strapped on a head-torch and took out the orange plastic sack