Pilters' Hill

Word Count = 1000 words

This sweet November tale begins on a nicely secluded hill in Wales. Unremarkable at first glance, this hill is just like all others surrounding it – green, and tree lined, with trails of white cloud-like creatures that move towards the best feeding grounds, with the occasional tractor chugging along it. The sun rises in a fiery orange ball to the east of the hill, and sets in a mirage of reds, golds and purples to its west.

Yet, contrary to popular description, this hill holds within its greenery more than just sheep, rocks and trees. Valuable memories and traditions for many people across the generations are held there, suspended within the atmosphere around it. It also shares with visitors some beautiful scenery, and at it’s very uppermost summit sits a grand oak tree, planted hundreds of years ago in honour of a man who’s presence in the village was greatly appreciated – Jacob Pilters, a decidedly un-Welsh name. That is how Pilters’ Hill came to be among local knowledge.

It was Pilters’ Hill that May Morter and Sean Jones found themselves ascending one November morning – the 11th of November, 2011, with a wicker basket of food, cutlery and blankets, and two light raincoats folded haphazardly into it, just in case.

“If it rains now...” May began as they started the climb.

“Always the moaner!”

It might have sounded like the beginnings of an argument had Sean not been laughing his deep, trombone-chortle.

“So not true,” May replied indignantly.

He laughed again, then took her hand to help her up a particularly steep bit. May glanced upwards, watching the grey clouds tumble across one another, trying to cover the whole sky in an impenetrable blanket. Slightly worried, she allowed her boyfriend to pull her up the steep bank.

“We’re going to get soaked!”

Sean threw his arms into the air, grinning wildly. “That’s part of the fun!”

May inclined her head towards him, watching him curiously. Spontaneous picnics on Pilters’ Hill were not the kind of thing that were common to Sean Jones. He was pragmatic, sensible and practical. Picnicking in the rain on a hill did not sound like any of those things. Shaking her head, May found herself grinning, and followed him up the hill, through the wild bracken and gorse bushes.

Soon enough he found that he could not keep up the pace that he had started the climb with, and ended up trailing behind May as she plunged ahead, legs stretching out in front of her as she took the hill with ease. As he always was when they went mountain walking, Sean was surprised. She was nimble, and more at ease walking up a mountain than she was running on a flat surface.

“Come on slow coach!” she laughed.

“I’m carrying the basket missy!” he groaned.

“Now who’s the moaner?” she winked down at him, then turned back and carried on climbing.

The view was one that they had both seen countless times, yet it never grew boring. They could see the entirety of Dyffryn Peris (Peris Valley in English) spread out below them in a patchwork pattern, broken up by unkempt hedgerows and patches of trees arching around the floodplain. Llyn Peris (Lake Peris) sat at the bottom of the U-shaped valley, its murky surface reflecting the grey sky, a deep, seemingly bottomless pool of grey. Three villages settled on its banks, and the Afon Lleu snaked it’s way between the surrounding hills to rush into the eastern side of the lake. Both May and Sean smiled as they reached Pitlers’ Oak Tree, sinking down into the grass and browning bracken to catch their breath and admire the scene below them.

“Can you see our house?” he demanded.

May snorted. “We do this every time we come here!”

“Which isn’t very often anymore!” he insisted. “Come on, first to spot our house.”

Obediently, May stood and crossed the short distance to the edge of the summit. It didn’t take her long to adjust her eyes to the distance, to peer amongst the country cottages that sat back at a neat, sensible distance from the lake, on a bank to protect them from flooding. Their little cottage, in the village of Llanlleu, was the fourth from the end, next to the cottage with the Welsh flag waving proudly in the garden.

“There!” she cried triumphantly, whizzing around.

She gasped.

Sean was behind her, kneeling in the short grass, his eyes fixed on her face. Her wonderful face... he thought to himself. May stared at him, her heart beating hard in her chest. Was this what she thought it was...?

“May Morter,” began Sean, one hand resting in his jacket pocket, “I think you already know what I’m about to say to you. I’ve been planning this moment for ages, and seeing you standing in front of me like that is just wonderful. May...I love you so much. I love the life that we have together, and I want that to go on, forever. I never want to be without it, and I don’t want it to ever change.”

He paused, and she watched him, her eyes wide, hair blowing around her face in the autumn breeze, her heart feeling as though it would bounce out of her at any moment. Sean’s hand emerged from his pocket, and with it came a small, square, red velvet box. As tears began to form in her eyes, May found that she was smiling. Smiling so very wide...

“May? Will you marry me?” Sean asked her sincerely, and opened the box to reveal a delicate silver ring, with three small diamonds the band.

As he stood, May went and threw her arms around his neck.

“Of course I will!” she cried into the wind and the happy couple proceeded to kiss with the lake shimmering in the background as the clouds began to break and the rain began to fall in big, fat droplets. It was exactly eleven minutes past eleven...