Level Four: Part One: 'Michael' by Andrew Shephard

After breakfast on the third day, we gather around the metal tables and chairs outside of the hotel. Seven middle-aged walkers, one fit leader, and me. No one is sitting down. The chairs are spotted with raindrops from an early shower. My shorts and tee-shirt are still damp from yesterday’s twelve wet miles, but it’s my feet and shoes that bother me more. Natasha, our leader, makes the route sound interesting. She warns of lung-busting ascents, sharp rocks, and sections where there is no clear path. She tells us we will cope with the extra distance; we are a good group. Good in what way exactly?

“It’s a harder walk today, Level Four. Make sure you have plenty of water. It will get hot. I mean hot. There will be no willages until the end. We won’t see single person, unless hunting or collecting honey. The locals don’t walk unless car is broken.”

“Hunting? Not with guns?” One of the vegetarians, Diana I think.

“Shotguns, yes.”

“How horrible. What do they kill?”

“Anything. Wild boar, snakes, small birds. They can shoot whatever they like, it’s private land. But don’t worry; they don’t mind you walking through the estate. Everyone very friendly. But don’t run away if you hear gunshots. He might think you’re a deer.” Everyone laughs. But you could mistake Diana for a deer. If she’s a deer, what animal are the others? I will decide while I walk. I have found walking all day gives me ideas for my game.

I haven’t asked Natasha where she’s from. Greece, Romania? Somewhere with hills but no jobs, obviously. She’s Lycra fit and a good listener, too, but tells us nothing about herself. Everyone wants their turn talking to teacher while we walk. There’s one couple who spend more time talking to Natasha than they do to each other.

Jemma and Clive. The couple. I know their names because they’re in the room next to mine. Nightmare, literally. They’re polite to each other during the day but three glasses into the free wine at dinner they start arguing. Their rows wake me up. I hear them swearing, fighting, crying. Some holiday they’re having.

I ask our leader and carrier of the first-aid kit to take a look at my blisters. I wipe a seat dry with my hand and take off my trainers. She squats down and stares at my toes. She raises one foot to look at the sole. She shakes her head, swishing her mane over my feet.

“Oh, my poor boy. Bad. You should read the brochure. It says everywhere, Level Four, experienced only. Boots. Trainers not good.”  Who reads brochures? I booked on-line, a last minute thing. I was in danger of disappearing into cyberspace and had to step back into a real world. It was sunny and flat on the tour company website. Natasha says I should spend the day in the village and take care of my blisters when the pharmacy opens at ten or eleven.

No way! I don’t give in that easily. I know about Level Four. The game I’m working on goes up to Seven. The coding gets well complex after level three. I’ve shown the game to the others on my phone, but they’re not interested, only Natasha. She got it right away.

The rain stops and the sun comes out. It’s hot, like Natasha said. It’s steep, like Natasha said. Every step for the first two hours is agony, but then I’m past feeling pain. We have lunch on a ridge blasted by a hot wind. We start to descend, winding slowly through a wood. Diana catches up with Natasha and me. She’s red in the face and breathing heavily.

“How much further is it?”

“Depends how fast you walk. One hour, two probably.”

“Did you see the sign, Natasha? The one in the tree. It doesn’t mean hunting, does it?”

“Show me.”

We walk back fifty yards where the rest of the group are in a circle debating the sign. Natasha puts down her rucksack and announces a drinks break. She rummages through her bag and pulls out her walking notes. I point my camera at the sign. It doesn’t translate. I try Wikipedia, but there’s no wi-fi, 3G, or phone signal. Natasha finds the place in the notes and starts to laugh.

“Oh yes, bees. We must divert to avoid the hives. We can rejoin the path further down.” Natasha points a teacher’s finger counting the group.

“Why only seven?” We look at each other to compute the missing walker.

Even Jemma hasn’t noticed, but then she does. “Has anyone seen Clive?”