The Stone of Lamfedios

The Stone of Lamfedios 2

- 2 -

 Gemma was tired.

 The walk across the Moor seemed strenuous after several similar days. She felt a mixture of relief and sadness that this was the last day of the Easter holiday. Her parents’ idea of a break meant lots of walking, usually up at least one very steep hill. But it had been quiet, and she had been free to daydream.

 The day had not been without its moments of interest.

 She had now decided that her father had a special gift. When it came to footpaths he had a way of seeing things differently to every one else. They were forever getting lost. It was almost as if wide, well trodden footpaths became invisible to him. He would confidently lead the family on faint sheep paths that would end in bogs or dangerous, slippery paths along the edge of a cliff.

 Today was typical. 'We'll follow the old Abbots Way', he'd announced over breakfast. 'It'll be easy, fairly flat and lots of stone crosses to follow.'

 After the third stone cross and a hasty map consultation the family had been led along a very peaty and well worn track to inspect and pose for yet another boring photo, by yet another group of lichen encrusted standing stones. No one had the heart or the energy to tell him that they would rather have had a cream tea and a stone throwing competition by the river side tea house they had passed on the way to the car park.

 'Now you know that your father needs to research his book.' This, from her mother had set the tone for the week.

 Darren was Gemma's younger brother by two years. At ten he already had the reputation for being the complaining one of the pair. 'Dad was being spoiled rotten at every one else's' expense.' He had often chuntered.

 But since Mr. Morgan's redundancy, Mrs. Morgan had encouraged her husband in several superficial projects. She said that it was so he could earn a decent living and she could give up the teaching job she so hated. In reality Gemma remembered the arguments. No longer being the main breadwinner had been hard on her father. Her mother was shrewd. She was saving his self confidence and their marriage.

 As they walked on Gemma had picked up some small fragments of flint from the churned up peat. 'Those are chippings from the Early Bronze Age,' her father said looking over her shoulder. 'This whole moor land was part of an extensive forest several thousand years ago. The flints were used for arrow heads, spears and tools. These are probably the bits that were chipped off.'

 'Surprising what you can pick up from a cheap guide book.' mumbled Darren, reminding Gemma how he had been so bored when his father had read out all this, apparently useless, information in the caravan two nights before. He then rushed ahead and became busy, scrabbling in the dirt determined to find a real spear.

 His appetite for prehistoric monuments still unquenched, Mr. Morgan decided that there was one final Menheir and stone row that they must visit as they were so close. But as there wasn't a marked path they had better keep near the stream.

 'First find your stream,' thought Gemma. She looked at a bleak moor land landscape, where sparse grass poked above a layer of sheep-cropped heather, with very few distinctive landmarks.

 Darren soon found it, or rather something in it, which he described together with a range of very unsavoury sound effects. 'Cor look at this sheep. It's well dead. You can see its bones and guts and it doesn't half stink.'

 'Come away from it Darren!' Mrs Morgan yelled. 'You'll catch something nasty.'

 'That's why you must never drink from any of these streams without boiling the water first,' said their father.