Author: Neale Bayly

The air feels heavy from the recent rain, as if there is nowhere left for all the moisture to go. The saturated path is soft and spongy underfoot, and tree limbs hang heavy from the weight of the water drops. Overhead, black threatening clouds hang oppressively low, matching the darkness in my soul. It’s cool, not cold, but I shiver as I climb up into the dark, silent woods, alone with my thoughts. Just two weeks out of riding through the war in Ukraine for the last five weeks, yet I haven’t made it back yet.
Suddenly, a young dog comes racing around the corner, the first sign of life I’ve seen as even the birds seem to have stayed home today. Clearly inquisitive, but wary, he circles me as his owner comes into view. The quintessential Scottish dog walker- wax cotton rain jacket and rubber boots, the practical choice for these conditions. He has a shock of dark hair, a thick goatee beard covering his face and after calling his dog, we exchange pleasantries. Actually, we enter into a bizarre conversation that just seems to get stranger. At first, I think we must have met the year before, the way he greets me, so I ask how his dog has been doing. He tells me he only just got him, hence his untrained behavior. These disconnected exchanges continue as I conclude that we haven’t met before. Then he asks me a question that leaves me as stunned as I am bewildered.
“How’s the Mirage doing?”