Section 89 is resting briefly on the shoulders of giants
Nsansa wiped her brow with a sense of desperation. Grabbing the back of his coat she gasped, “Pull Vernon pull.”
As they struggled up the hill in this comical fashion Vernon was mortified when a runner overtook them at speed. He was fit and fast and would be, very soon, over the hill Vernon was forcing Nsansa to climb.
When they arrived at the brow of the hill the view was breath-taking. Not craggy, in the manner perhaps of the Himalayas or the Rockies, but undulating as if they were observing the recumbent forms of primordial giants clad in ancient furs. The reservoirs beneath them mirrored the restless sky creating a stirring contrast with the stillness of the contours around them, their movement almost lent to the hills the rhythmic breathing of sleeping forms. Vernon stood bewitched.
“Come on kutumpa, race you to the bottom” Nsansa yelled charging down the grassy slopes, breaking the spell. And so the pattern repeated itself for twelve weary delightful theatrical miles. Hurrah for Scotland, Vernon thought, entranced.