speed of light - travelling more than 300,000 kilometres every second. So, time and the speed of light, are inextricably entangled.
What had I said - that time only exists when we measure it. There is no problem to measure time on a macro scale of say, minutes or seconds, but as the interval gets infinitesimally smaller, we hit the quantum measurement paradox. There is a physical limit to how small a time can be measured, because there is a limit to how small a physical position measurement can be made. So time is really a position measurement, and doesn't exist of itself but only exists, like position or momentum, when we set out to measure it.
I was not sure that I had reached a real conclusion, but the stratagem had worked a treat. As I opened my eyes, the sun had risen well into the morning sky, and in the distance I could discern a figure moving about in the cottage garden. How long had I been lost in time? It must have been hours. I now no longer wanted time to fly. I was full of expectation of a hearty breakfast, and the faint thrill of meeting this half woman framed in the doorway of the cottage.
But the figure, moving about in front of the cottage, was not that of the half woman. A surly, unshaven face looked up as I approached. His weather-beaten face belied the black mane of hair, that was uncharacteristically long for his age. Was he an aging hippie, or one of those new age types? His clothes gave no indication. His blue shirt hung loosely over a pair of dirty corduroys. In his arms, he grasped a full bin-bag, and was heading towards the rear of the cottage, when my arrival caught his attention. For a brief moment, his eyes seemed to lock on me, as if he was sucking information from my body. I could feel his mind whirring, as he tried to evaluate my presence on the road, so early on this sunny morning. There was the countryman's suspicion of strangers, keeping almost a scowl on his face. I tried to soften the impact, by broadening my face into as friendly an aspect as I could. I did not like this unfriendly encounter at all. For some strange reason I felt threat, and I wanted to walk on and avoid possible confrontation. Maybe he sensed my fear and was compounding his aggressive stance. I plucked up the courage to utter a pleasant greeting, and ask about getting breakfast. Again he seemed just to stare, and finally after what seemed an age, during which I was becoming increasingly uncomfortable, he simply nodded towards the cottage door, at which I now noticed the half woman standing mutely. She was observing the small drama but had made no effort to intervene. It was as if she were just a disinterested, casual observer. My eyes caught hers and I tried to find some warmth, but they were revealing no emotion. She opened the bottom half of the door and gestured for me to enter. She receded into the background.
As I entered I was aware of eyes following my movements. The interior of the cottage was dark compared to the brightness of the morning light. It took my eyes a while to adjust. I relaxed a little, as the smell of freshly baked bread came from the kitchen. The door was slightly ajar but I couldn't see in. I chose a table by the small window where the early morning sun streamed in. The faded net curtains cast a dreamy shadow onto the flowery oilskin table cloth. I sat down quietly and waited.
My eyes were now fully used to the dim light in the room. I could make out the large open hearth, with its big cast iron grate. There were two nooks on either side, where you could sit on cold winter nights, to be close to the heat. The surrounds were done in a course brickwork, painted a deep glossy blue. The paint looked thick, as if it had been repainted each year, for hundreds of years. Here and there, it was flaking off and the colour underneath was as startling - rust red. I wished I'd had a camera to take a picture of the hearth, it was so full of colour and sense of history - times past. Over the hearth was a simple timber ledge, on which an old clock stood, amidst assorted cheap pottery and other trinkets. It was only then that I heard the tick-tock as the small pendulum went to and fro. There was no other sound, except for the occasional noise from the kitchen. I could almost hear my own breath. The room seemed to amplify sound and, as I looked up, I realised it was the height of the ceiling that gave a cavernous effect. The height gave the small room the feeling of being bigger. The creamy colour of the ceiling boards reflected a hazy light throughout the room. The more I took in of the space, the more I relaxed. I settled into the timber chair and let the baking smell whet my appetite, for by now, I realised I was ravenous.
As she emerged from the kitchen, I saw her whole body for the first time. She was wearing jeans, and her slim figure made her look much younger than I had originally thought. As she handed me a faded and slightly grotty menu, I noticed that her hand had not the roughness of the countrywoman. She stood there, as I quickly glanced at the hand-written list of offerings. With a finger I pointed to my choice. She just nodded, took back the menu and retreated into the kitchen. It was only when she had disappeared, that I was struck by the fact that no words had been exchanged. Again I began to feel a bit uneasy. This was not the warm island welcome I would have expected. I would engage with her when she returned with the food.
I heard the sound of the kitchen door open but I pretended not to notice. The smell of fried rashers had now joined the smell of baked bread. I was full of expectation. The tray of food was placed in front of me, not by the previous delicate hand, but by the callused hand of a man. I felt a mild tremor of shock, as he almost dumped the tray onto the oil cloth. I muttered a thanks and felt the hunger drain from me. I stared at the food for an instant, then slowly took up my knife and fork. I clasped them almost like defensive weapons. If he attacked me I would use them. I shivered. What rubbish I am thinking. This is not a Hitchcock movie. Get a grip - I chided myself. It must be the lack of food. I took a deep breath and tried to relax. The smell of the fry and the fresh brown bread, once again, whetted my appetite. The first bite unleashed the full extent of my hunger and I started to eat voraciously.
The man, who had retreated to a diagonally opposite table, was leafing through an old newspaper, but I knew he was observing me throughout. Now that I had food inside me, normal rational feelings resumed, and I felt embarrassed at my prior neurotic overreaction to the situation. As I looked at him now, I could see he was just an ordinary person, perhaps a tad suspicious, but then if I had a pretty wife in a remote location, I too might be a little protective. I drank the tea and the effect was even more calming. The world was again taking on a warmer hue. Outside I could see that the sun was higher in the sky and that the day was going to be a scorcher. I remarked on the weather to the man.
'Aye, it'll be another good one. This is the best summer we've had in years.' His voice was disarmingly soft, almost cultured. I was rapidly backtracking on my initial impressions of him. How could I have got it so wrong? There was no unfriendliness in that response.
'Have you been living here long then?' I ventured, feeling more at ease. He looked at me, his eyes again had a suspicious look. Maybe I shouldn't have asked a personal question. Some people treasure their personal space and don't allow strangers to overstep the mark.
'A fair while.' His response was final. He got up and took the tray, with its empty plates, from the table. He disappeared into the kitchen. I was left on my own again, for what seemed a very long time. The clock ticks paced out the slow retreat of the minutes. Finally fearing that no-one was ever going to return, I took out my wallet and counted out the precise amount for the bill. I left it on the table and quietly retreated to the door. As I closed the garden gate, I looked back and saw that the half woman framed in the doorway. I thought I heard her say something - but I could not be sure, as she disappeared back inside.
I walked at an easy pace along the road. My belly was full. I was well rested. The weather was fine. It was early morning. I had a prospect of a pleasant day ahead. I was feeling happy. The good feeling is hard to describe. Writers rarely succeed in capturing the delight of happiness. They are adept at sculpting the agonies of tragedy. Nature seems to give us greater gifts at describing the bad and the ugly. Perhaps this is a survival trait. There was probably little opportunity in evolution, for the development of happiness
communication, when the norm of existence was one of constant hunger and potential dangers. It's a pity really. The human being, as a result, looks more to the negative than the positive. We are basically a despondent species, with moments of levity, usually drug induced, where the narcotic or alcohol lowers our innate sense of defence and imminent danger.
But now, for a change, I felt one of those rare moments of light heartedness. There was no hunger, and I felt no danger on this island road. I sat on a stone wall, facing the fields, falling away down to the sea. The grey outlines of the irregular walls formed mini-frames, enclosing what seemed a pointless field of barren stone outcrops, interspersed by small carpets of lemon green grass. It was these patches of grass that were being preserved, but there was no sign of sheep or other livestock grazing them. Maybe the farming community of the island had given up on the toiling of the land, and everything was imported from the mainland. The global economy even stretched this far, to the remote edges of the Atlantic ocean, destroying a culture but, at the same time,