A group adventure walking through the Yorkshire Wolds, soft chalk hills unobtrusive to sky, nation.

The theme of the first day was unity and disunity.
The group met a large road; a road too large to cross, cars running East and West all at once. There were those who thought the bridge over the road far in the distance was the obvious solution, even though our path was due to continue North wihtout any such detours.
And there were those who were impatient. Impetulently, in a lull in traffic, they crossed the road; they found it easy to cross, they revelled in how easy it had been.
They thought the others would follow, they thought this was the best method of persuasion. The others walked to the bridge.
A flashback to childhood arguments flared up five seconds into a fleeting phone call between me and my bridge-headed brother. Enraged frustration flared so fiercly that the phone call no longer seemed possible, did not last long enough to allow communication of the others' plan, a plan for a short-cut from the other side of the far-away bridge to a later point in the path we had been following, following in unity.
Disunity followed; followed both forks at once, followed us waiting for their return from the bridge to the true path, followed them not returning to us from the bridge on their new path. The true impass the first phone call, fixed assertions, fuming siblings; the true bridge the second phone call, the gentle malleability of the new mediators, with their mutable meandering towards a new and mutually reached meeting point.
Now we all meander.

The theme of the second day was balance.
The group was in harmony. It rejoiced in its unity because it was no longer innocent . It sought to further characterise itself, allotting roles to its members and themes to its days. Nick became the shepherd of the group, and cheif in charge of optimism. Dick, the risk and safety officer, from whom permission for any proposed venture must be obtained. Saffron, the magical elf, in charge of stamping Dick's documents. Charlie, the philosopher king, ready to balance the pragmatism of the safety officer. Anne, chief in charge of maintaining diversity within unity. Sophia, the reader of maps. Lisa, the writer of speeches for Anne, was chief in charge of public relations for all members of the group. And finally, Rich, the planner, became known as god.
The group had joked of making a social contract. This seemed to be it.

The themes of the third day were ups-and-downs, formlessness and death.
Heavy sky fell on trudging feet.
As the group rolled on, flat to the ground, thick clouds pressed down, and rolling hills pushed them up towards and wrenched them away again, they found a dizzy cycle.
Death on the sides of the roads.
As they all saw it, crowded round it, peered down on it, the philosopher king diagnosed: death on the ground.
A special detour to a village with a highly spoken-of tearoom, the group peered through the gap between the sky and the ground towards the village, the stop, the coffee, the rest, the warm aroma. But the tearoom was closed, the village useless. Only a damp bench and a lovesick cockeral. Instead of a triumphant 'cock-a-doodle-doo', the dying note of 'cock-a-uhhhhh' expressed: "Without you, I am... no. To me, you are... no. I compare thee to a summer's... no, no good. I wish... no. You... oh god," and so on. But after the village had passed, a released trigger propelled clouds into receding sky!
After the village, new vigour expelled mud clogged in throat and eyes!
After, light voices pattered on the ground, dipped in and out of dappled sounds.
They rushed ahead; we called them back.
They stopped at a gate to see who would go first, watched and waited and on they burst.
They tripped over each other; we let them.
After, light voices at our feet lay scattered around, slid over each other to rest and
meander.
This was the first day that Lisa fell over with laughter. The fall was not dramatic; it was a topple. Lisa toppled over with laughter.
The grass didn't mind; it had never seen anything quite like it. It replayed it to itself: the voice and the words and the way they had weaved their way into her walking path; the stop and the pause and the slow, gentle; the loss of control and the long, drawn out; the others turning around and still she hadn't quite; and then there she was.

The themes of the fourth day were repetition, crossing boundaries, aches and cakes, grumpiness


The theme of the fifth day was reevaluation, life and ways of being.
The group reached its collective climax. The themes from the previous days were seen in new lights, and a set of maxims were made: sleep in squalour, dine in company, walk slowly, sit quietly, and die alone like a dog.
This was the day that Sophia fell over. It was dramatic; a collapse. Earlier in the day, she had found how to walk in the land rather than on flat gridded paper, had become indifferent to the map she had clutched, had pretended not to hear when they asked who would be taking it, had watched how the others approached the role, had let it go. But now, walking with the chalk grass hedge soil: the sudden sight of a blank hole, a swift silent seeping into no role. The group pored over this stillness on the ground, poured into it a new role, and when she was convinced, she got up.

The theme of the last day was fine, final.