The bus journey

To my seven year old eyes the bus seems all powerful; like some great elephant lumbering its way through a heard of wildebeest. Then we reach the foot of the steep hill rising before us and suddenly it isn’t that big anymore. The bus almost stops at the foot of the great hill as if gathering itself; preparing for the assault.
Beyond the window the scenery is no longer a blur; I can see the uncurious faces of the sheep staring back at me from the field. Then we start up the winding road, the laboured groans and gasps of the bus wash over me; an old asthmatic man trudging determinedly. The faint odour of the country; a cacophony of animal dung and growing things is lost in the acrid stench of diesel from the battling engine.
This is always the time of excitement; will the great beast make it to the top? What will happen if it doesn’t? Will we roll back down the hill only to try again or will we just stop, stranded twixt top and bottom with only the sheep for company?
The groans of the bus are almost screams of protest now and I can even taste the diesel fumes but we keep moving; slower than even I could walk it.
On the seat in front my brother bounces up and down, impatient for the journey to end. Sitting next to him my father is oblivious; his hands gripping the bar on the top of the seat in front. I can just make out the all too seldom seen smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. Neither I nor my brother was ever a recipient of that smile it was reserved only for Cinderford.