2012 First Story writing competition results

Walkopedia is proud to announce the results of its 2012 First Story writing competition, for the best pieces about or involving a walk written by children participating in the fantastic First Story project.

The excellent First Story charity was set up to nurture and inspire creativity, literacy and talent in British schools. See www.firststory.org.uk.

This was a difficult decision as a result of the high quality of our shortlist, and we congratulate all the shortlisted writers for their achievements.

The winner of our £200 prize is Hannah Bartley for her beautifully crafted, sensitive A Solitary Walk in the Snow. We struggled between Rachel Moody's Blackberries and Maxine Hendy's White Horse Hill, both strong and imaginative pieces, but White Horse Hill just won the £100 second prize. We are, however, awarding Rachel an additional £50 runner's up prize to reflect the quality of her entry.

We also wanted to make special honourable mention of two very imaginative pieces, Ismail Fisher's Seeking Satisfaction and Fatima Sharif's A Walk to a New Beginning.

Our congratulations to all the shortlisted entries.

The winning entries are set out below.

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A Solitary Walk in the Snow
by Hannah Bartley

“The first fall of snow is not only an event, it is a magical event.

You go to bed in one kind of world and wake up in another quite different,

and if this is not enchantment then where is it to be found?”

J.B. Priestly

She walked through a new world that January evening, a world transformed into a hundred different shades of white, some so bright they made the sky above look dingy and grey. The road, broken with potholes and cracked from years of relentless use, was a smooth, seamless carpet of white. Even the kerb was invisible. Everything was undisturbed and whole.

The late afternoon sun hung low in the sky, weak and distant, a pearl- white orb that burned faintly through a steely barrier of clouds so bleak and heavy they looked as if they might drop from the sky at any moment. It was extraordinary how something so dull and colourless could nevertheless produce an effect so beautiful and strange. In the distance, the village of Culham lay buried under a picturesque blanket of whiteness.

As she slipped and skidded her way through the deep channels in the path, she looked up and caught a flash of red and green: a pheasant was crossing the road, a pheasant that seemed to have come from another world, one of fire and warmth and everlasting sunlight. She watched as it paused for a moment to peck at something, then hopped away. Later, she found its tracks in the snow, a line of tiny prints disappearing into the hidden universe of leaves and ice on the far side of the road.

She trudged on through the eerie silence, crossing abandoned fields of frozen mud. The houses came to an end, the last few buildings laden with icicles clustered at the windowsills and the overhanging edges of the thatched roofs. She had only ever read about icicles before, and had never seen them in this quantity. They looked as if they had been plucked out of a fairytale, each one dwindling to a pinpoint and releasing a haunting tune when the wind brushed up against them.

The night was starting to close in now, spreading across the patchwork of fields and trees. She could feel the temperature beginning to drop, the wind becoming icy, and the snow turning hard and brittle underfoot. The snow shimmered in the moonlight, a smooth expanse of glitter and diamonds.

She had circled the outskirts of the village by now and was walking past the river. Earlier, she'd been able to hear the hum of traffic on the main road leading into Abingdon, but here, in the fields, the silence was absolute and she realised how comforting the sound of the traffic had been: it reassured her she was not alone.

She could not believe how much colder it had become so quickly - and she was still at least twenty minutes from the village. Maybe it was nature's way of telling her that you must never let your guard down when out in the snow, reminding her how rapidly the cold will creep up on you if you're not paying attention.

But then she came over the crest of the hill and she could see the gate now and knew where she was. This part of her route was achingly familiar, even in darkness. The air was icy cold and stuck to her skin as she fought with the frozen catch. Finally, the catch lifted and the gate swung open, its creak magnified in the surrounding quiet. But in her sudden eagerness to reach home, she failed to see the tree root sticking out of the ground. Her feet flew out from under her and she fell forwards, rolling towards the river for a moment before a tree halted her fall. She lay still for a moment, looking up at the moon shining through the canopy of branches.

Eventually, shakily, she picked herself up and set off again. When she reached the road, she quickened her pace, even though her leg was hurting badly. She didn’t slow down until she rounded the corner and saw the yellow lights of her home, shining brightly through the blackness.

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White Horse Hill
by Maxine Hendy

After the putrid stench inside the bus, the hot summer air hits me like a brick wall.

"Sunscreen! Now!” yell the teachers.

I slip of my cumbersome backpack and rummage around, eventually digging out a new tube of SPF 50, courtesy of my mum’s paranoia. I skim a little over my arms and legs, then stuff the tube back in my bag. The famous White Horse we have come all this way to see is clearly signposted up the hill, accompanied by sketches, pictures and explanations. At the sight of the hill I feel my heart drop. The teachers’ faces show that they weren’t expecting such a climb either, but they start the walk, huffing and red-faced.

"White Horse Hill dates from the Iron Age, and Dragon Hill may be even older!" exclaims another over-excited sign. But there is a part of me somewhere that is imagining a stone-aged girl, just like me, trudging up this same hill and looking up at this same sun that is currently beating down on my sweaty back.

The hill’s uneven tip wriggles away miles into the distance, and the worksheet in my sticky hand shows me a picture of its other side: a rising mound surrounded by a sea of dandelions and fenced in by a tapestry of green fields. I run up to catch up with my friends who are marching up the hill faster than I would like.

“Isn’t it stupid? Getting us to climb the hill just to fill in a worksheet?” moans one of them, and we all groan in synchronised agreement, even though I can see a tall boy just behind our group holding an expensive looking camera, who appears to be enjoying the view. I slip back to walk next to him.

“I mean, they already put a picture on the worksheet!” I hear the girl continuing to complain ahead of me, but all my attention is focused on the boy next to me.

“Hi,” I huff.

He murmurs a “hello” back, but he is too concentrated on the view through his huge black camera for small talk.

“Beautiful view, isn’t it?”

He looks at me properly for the first time and nods, a smile on his face. He runs his fingers through his hair before replying.

“ I’ve never seen anything like it,” he says, and I can’t help smiling back in agreement.

Despite the ferocity of the climb, the view is worth it. We continue to plod on in a companionable silence until I can no longer keep up with his excited pace. I allow myself to fall behind, joining the group of out-of-breath stragglers at the back. We exchange small talk for a while, but the climb gets steeper, soon putting an end to that. Looking back, or rather down, it seems we have made no progress, so I look up instead, at a small copse of trees maybe half a mile off, and promise myself a rest once I get that far.

The copse is cool and light and refreshing, wonderfully refreshing after the hot, humid atmosphere of the ancient hill. A huge oak tree towers above me. I reach up and my fingers trail on the ivy, following the beautiful climb up the old tree. I wish that I could lose myself in this forest. I could stay here forever, in the ferns and the young ash trees and the long, fine grass, dappled with light and dark and coated with the shadows that are almost the substance of nightmares. Looking back I see a field of long, fine grass. If I lay down in it, the grass would be high enough to hide me, high enough to grow around me and bury me and keep me there forever, where I could never be found. Ahead of me is the end of the forest and beyond it I can see the other students and the teachers, who at this moment must be starting to wonder where I am. Their calls echo in my ears, rebounding against the sounds of the forest: the whispers of forgotten secrets from the ash trees; the chorus of waxwings and kittiwakes and other birds whose names I don't know. These birds have been singing their songs for generation, before my people even walked the earth. Once again I see the stone-age girl. She is lean and walks on the balls of her bare feet, clothed in a fur sack. Her features are strong and defined: a broad nose, wide lips and big eyes, blackened from lack of sleep. She climbs the slope with an ease and grace I lack entirely. I watch her walk behind a tree and out of my mind.

Dried leaves crackle and crumble under my feet and I crush them to dust. I walk forward, heel-toe-heel-toe as my mother taught me, once upon a lifetime ago. Each breath brings the scents of wildflowers: milkwort and bellflower, harebell and yellow rattle. The earthy smell of churned dirt lingers in my body. I look out at the new trees that have have been planted beyond the wood. Four hundred new ash trees, planted just three years ago. Beyond the trees I can see the boys, laughing and pushing each other, and a group of girls behind them, studiously taking notes, and behind them the stragglers, too out-of-breath to do anything much. I don’t want to leave this place, or have to pretend any more, but I know they can see me now.

I turn towards them and wave.

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Blackberries
by Rachel Moody

Through the kissing gate we go, laughing and chatting. My parents pretend to kiss, much to the amusement of my brothers, who yell and try to pull them apart. I trail behind with my youngest brother, Caleb, pulling on my hand and we go last through the gate. I jump over the nettles that have crept onto the path from the tangled undergrowth that surrounds it, and suddenly notice the glistening, black, knobbly berries nestling in the dangerous spikes of the brambles that fill the bushes on either side of the path. Oliver and Ethan race towards them yelling, “Blackberries,” in those loud, over- the-top voices that all young boys seem to possess. I drop Caleb’s hand and run after them, scooping the berries up and shovelling them into my mouth. Their tangy sweetness fills me with pleasure. The taste is so much more vibrant than blackberries at home and reminds me how exciting new places are. I reach up higher, to the very top of the bush, where the last blackberries remain, and scoop up a few more. One of these I hand to Caleb, with the promise of another if he walks to the next bend in the sandy path.

The smell of damp filters into my nostrils, accompanied by the fresh scent of pine. We stroll along in the dappled shade beneath the autumn trees, the wind making both my hair and the branches of the trees twist in the breeze. Dislodged leaves swirl to the ground like red, orange, green and yellow snow. I skip along the thin, gravely path. Caleb follows the trail of blackberries that I leave for him, like Hansel and Gretel following the bread crumbs.

As we go further into the forest, the sound of rushing water, which had been just a faint trickle a few moments ago, begins to fill my ears. We round a bend in the track and before us suddenly is a majestic river. The water rushes and swirls, spraying up over rocks and dragging leaves and branches in its wake. Our eyes are drawn to the steep steps rising above us up the mountain side. The sight fills me with dread. I can see from my parent’s expressions that they are no happier to see them than I am. But Oliver and Ethan’s faces are filled with glee. They set off up the steps at a run with cries of “Race you!” and “Bet I get there first!”

My parents and I take the steps more slowly. My dad and I each take one of Caleb’s hands and hoist him up a step at a time, much to his delight. We get into the rhythm - plod - plod - plod - HEAVE! plod - plod - plod - HEAVE! - and are soon making good progress. Occasionally we pass other people on their way back down: a woman and her dog; another family who give us sympathetic looks; a man kitted out in full hiking gear who makes me feel out of place in my blue waterproof and old trainers. My legs and arms are beginning to get very tired and my calf muscles burn, but still we continue up and up. On our left is a dense undergrowth of bushes and small plants. On our right is a sheer drop to the churning river below. Looking down makes me feel giddy. The towering flight of steps fills me with awe - they seem to climb upwards to an enormous height. I think of Idris, the giant warrior who is said to have sat on this mountain and called it his throne. Cadair Idris, the mountain is called. The name means Chair of Idris.

I finally reach the top step and light blinds me for a second. When my eyes grow accustomed to the light, I see before me a new view entirely. On one side is a soft, mossy bank, shaded by beech trees, and on the other the ground drops away to the river below, which now sparkles in the sun. Straight across from me are more hills, dotted with trees, sheep and quaint, white-washed cottages. The sun is peeping over the tops of the hills and bathing the valley in light.

The rest of my family has already slumped onto the bank and I flop down beside them, very happy to rest my tired legs. Fruit pastels are handed round to “keep us going”, then we continue on our way. The sandy path is mercifully flat now, except for the occasional boulder that blocks our way and has to be scrambled over. Soon the path thins to little more than an animal track and we find ourselves surrounded by ferns in all directions. The breeze sends ripples across the ferns like a gently lapping sea, and as we walk along in single file I can almost feel the rocking of an invisible boat. Suddenly the path widens and turns into a steep hill. We all start to run, slipping and sliding as we dislodge dry mud. In front of us is the river. It is level here but I know that only a little further along its path it will plummet downwards in shimmering, dangerous waterfalls. A large flat bridge of slate stretches over the river, leading to an expanse of tall, coarse grass and purple heather. We sit on the foremost side, cramped onto a small picnic rug, and eat our lunch of squashed ham sandwiches, juicy apples and melted Kit Kats. The food lines the edges of my stomach but leaves me almost as hungry as I was before. To distract myself, I rip off my shoes and socks and join my brothers in the river. Caleb is busy throwing rocks into a small pool to try and make the biggest splash, each rock he throws sending up beautiful sprays of rainbow water. Oliver and Ethan are trying to dam one of the many mini-waterfalls formed by the river as it rushes over a half-submerged rock. I decide to explore and make my way upstream, hopping from rock to rock. This treacherous path is not a very direct one and I often find myself traveling across the river instead of along it, but I don’t mind. I love watching the shiny, flowing, multi-coloured water as it gurgles and rushes past me.

I find a flat, dry rock to sit on and dangle my feet in the cool water. It tickles as it gushes over them and relaxes my muscles from the long hard climb. All around me I can see the stunning scenery: the flowing river, the swaying grasses, the grey mountain-top in the distance. The beauty of it stuns me and I sit there, still and silent, with the cool breeze blowing across my face and the cooler river caressing my toes. I finally feel content.