ON A HILL FAR AWAY

"There's a small chance I might be dead," I said to myself in the woods.

The dappled sunlight, warm and green flooded through the canopy above me. The tall birches and elm trees were like expertly spaced pillars, holding up the translucent roof - everything was perfect: the rough but warm breeze, the flickering sunshine, the applauding leaves. If heaven is anything, it's this, I thought. I formulated a theory: perhaps, without realising, I had tumbled down a bank in Corbar Woods, rolled into a ditch and broken every bone in my body, leaving the sorry old grey-skied world behind. Perhaps this at last, was the Wood Between the Worlds, where Aslan would appear through the trees to take me ... home.

It was about then that I saw it. I actually had to pinch myself. Between the trees, sticking out on top of a rocky looking hill, bold against the bluest of skies... was a wooden cross. It looked like it was about twenty-feet high, carved from a single piece of wood, strong against the wind and magnificently out-of-place.

I did what any follower of Jesus would have done. I raced along the path, scrambled over a stile and ran towards the cross, rucksack bouncing on my shoulders. The climb was steep. My boots slipped on the sharp-angled rocks, I clutched hold of tufts of grass and scrabbled up the side of the hill until I reached the top. I had to know what it was for, why it was there - and whether I was still alive I suppose. By this time I was considerably out of breath, which was an indication that I did still require oxygen - a key factor in determining whether or not you've died. I sank to my knees at the top and breathed in the air. It was real and it was still there.

It was very windy at the top of Corbar Hill. I stumbled towards the wooden edifice, catching a glimpse of the view. The valley sprawled below, lit by the glory of the sun, catching every golden rooftop and tower, flashing brilliantly from windscreens and shop windows. On the other side of Buxton to the South I could see the open hills: green, flat and high - with Solomon's Temple sticking up in silhouette against the horizon. Beautiful, I thought, that this little market town was somehow guarded by Solomon's Temple on one side and this Corbar Cross on the other. I looked up at the wooden beams, illuminated by the sun, wobbling gently in the wind. I knew what I had to do. In the grass, where the long thin shadow fell upon the ground, I found myself clutching my head in my hands, kneeling and worshipping. I would hope it's what any Christian would do under the circumstances.

I stayed up there a while, munching my lunch with my back against a nearby trigpoint. I do love a high place - it feels like the world of trouble is far below, far beneath, and far away, and all there is in the world is blue sky, wind and sunshine. Perhaps that's what being on holiday is supposed to feel like? A kind of reinvigoration of the spirit, soul and body - relaxing, refreshing and renewing all at the same time. I guess renewal, however you define it, has to start at the cross one way or the other.

I am alive.