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Rated: E · Fiction · History · #1415153
Short bit of description from something I started.
Shortly after I made my departure to France, in hope of meeting an acquaintance of mine, Joseph Harwood, I received a telegram declaring news of my Mother, who was grieving over the death of my late brother. She requested that I come and visit her in the small apartment she owned in West London. Grieve as she may, I was reluctant to spend my valuable time with unnecessary mourning and the depression of my brother's death was already painful enough without delving into more dejection.
I arrived in France as the dawn began to break; early Sunday morning as I made my way from the ghastly boat I voyaged on to disembark here, in the country I first loved. I heard the shouts of chesty voices speaking the local dialect, drifting breezily across the docks, and the sound of seagulls screaming above. The reverberation of metal rang raucously through my ears and the smell of fresh fish wandered through my senses.
After catching a taxi to drive me through the town of Calais, I followed a road due south to lead me into Couderousse, where I would meet with Harwood and rest there for the weeks following. The air in Couderousse was thick and humid, it was midday now and after the bitterness of the early ferry crossing, I began to discard the layers I had originally been wearing. I unfastened the top button of my shirt and loosened the black tie I adorned around my neck. As I observed Harwood's remarkable abode, appearing from the distance on the side of a most handsome knoll, I muttered to the driver in French and departed the vehicle having paid my charge and given a respectable tip.
Joseph Harwood's residence was an impressive one, to say the very least. The wrought iron gates stood proudly before me as I brought my suitcase to my side and admired the building. Crossing an arm across my forehead, I wiped away the sweat that had formed uncomfortably from the illustrious French sun and began to make my way towards the house.
The welcome I met at the front door was a warm one; Joseph greeted me as an old friend and grasped my hand in a firm shake. The young face of the adolescent man I had once known was beginning to crinkle with lines of laughter and years of life, but still looked as youthful as it did on the first day I came into his acquaintance. His reassuring and familiar voice was a comfort in the midst of the wretchedness and gloom trailing after me like a stray dog wishing for condolence. The preceding weeks had been a nervous mess for all of us and within simply minutes of the reunion between myself and my dear friend Joseph Harwood, the mental strain and tension had been released from my mind. After sitting down to converse about various topics and recent changes in each of our lives, I settled into my room and took a stroll down the riverside. Amongst the grassy fields, sewed like patchwork into the landscape, I sat and admired the fiery orange and gold illuminating the scene as the sun set on the horizon.
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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/1415153