Hanging out the washing, a trace of burning was in the air. I wondered absently whether the clothes would smell.
A few weeks earlier we had left the house to walk to the local shop. The air was acrid, you could almost taste it. I turned and saw a huge plume of smoke in the near distance and wondered what was on fire. We made the short trek to the shop. Looking up the hill, the horizon was obscured by a tower of black; a fire-engine sped past, siren screaming. Other people on the street had stopped to look, whispering speculation as to what might be burning.
Wandering slowly up the hill, we told ourselves we were just taking a slightly longer route back to the house rather than letting morbid curiosity take over. Rounding the corner at the top, it was clear the fire was closer than we’d thought. Although the source was hidden by houses, flames were now visible, licking up into the air. At least 3 fire engines were in attendance and a small crowd had gathered in the road. A farm’s hay store was completely overtaken by fire and as well as trying to put that out, the firefighters were desperately trying to stop it from spreading to the farmhouse.
Feeling guilty that we were spectators at someone’s misfortune, we turned back home, wondering whether the fire had been deliberate. Safely in the house and with the windows shut against the smoke, I spent most of the night refreshing news outlets and social media to find out what had happened. The story was pretty straightforward: some kids (who had now been caught) had set fire to the hay, the entire store was destroyed, nobody was hurt (thankfully) and they’d stopped it spreading any further.
What they hadn’t been able to do, was put out the hay entirely. Hay burns hot and it burns well. That means it’ll smoulder for a long time, with the potential to burst back into flames at any moment. For the few days that followed the fire, tractors with their buckets filled with hay were a common site. Nearby farmers were each taking a small portion of the burning hay back to their own land, where it could smoulder in more manageable and safe sizes, until it burned out.
The result of this was phenomenal. For weeks, on still days, the smoke hung in the air over the surrounding countryside, like something from Silent Hill. At dusk it was particularly eerie, mixed with the low mist from the river, suspended over the valley. The smell was constant. Not unpleasant, as it had been initially, but reminiscent of cosy log fires, or autumn bonfires.
I’m sure someone smarter than me would turn this into a life metaphor. Something along the lines of how breaking up something huge and terrifying into manageable chunks can turn it into an entirely different experience. But I’m not the person to do that.
I almost miss the smell of smoke.
Cover photo by JOHN TOWNER on Unsplash
