No such place exists now but the few remaining who can remember its location seek only to forget. They do not speak of the long afternoons when a laze of bees filled the air, when the drip of honey was on every tongue and each man knew the promise.
Neither do they speak of how hurrying villagers crowded the paths which climbed beyond the tree line, determined to seek a place before the sun set and night barred further movement. Friend by friend, neighbour by neighbour, each unaware of the other, they scrambled over dead roots, evaded the grasp of trees and slid face down over scree. Finally they lay, acquiescent, as the bees, having herded them to this place, sang to them in the darkness.
The knowledge given has not been passed onto the children. If they are fortunate they will never know it.
From Another Morning of Quiet Pleasures (Soaring Penguin Press, 2013)