Old Jack's Hill was an unfriendly place. Growing up, we were always warned not to stray off the path. "Old Jack will drag you down into the earth with him!" our parents would tell us. "Children have gone missing there for centuries, their bones never found."
Of course we ate the stories up, listening wide-eyed, shivering and thrilling with delight. The Hill loomed over the valley, dominating half the horizon and overshadowing the rest. There was a standing stone and circle on top, and that just added to the stories. "Old Jack's Rock", the stone was called, mostly dubbed "Old Jack's Cock" by generations of boys impressed with their own wit.
Still, we heeded the advice. There was a malevolence about the Hill that was almost tangible. The landscape seemed to actively dislike people, tempting them off the track and into cracks or over cliffs. It was quite common for people to come down with twisted ankles or broken wrists. At the very least the gorse would scratch skin even through the thickest denim.
It also helped that at least two people did in fact go missing during my childhood. And no, their bones were never found.
So why was I up on Old Jack's Hill that Midsummer's Night? The full moon, that's why.
I'd always had difficulty sleeping when the moon was full. There was something about it that made me feel like my blood was roaring through me, like I'd had four espressos on an empty stomach. I'd lie wide awake, tossing and turning, unable to keep still for more than half a minute at a time.
My girlfriend Brigit gave up trying to sleep next to me on nights like that. She used to ban me to the guest bedroom, but then she started having a monthly girls' night with her friends. Lindy and Ahana shared a house down the road in the village, perhaps ten minutes' walk away along the foot of the hill.
"See you tomorrow morning!" she said as she closed the door behind her after dinner. Judging by the bottle of wine tucked under her arm, I wouldn't be the only one feeling like a wreck tomorrow.
I stayed up late, hoping against hope that I'd be tired enough to fall asleep. The sun set at nine-thirty, but the full moon seemed to chase away the twilight. I waited for my eyes to grow drowsy, for the rushing in my veins to calm, but no such luck. By eleven I gave up and decided to go for a walk.
It was a lovely evening. The day's warmth still lingered in the air, enough for me to catch the hum of flying insects. My fellow insomniacs. It was a comforting thought.
The lane outside the house curved away down the slope. In the distance I could see a few lights on in the village. The pub might still be open to celebrate the solstice, with a handful of acquaintances to share a drink. Out here in the country there were ways around closing times.
I considered it for a moment, then decided I needed to be physically active. My body needed to move. And so I turned from the lane and clambered over the stile into the field opposite our house.
Farmer Clark's sheep were white boulders on the grey grass under the moonlight. A few incurious heads raised as I passed. Ahead of me the bulk of Old Jack's Hill rose, dark and sheer and brooding, and some reckless part of me decided that was where I was going.
I'd never been up the Hill at night. I didn't know anyone who had. The lingering dread instilled in me from childhood meant that I rarely went up even in daylight. Too dangerous. If the Hill dislikes you in the daylight, imagine what it feels like at night!
But on this warm Midsummer Night, with the full moon bathing the world in silver, the place seemed peaceful. The light cast strange shadows over the ridges and crags, the paths and hedgerows, the trees, the rocks, the shrubs. It was almost a different place.
So I let my feet guide me from the pastures and onto the steep path uphill. It was tough going, but that's precisely what my body craved. The burn in my thighs, the rasp in my throat.
I passed effortlessly over roots and rocks in the path. It was as if by night the Hill abandoned all its tricks and smoothed the way for me. Up and up the path led, under trees and along edges. The moon lit my way, the Hill invited me along, and almost before I knew it I was near the summit.
I paused, panting a little. It had been a long climb, and I'd moved faster than I'd expected. Heaving in deep breaths, I glanced round and took in the view.
Below me the valley was laid out. The river was a black snake winding its way along, crossed here and there by charcoal roads. The fields were a patchwork of different shades of grey, stitched together by walls and hedges. Light shone in the windows of two of the farmhouses.
The village was a brighter cluster of lights. I could make out the shops, the pub, the old stone church. A car's headlights lit up the streets for a few seconds, then turned into a driveway and switched off.
It was a scene from a silent black and white movie.
As I stood and looked, the church bells rang out, tolling midnight across the valley.
Dong-dong-dong...
It was the perfect counterpoint.
I waited for the final toll to fade away and return the night to silence before I completed the last yards to the top. Except it didn't fade away. It lingered on, hanging on the still air like magic.
At first I thought it was coming from all around me, humming like the night insects down by the house. But no, I realised, it came from above. From on top of the Hill.
Intrigued, I followed the sound, moving quietly, afraid that any noise I made might break the spell. Once again the Hill welcomed me, smoothing the path before my feet until I reached a point where I could peer between two boulders and see the top.
Perhaps twenty feet away was Old Jack's Rock. It was a well-known landmark, and a few times a month tourists would brave the Hill to have a look, even if it was only about four feet tall and the stones that formed a ring around it stood no more than a foot from the ground.
The stone seemed to loom larger than it was in the light of the moon, with strange shadows surrounding it. In fact, I reflected, from where I stood it actually resembled a cock.
But my focus wasn't on the stone. It was on the three forms standing before it, to my right. Three women, holding hands and singing. Singing? Harmonising? At any rate, it was the wordless tone that I'd followed uphill.
