Lost and found in a world of opportunity and regret

The wind whipped up long Welsh grass on ground about five hundred meters high, and hissed vipers among wind chime leaves of thick oaks and sycamores three miles from Knighton on the ancient Offa’s Dyke path (welsh: Cladd Offa) towards Shropshire, following the Clun river to Bishop’s castle and Montgomery. The path which was forged in the 8th century during the reign of the Saxon King Offa roughly follows the border between England and Wales, although some say it is the ‘actual’ border. Who was Offa? Why did he order the structure, which the path aligns, executed across 177 miles from Chepstow in the south to Prestatyn in the north?

The trees heaved under the force of the strong wind. I was onto my third day of walking by now, and overlooked the heavenly grass plains and extensive valley below. Devoid of any sign of human life, except for the farms and large estates amid the blustering wind. I placed one foot onto the narrow path and then another, careful to keep my balance as I carried a heavy pack between the sloping cliff and the trees that wobbled side to side, and kept an eye on the roots that pervaded this part of the path.

I decided to stop for a while. I sat under a mature oak tree that must have been nearly one hundred meters tall. It stretched its gnarled arms twenty meters across in diameter in all its ancient omnipotence.

I considered the tree. 'Had this great oak stood here on this sloping hill the lifespan of three humans?' I imagined that as the fall arrived, it’s bottle green leaves turned honey color until they dropped to the brown dusty ground and scattered there. I tried to feel the temperature drop then and before long, the winter King arrived, bitter and angry and bearing its frosty teeth. The oak would be sheltered by the looming hill on which it stood. As blankets of frost and snow covered its terrain, I imagined the pat pat of rabbit foot or the soft padded approach of a fox, a fiery fur-ball of burnt orange, accentuated by the crystal blue snow, followed by the crunch of boots and heavier paws of Alsatians, hunting dogs, on their way.

'Had it seen battles below as the sun turned yellow and the field ran red thousands of years ago?' I considered. 'Or the appearance of farmers in the beginning of time and their cattle that roamed the valley, doing their level best to survive, which in some dreadful seasons barely bore a small crop of barley or meat?' The blood ran, the water spilled, the flies feasted, the cattle gathered again and again, season after season, and the great oak stood silent and observant.

As a sapling, the great tree, delivered to this very spot by chance, and as a tiny plant grew against all odds. At the beginning, it was hardest to develop, and so for a full 40 days the acorn lay half in the ground unobstructed from the light, and a small root jutted out at the bottom. After 180 days, a combination of rain and sunlight and time saw two large stems erupt upwards and the familiar rugged leaves appeared too. By the end of the year, the acorn transformed into a sapling, about half a meter tall. Within the next 10 to 15 years it would be a tree.

While I sat by the great tree, shaded from the summer sun, my thoughts turned towards my own finances. Poverty had stricken my whole life. In my mind, my investments were like the oak tree and its journey from a seed to what it is today. And with time, sunlight, nourishment and patience all combined, one day it would surely transform into an oak - with luck, to become a thing of wonder, thick, strong in its foundations and abundant as the leaves that shaded me from the wind and sun. But it would take time; I knew that.

I watched the sunlight shift as the day grew older. 'There are some fortunate enough to have inherited wealth or maybe been given great riches,' I thought. 'Others found fortune early through hard work. But to keep the money, to make it work. What did they have in common?'

Years ago, I’d spent too much time drinking in the bars and drunk and having fun, and while at university, on Friday evenings, my pals and I would meet in a friend’s kitchen and play poker. I always lost when the million to one card hit the river and smashed my fist on the table and left. But I’d always be allowed back. 'Funny that,' I thought.

'It was when I started to play poker online that the real trouble started. It all started so innocently...playing a few rounds on Coral on the odd occasion...depositing ten pounds here and fifteen pounds there until the deposits became larger...before it became the frequent occasion, leading to ghastly hours spent in dinghy internet cafes; Zync zones; Hacker Haven; and Tech Hub on the Eastbourne coast.' Shamefully, I recall those names, those times. Dirty and seedy places. 'I'd been to them all, smashing out the rounds, desperate to win, but always leaving with an empty pocket and a heart full of dread and wasted time, but with a feeling of wanting more, always more when I did win.'

Sun beams edged away from the cover of the trees, then by accident, my hand brushed something smooth and cold down on the hard brown earth next to me. It felt like coin. I looked down and started to scratch the tough soil away and could brush the softer earth underneath until something that glinted gold appeared. I breathed slowly and forced myself to calm down. Using two hands, I leaned over the item as if shielding a dying fire from the wind. Shallow breath and my heart thumped quicker until I raised the thing from the ground.

I held the golden 'torc' in front of me for several minutes and I guessed it was something from two thousand years ago. An incredible find. It glinted and shone in my hands among the moving shadows in the trees like a giant diamond reflected in a shard of broken glass.

'Perhaps it was from a wealthy nobleman or Roman of importance or Viking King who had passed thousands of years ago?' I thought. It was an enigma. Large enough to slip around my arm like the warriors used to wear them, as they did in Bernard Cornwell's novel series, The Last Kingdom.

'It was definitely gold, without a hallmark, but gold. It had to be. It was the weight of gold. It was worth a fortune in gold. I’d found my treasure. But what now?' I thought.

I slipped the torc carefully into my bag and placed it among some clothes. I stood up and bowed to the tree as if to a statue in a temple, considered touching its trunk, but resisted, and gave my thanks instead. I looked around, but there was no one.

'Who would know?' I thought. 'Surely it should go to the museum. Thank god, thank whoever it is out there.' I muttered. 'But then... it's such a precious thing... as precious now as it was back then no doubt... thousands of years ago.... so maybe I'll keep it for myself. As pay back for those times at uni.' I thought, my mind shifting. The devil on my shoulder. 'I found it after all. It's mine isn't it? Who would know?' So I moved onward toward Montgomery, but I still wasn't sure.