The Farmers’ Curse

I’m driving 25mph down a road with a 40mph speed limit. Normally, I would yell at someone for doing this, but here in Cornwall, it’s the only way to ensure my safety.

Civil engineers did not design the roads in this part of England. The “roads” are merely the ancient agricultural boundaries of sadistic farmers who, thousands of years ago, could see into the future and know their territorial negotiations would make my life a living hell. Grass-covered stone retaining walls loom on either side of me, and every 60 feet there is a curve.

Oh, and the streets are all one-lane/two-way. Sometimes, I gingerly round a curve only to find a British person careening right towards my face. I reverse at top speed while navigating a minor heart attack, then watch as they wave their arms angrily, blaming me for the 2,000-year-old curse that the evil farmers cast over this land.

We are looking for an ancient monument of nine stone megaliths called the Nine Maidens. It was my mom’s idea. She’s unable to drive at the moment because she injured her foot at the start of our trip. I am the only one who can shield us from certain death.

We eventually escape the labyrinthine helltrap of Cornish hedges and emerge in a quaint, eerie village where everyone walks everywhere. Ours is the only car. We no longer have cell service. We may have been involuntarily sent back in time like Anne Hathaway’s house in that new dinosaur movie.

The first person we see does not dispel this belief. He’s a rubicund man whose overalls look like Henry Fonda’s in The Grapes of Wrath (1940). He smiles at us like we’re old friends; he is missing his front left tooth.

I ask him where the Nine Maidens are.

“Aye, tha Nine Maidens, yeh, ya haff ta go up tha windy rood, make a whirly at tha big cow, and thin ya haff ta go strit down Marty’s road ta tha cloomp of grass, where ya cin hed inta those bushes for a bet and there you’ll be.”

I blink at him and say, “Thank you.”

After spotting five big cows, disagreeing briefly about what “whirly” means, and realizing we have somehow entered an entirely different quaint town, my mom and I finally decide to pull out the yellowed map of Cornwall that we found in a rest stop. Using the antiquated technology, we follow more sadistic roads and spot the “big cow” (which truly is bigger than most cows), then discover the cloomp of grass which harbors an overgrown trail.

We head across a farm (probably Marty’s), keeping an eye out for angry hordes of villagers seeking to sacrifice us to the God of Wheat, and emerge in another cloomp of grass.

“Is this a joke?” my mom asks. “You said you’d help me find the Nine Maidens!”

Possessed by the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come, I silently point to nine rounded tombstones sprouting from the field ahead. Our names are on all of them.

Just kidding. It’s just the Nine Maidens. My mom and I whoop for joy, stride ahead, and conduct a 30-minute photoshoot. We feel closer than ever.

There are no Cornish hedges on the next leg of our journey. The farmers’ curse has been lifted.

Side-note: I am honored to be a featured writer in Michael Horvich’s “I Write Because…” series. Thanks, Michael, for supporting my work and for giving me the chance to reflect upon my creative process!