English is not my native language. It’s not even Belgium’s second or third language. I constantly try to improve my English, but this story proves that no matter how many books you read, audiobooks you listen to, or movies you watch, sometimes you mess up.
This second part of the story picks up right after the terrifying sprint away from the boars. It was then that my cousin and I realized we were quickly running out of time to get back to the station, before even starting the actual hike we planned.
We found a road, decided to hitch back a ride and subsequently had another near-death experience. The person picking us up was a 70-year-old lady who, judging from the speed she was going at, dreamed of being a Nascar racer. But more unfortunate was that she drove a car without air conditioning in 30°C weather and, worse, without seatbelts. Since then I know how a grain of corn feels when it’s turned into popcorn: violently flung around in an overheated metal container.
After the lady dropped us off with shaking knees, we found a supermarket about two miles from the station and decided to finally get something to drink. We were thirsty, tired from what ended up being a three-hour walk in scorching hot weather and had just been cooked in a car driven by a retired speed demon. So when we finally stared at a supermarket aisle full of sugary drinks, we picked out the first thing that looked like lime-flavoured lemonade, a 1.5 litre bottle each. But we should have known something was off when the cashier gave us a funny look as we paid for the bottles.
As soon as we were outside and took a sip, we instantly regretted our hasty purchase. The lemonade was incredibly strong and bitter; so bitter in fact that it made me shiver and twisted my stomach. Unfortunately it was the only thing we had to drink and we really had to hurry now. This left us with no other option than drinking the sticky, bitter goo, or fainting of thirst. It was a struggle not to throw up, but not drinking felt even worse.
By the time my cousin and I reached the station a good half hour later, we had each finished half a bottle and we could feel our stomachs cramping while the bitter and acidic liquid dissolved our bodies from the inside out.
When we once again found ourselves sitting on a bench at the station, I finally got a better look at the bottle of lemonade. It turned out that it was not lemonade we were drinking. We had both just downed half a bottle of concentrated lime syrup that needed to be mixed with five parts water to make it drinkable! It’s no wonder that my stomach was attempting a daring escape from my digestion track.
One wise decision of dumping what was left of the “lemonade” in the trash can later, we sat on a wobbly train playing rock-paper-scissors for two hours to decide who could use the toilet on the train first, in case we both had to puke at the same time. I don’t remember a lot of what happened that evening, but it did not involve lemonade or food – even though a slice of non-hypothetical processed boar would have tasted great.
If you ever find yourself in Forest of Dean, beware of impending stupidity. Be it in the shape of an imaginary tame wild boar, a poorly planned hike, hitching a ride with a 70-year-old woman attempting to break through the sound barrier, or buying lime-flavoured poison in the local supermarket. Consider yourself warned!