Cobalt

Today we pootled- not poodled, you understand; Sherlock forbade me from using that particular ‘P’ word many moons ago. Above us were numerous sand martins and swallows catapulting themselves across a back cloth of cobalt blue. September splendour. Slowly we sauntered the well worn path. There is no rush. Sherlock has much to investigate and urinate on and my knees are currently scoring an eight out of ten on the NHS ‘pain’ scale.

Leaving the old railway line we passed an ancient oak tree. Once it was king of the field. Now it is corralled by a plantation of young specimens. Oak, beech, birch and sycamore, encased in non degradable plastic sheaths. Botanical upstarts. All rising sap and vigorous growth. The future. The scene makes me feel my age and if the old oak with its twisted gnarly limbs has sentiments then I willingly share them.

The river is still low- despite the rain. Low, clear and full of that brown filamentous growth that reminds us anglers and river watchers that all is not well. I spotted a trout, a shadow with coral tipped fins. I tried to point it out to an enthusiastic dog walker, but without polarising sunglasses it was like trying to show Stevie Wonder where the light switch was. The trout sighting being a rueful reminder that this summer I have failed to cast a fly in earnest- or a river for that matter.

Homeward bound we bypass the old mill. Once a thriving factory that seduced me from my college studies with the promise of a princely sixteen pounds and thirty pence for a weeks work. Clock watching away the seemingly endless hours of bending metal on a fly press; as apposed to sensibly moulding my future. Ironically I now deliver mail to the apartments that have filled the building since the demise of its industrial past. There is no escape. For me the ghost of a wasted youth still lingers within these walls. To Sherlock it’s just another pee stop. Canine wisdom indeed.