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.

The Watcher.

There was a gap in the cold grey sky, a sheet of blue optimsm towered above us as Sherlock and I chanced our arms (and legs) and set off for head weir on the River Otter. We squelched along by the mill stream and up through the woods to the sound of a brimfull river thundering over the weir. Pausing weirside I noticed that the salmon ladder was taking a bit of a beating by the current. The end panel bent back and waving like a flag in surrender. The ground was littered with spent beechnut husks; no longer crisp and marble like but now waterlogged and mud filled. It was akin to hiking up a hill made of muesli.

It is customary (according to Sherlock) that at the top of the hill we briefly trespass onto a farmer’s pasture. Here I can enjoy the panoramic view whilst Sherlock goes bat shit crazy and runs around in ever decreasing circles. When he eventually comes to a standstill he looks up at me as if to say “I’ve no idea why I do that either” I don’t even bother to ask the question anymore.

Much to Sherlock’s dissappointment we saw no squirrels today as we continued along the high path. Infact, apart from a few mallards, a bedraggled cormorant and a small flock of fieldfares, all wildlife was in hiding. From my lofty vantage point whilst I waited for Sherlock to finish investigating rabbit holes I watched the river hurtle past the neglected fishing hut on the opposite bank. Just downstream there was a small weir long since dismembered by the years of winter rains. Across the weir remnants, lay a recently fallen ash tree. It bobbed rythmically with the river. There appeared to be a smaller log lying on top; this log swayed a long in perfect syncronicity. I thought it was strange that the power of the current hadn’t dislodged this log along time ago. Then it moved and I noticed that the “log” had two beady, piercing eyes and they were peering back up at me. The watcher had become the watched. Until the otter became bored and slid beneath the bobbing bow and out of sight. Sherlock was oblivious to all of this of course. He is the only dog I know that can walk a mere whisker away from a pheasant or a rabbit without even noticing. To be fair to him; he can spot a crisp or biscuit from twenty yards away.

The sky beyond the woods began to turn overcoat grey, the temperature started to fall and a brisk wind set the barren branches off into a crazy rythmn as they clattered together. We began the trudge back. Sherlock constantly turning back to check on the sky, which by now had turned to a darker more menacing shade of grey. We hurried along and beat the rain back to the van with a minute to spare.

Squelch.

Today Sherlock tiptoed on posh paws whilst I squelched through the mud. Together we embraced the welcome sunshine and blue sky with equal pleasure. Hell, he even chased after a stick that I threw for him. Perched at the top of a barren ash tree a song thrush was in full voice. He went through his whole repertoire to an audience of two. Below him the river steamed like an overflowing cup of cocoa. I had to stop myself from applauding. A great start to the day.

Marble Run.

Sherlock and I headed for the woods today. Crossing the mill leat we could hear the river Otter thundering over the weir after last nights heavy rain. We paused at the weir to watch the tumbling water; coloured alluvium grey whilst in the margins a cappuccino coloured froth bobbed along with the flotsam. Our nostrils filled with the smell of silt and wet woodland. Sherlock for once declined the chance to have a dip in the pool above the weir.

Heading away from the torrent we ascended the path up through the woods. Most of the trees still defiantly green. This due to the continuation of unseasonably warm weather. A stubborn summer refusing to succumb. Only the beech trees were just beginning to show a burnished tinge of autumn. The slope upwards was made more precarious for my rickety knees as it was covered with a carpet of beech nuts, acorns and wet leaves. Sherlock always waits at the top- or bottom of these “marble runs” (depending on which direction that I am stumbling,) hoping he can have a canine smirk at my expense.

Several more of these treacherous (well to me anyway) marble runs are scattered along our walk. One I have named “The Slide” This one is a favourite of Sherlock’s. Here he waits for me to start my decent before then racing past me- knocking in to my legs in the process as I cling to the wobbly hand rail and curse him.

My family’s probable favourite is the one I now call “Style it out!” Who the hell decided to put a stile at the top of a slope? Here I once managed a spectacular face-plant to a chorus of “You got away with that,” followed by raucous family laughter and yes- an obligatory canine smirk!

Today’s stroll was remarkably and thankfully uneventful on the tumbling front. The only thing seen to fall was the occasional side plate sized sycamore leaf as it cartwheeled in slow motion to the ground. Autumn has called.

Fairies

Emerging from the cool riverside woodland Sherlock and I step into a pool of sunlight; so bright that even armed with a cap and sunglasses it makes my eyes water. We are greeted with a fanfare from a lone wren and a fly past from a pair of speckled wood butterflies. Ambling down this pathway, flanked by banks of pink campion, daisies, buttercups and a carpet of speedwell I bore Sherlock with listing the birdsong. Chiffchaffs a plenty, a nuthatch and the obligatory wood pigeons. On the breeze there is a faint whiff of hawthorn blossom, the bluebells now sadly passing over. Dancing ahead of us in this warm spring air are the red and blue flashes of damselflies. Occasionally alighting on the colourful flora but too restless to settle they fly ahead of us. Without wishing to sound quaint or even whimsical it is like being led down the garden path by a flight of fairies.

3:27 am.

He had no idea what had woken him. But now awake he needed to pee. He shuffled to the bathroom; hands outstretched before him like he was playing a game of blindman’s bluff.

He now stood in a world of grey that was neither night nor day. A monochrome scene. All objects reduced to a shadow. A two dimensional nothing-ness.

A black fish macabrely suspended on a gnarly knotted gaff; hung above a ghostly yacht, becalmed on a porcelain plateau of calm. All surrounded by a shroud of grey.

Beneath him the tombstone cold tiles sucked the warmth from his bed sworn feet. Consuming the heat like a wintery swamp.

This is what you get after falling asleep listening to Nick Cave; or maybe it was a chilli rush. The recipe that Sam used insisted on four tablespoons of chilli powder (Yes FOUR!)

Either way I’ve tried to make some sense of it. And for the grammar police amongst you I apologise for my brain not being able to spell or write coherently at “stupid” oclock.

I have no real recollection of the physicality of scrawling the above. Maybe it was “sleep writing.” There are occasions though, when I have a head full of thousands of words. Unwritten lyrics, poems, plays and book ideas, all shoaled up together swimming around with great acceleration. Sometimes it can feel like concussion. A great weight. I guess they have to escape sometimes.