Saturday 28 February 2009

A SPRING IN THE STEP

They were right, the birds. Of course they were. Perfect things! The weekend had the most marvellous spring weather. How do they know? Someone suggested to me it's to do with the changing hours of daylight. Perhaps. I expect there are thousands of signs we miss. And, of course, the busier we are, the more we miss. It is a constant challenge to be here. To be here.

Perhaps it's age. To me, busier seems at once an old lure and a new curiosity. My eyes seem to get sharper, if anything, at present. More able to see that wren, that robin, that hedge sparrow singing his heart out.

Can't miss the heron. He comes down imperiously, bold as brass fishing for frogs and newts that he can find a-plenty in our paddock. It's nice and wet for him, with the lowest of the ancient ridge and furrows little less than a stream. That's where I am thinking of replanting two willow trees that (now foolishly I think) I put in the orchard. You do find newts there, in those damp hidey holes. Fine little orange coloured tummies they have. Like little trays of jewels. To a heron they must look like a selection box.

Herons have a special place in my imaginative life. When I was a kid, and we were hard up, we used to holiday at places like Pakefield, near Lowestoft, and California (we'd pretend it was the real California) near Great Yarmouth. Norfolk people call the heron "Old Awk". There's a lot of superstition about them. My Dad, (who was good at inventing things for us kids to do to leave him and Mum free to do things like sit and eat boiled sweets) used to offer a small prize to the person who could first spot Old Awk in the reedbeds as the train passed through places like Cantley, Loddon and Brundall. We'd peer through the diesel-yellowed windows for what seemed like hours on end, straining innocently for a rare glimpse of heron, whilst behind us was the sound of fruit sweets being gently but definitely enjoyed. Now, Old Awk comes direct to my door.

The change in the season, and a few slack work days have seen me out doing stuff like clearing away all the fallen branches from the fruit trees Ged and I lopped, and making a massive bonfire. Somewhere my Health and Safety manual got lost. Dictums like "never throw petrol on a fire that's already lit" escape me. Equally sensible thoughts like "don't reach into the fire to shuffle around those burning branches" seem also to desert me. Consequently, my hand resembles a tray of sausages that has been left in the Aga far too long. And there are plenty of nicks from the lopping saw for good measure. These simple, and moderate items of self harm are not to be regretted. And I added to my injury count when Matt came yesterday to help me fell ash trees in the wood, plant acorns in the meadow, and muck about getting the range rover stuck in mud. Fun stuff, and topped off by eating Toad and sitting out drinking Rioja and smoking cigars under a crescent moon and Venus shining.

Oh, and I appear also, from an unknown cause, to have injured my foot. On my right foot I can go up and down onto my toes. On my left foot, flat on the floor is my only option. So, in one sense there is no spring in my step. But in a host of others, there is.

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