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Notes from the Edge: Circuits 3

It is the rutting season and I suspect that I was standing between him and his girl.

So, you made it out – well done. This is the edge. It’s the only place to be. 

The air takes a little getting used to but it’s ok to breathe, in fact breathing is heartily recommended. Move away from the road a little and take a deep breath. Don’t look back – you’ll be sucked in soon enough – look forward. What’s there – have you ever really looked before? Which way to go? Forget the normal rules: they don’t apply here. Your feet are allowed to leave the tarmac and distant views aren’t just for looking at now through the blur of a car window but for discovering… 

I always try to find a new path, or at least a new bit of a field or a wood that I’ve never walked before, and I try to do that every day. It gets tricky as the weeks and months rattle on but that’s a good thing because it means you have to look further and push out into the unknown. It is incredible how many of the secret ways that criss-cross our daily lives remain largely undiscovered. It is the will that takes us t these places as much as the legs. Try to remember that the nettles are there to do a job but they can be pushed aside if the way you want to take lies beyond them. Don’t think of it as a sting, think of it as a tingle – I tell my girls that it’s stingle. It’s the feeling that your brain’s telling you should hurt but at the same time realises that the man who never felt pain never felt anything.

This morning, and this is typical, I did this: Up at 5.55 and out by 6. Remember: a pair of shorts, a t-shirt and some decent shoes. That’s it. The stick is optional but I always take one for pushing back nettles and testing boggy ground. Maybe for warding off unfriendly dogs, too, though I’ve never had to use it for this. The sodium-arc light outside my house glows orange but shut down an hour or so ago. I know it won’t be long before I catch it again, in the long mornings where maybe I won’t be able to take the same route over the fields.  

It’s too early for the dog-walkers so I’m not lured into the loop and I cut through the little alley and scuttle across the road. It’s busy again now: the lockdown has faded and things are back as they were and we’ll probably never see it again like it was for those strange few months when we could sit in the middle of that road (if we wanted to) or saunter along the central white line and push down the cats-eyes. It’s a long way from that now: the national speed limit means that they can go pretty fast and the lorries push the air about so that it takes your breath when they pass. 

We’ve had rain for a few days and the ground is sodden so I’ll stick to the track that runs through the field. The proper footpath is to the left but with the wheat up at knee-height I’ll have wet socks before I’m five minutes in. The farmer won’t be up yet and I’ll be through the gap in the hedgerow soon and onto the golf course without any harm, though with the rain I will have to check the ground – it gets marshy here and there’s talk that he’s going to flood the little valley to create fish ponds. I poke at the ground with the stick. The grass is as happy and green under the water as out of it. The water’s so clear that there seems to be little difference. 

There is a natural dip in the centre of the field where the water runs after rain. A culvert lies underneath from the village at the top where the spring rises but the run-off from the field takes the overland route. It’s like a huge book, this field, and the central dip is the spine. The heavy pages lol in graceful arcs on either side and to paint the picture for you a little better, I came in at the bottom-left hand side. I’ll cross the spine and disappear bottom-right. But I won’t be far. I’ll skirt the edge of the open book field on the golf course track and keep my feet dryer. the rows of wheat are like lines on the page and they tell they story of every day.

There’s some artificial grace to a golf course that I both abhor and admire. It’s a playground of the wealthy and they look with contempt at anyone not wearing polka-dot socks tucked into expensive cotton trouser cuffs. Always a tank-top that doesn’t match and fine leather gloves – or if they really fancy themselves: a single glove. They strut up and down the fairways as if they own the place – which, on some level they do, and they look at people like me as if I’m about to nick the flag. I have been tempted to nick a ball or two after it has been driven down the ground, or kick it in to the rough but I find that I don’t care enough to do that. 

It’s too early for golfers and the action up here now as I rise with the swell of the land is the groundsman and the gentle whirr of the tractor he glides about in, preening the greens and checking that the flags haven’t been nicked. He’s friendly enough, though I shouldn’t really be on here, and he’ll give me a wave. It is enough. I don’t want conversation. I don’t think that I could muster it at this hour and am content with my own company. 

I have heard the distinct call of a peacock somewhere across the course, though I’ve never seen it. It could be deer shouting but I don’t think so. There are deer, though. Last week I poked out in to the field and walked across the ridge for the better view and there out of the middle of the wheat poked the glorious shoulders and head of a roe stag. It is usually the startled behind that I see bounding off into the safety of the trees but this one stood his ground and eyed me as I passed, his three-pronged antlers skyward and his eyes never wavering as his ears twisted and turned for best advantage. It is the rutting season and I suspect that I was standing between him and his girl. It was one of those rare occasions where I had the mind to take out the phone and grab a couple of shots. From the angle, right up along the right-hand edge of the open book I could see the way that I had come and got the picture I wanted with my own tiny home, where my girls were still sleeping, captured between those antlers. 

I had not walked far, yet I had walked out of the bubble and though I could see it shimmering grey and fast below me, I knew that it didn’t see me, nor care about me. I had found the gap between the circles, and it really wasn’t hard. I was satisfied and pocketed the phone with a deep sigh of simple contentment. One of those moments that you wish someone else had been there to see also, maybe.

The rabbits that darted in surprise as I made my way along the rest of the path were small beer now, though I counted thirty before I gave up and gave my attention to dividing the nettles with my stick so that I could pass. I startled a tiny rabbit last week. It knew that there was a need to panic because all of the others were running this way and that but clearly had no sense what the danger was because it ran right at me, thudded into the side of my boot and then hopped away a little dazed to join the others. A fox was down on its haunches ready to launch an attack on another unsuspecting bunny when I arrived and did for his element of surprise. 

By this time I had reached the village and it was time to step back onto the black-top and follow the lane back down to where I had started. It had been shut for the whole of the lockdown for gas-works which meant that, while the cars couldn’t get through, walkers like me could. What had been another little artery serving the town was quickly absorbed back into the wilderness for a while and pheasants roosted on the ground, deer skittered without alarm and I sauntered along the middle as though it was my own paved footpath.

I tapped my stick to the morning rhythm as I walked and I smiled because I knew that most people hadn’t even woken up yet and would never know what I had already known today.  

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