It will be banging hot today – that’s what they say. I can feel it already in the air; warm air came it little gusts like from a hair-dryer. It is likely that we will pay for a hot day like this with a week of rain. It is the way that things tend to go here. The lockdown three-month spell brought the best spring weather we have ever seen, then July started.
Nothing’s as simple as we never realised it was, any more. The little things that we took for granted are now consigned to a past that we have already started to call pre-Corona. We will talk about those hazy happy days with the same silly nostalgia that we use when we talk about the way the world was before the war. The conditions are like this:
I have a cotton bandana wrapped around my wrist like a decoration, though it’s really there because I won’t be allowed into any shops unless I wrap it round my face before I enter. I’m noticing eyes more. I’ve never seen so many. Queues for shops stretch out through carparks and twist along the street with gaps between the waiting suggesting some national falling out. On the footpaths people have begun to fling themselves into the bushes as we pass and one could get paranoid. Shops are in one way and out another. The cashiers swim behind plastic screens and mime conversation, but with contactless payment there’s no need for any interaction whatsoever.
The pubs are empty and the pub gardens are full; pergolas and gazebos defy the weather and British pub staff learn how to wait on tables. It’s in one way, try not to breathe on the way through, and then out the other way when you’re done.
The canal tow-path will need a rethink after a couple of centuries of loyal service: it simply is not conducive to a socially-distanced walk and will probably need to adopt a one-way system or be emptied so that we can all keep our distance – just in the same way that the theatres remain closed and beauticians wait for a return to work – all the time watching hordes of holiday-makers cram into aeroplanes or pack onto beaches. But of course the decision-makers need their holidays too…
I didn’t want to return to these socially-commentary posts. I had my fill in the spring and made the decision to step out to the edge and let them get on with it; let the fools reel giddy in their own little dance. I’m staying here, right on the edge, so that I can duck under it and gulp in the air. Remind myself what it’s all about.
Will you come with me? When the seasons start to turn; will you come? Not too many, of course – we don’t want to spaces crammed, but there’s enough space for all of you who get it; who understand the importance of the space. A little wave is enough – no need to get too close. No need to form an association or found a club. A nod, that’ll do.
I found the canal the other night. The Cut, we call it around here, and it once typified the growing links between the growing throbbing cities when the Industrial Revolution kicked off just up the road. These busy highways linked the towns and cities and, far from the tranquil, tucked-away havens we see today, were busy, dirty, noisy highways populated by grubby foul-mouthed townies and muddy with the detritus of the unenlightened.
Now these canals are largely forgotten and cut little lines across the countryside and provide surprising exit routes from city-centres and out of towns. The land here drops 67 metres between the edge of the city and the start of the Worcestershire plains and, such was the desire to link up the conurbations that a massive Victorian engineering project lifted the water through thirty locks and blasted hundreds of metres of tunnel through the hillsides. It was an early indication of the inevitable pushing and probing of the tendrils of the beast.
The craft on the water are scarce in comparison these days and move at walking pace. They’re an impractical attempt to cling on to a time that is lost and a way to surrender to time for a while: it takes a day to travel the two miles from one end of the flight of locks to the other – and that’s without traffic. Now these canals are largely forgotten and cut little lines across the countryside and provide surprising exit routes from city-centres and out of towns. The craft on the water are rare these days and move at walking pace.
From time to time a footpath will spring off to the side and a whole new adventure will beckon with a gnarled and twisted finger.
Don’t ignore that finger.