The diesel fuelled tracks of destruction gorging their way through the landscape made it difficult for me to find my balance, at times the wheels of my push bike spinning frictionless as I gingerly steered myself through the muddy quagmire.
The 4×4, the ever necessary vehicle of choice for the ‘countryperson’, call me cynical but I wonder if during their 12 bore yielding, chelsea tractor revving, frenzy of blood fuelled weekend sport they for a second, appreciate their surroundings that could so easily slip away from us, unnoticed and forgotten.
Alongside these tracks of destruction a copper carpet of leaves slinking its way down the steep incline to my right, permeatted by the smooth, grey stems of the beech, all closely planted, their higher canopies throwing out contorted limbs in the fight for light with the occasional fusion of cambial tissue creating creature like contortions and shapes. At the base of the incline a wide linear thicket of wild damson, absent of fruit, shone, their still heavily foliated branches smothered in butter yellow tear drops ready to drop lifelessly at the next visit from Jack Frost.
The gently mown pasture was a lovely way to descend, the light dusting of moisture on the sward zipped from my tyres as I meandered my way through the sheep that blinked, suprised but unphased, by my sudden arrival through the low hanging mist, the light beginning to fade.
There was a calm in the air today, I’m glad I made the time to find it.
thebeginningofitall 