It rained last night.
Not that newsworthy maybe, but it’s been warm and sunny for a while and the forecast didn’t show that it was going to rain. So, I’m barefoot and padding down to the garden to collect the inevitably damp washing that’s hanging on the line. The little passageway from the house is lined with plants drooping sleepily under the burden of their cargo of pearlescent raindrops.
My feet and trousers are soaked with cold April rain by the time I emerge into the garden and I’m wondering why on earth I didn’t put the wellies by the back door on. I’m wondering why I thought it was so urgent to collect the washing after all. I’m wondering why I have to spend my birthday in meetings instead of by the river or out in some National Trust aged splendour. I’m wondering how anyone would vote for a Salisbury MP who doesn’t live anywhere near Salisbury. I’m wondering what would happen if a butterfly flapped it’s wings in mexico and whether it would cause a storm in the English Channel. All right, all right, I may be using a little artistic license there. Anyway, as I was saying. I’m deep in thought.
Then my heart stops.
A pheasant erupts from the grass in front of me with a flutter of brown and a raucous cacophony of indignation.
Heart rate slowing I notice the world around me, my awareness opening like ripples spreading from a stone thrown into water. The hazy quality of the morning light, the leaves and blades of grass glistening – raindrops reflecting light like a glastonbury crystal shop window. The smell of the freshly washed world fills my nostrils; moist earth, yesterdays cut grass, a hint of blossom on the light spring breeze.
Sound fills my mind, the morning chorus is outstanding today. (I’ve posted a recording from my phone although it doesn’t do it justice, just click the play button below). Our feathered friends appear to be just glad to be alive on this fine morning, wanting to share that joy with the world.
Behind it all however, I can hear the Nadder. One stone wall and half a field of burgeoning buttercups away is the big pool. My big pool. Although I can only hear the rush of water as it pours through the hatch, in my minds eye I can see the water, white and oxygen rich. Turbulent, tearing, rushing, racing. I can see the snags on the right hand bank, I can pick out the little sips of the spotty behemoths as they suck insects from the slack water. I can feel the water as it pulls at my waders, subtly caressing me, luring me siren-like into the watery embrace and the grey green depths telling me I’ve waded just a little too deep again. I can smell the meadows coming to life.
Buzz Buzz Buzz Buzz Buzz
I’m back in the garden. My trousers are soaked as I sat down on the bench without realising and my phone is buzzing, asking me why it’s taking 30 minutes to get the washing in. I gather up the sodden clothing, bustle back up the house and officially begin the day.
It’s now 11:30, I’m sat in a very dull meeting, or at least my body is sat in the dull meeting. My mind is drifting and I’m back at my big pool on the Nadder, I’m back in a slowly waking English Countryside.
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