On Walking: Wednesday 14th August

I am child-less, for the first time in weeks, and I can walk at the pace I choose, and think the thoughts I choose. I can decide what to serve for dinner (that marrow that keeps looking at me, balefully, from the dresser). I can examine any plant or insect that catches my eye, and I can stand stock-still in the middle of a field for five minutes, listening to ripe corn. I can then take a further ten minutes thinking of how to describe it. Not as plastic-beadily rattling as oats, is my conclusion so far.

The dogs and I are heading to the covert across the valley from the cricket pitch – through the corn fields that catch the very last of the evening sun. It’s mid-afternoon now, though, and the glorious morning has clouded to a  featureless dirty-white, like grubby bed-sheets.

We walk down the Banbury Road, and I notice the stems of the elder berries are stained purplish-red, although the berries themselves stay green. They remind me of the neck-flush of an older woman with a crush, and decide that when the time comes, I shall wear a silk scarf.

We turn past Jamie’s Mum’s stables, and walk up the grassy ride alongside the wheat. I think about something I recently learnt – what I thought was some sort of long-whispery type of wheat is actually barley, and what I thought was barley was just a longer-stemmed type of wheat. And corn can mean any cereal crop at all. The bit I don’t understand was how I mixed it all up in the first place – I grew up on a small-holding in the middle of fields. You’d have thought I could tell the difference.

There’s a path cut through the wheat and I follow it, stooping to admire the tiny love-hearts of Shepherd’s Purse. The red-brown soil of the path has been compacted by walkers – this route leads to Ratley, and the National Herb Centre.  There’s another plant here, sprawling rudely, holding its pink fingers up in defiance to passing boots. My Collins guide tells me it’s ‘Red Shank’, or Persicaria. Apparently, we used to eat it.

This thought occupies me all the way to the covert. How did we eat it? In salads? The guide says ‘the starch-rich fruits were formerly gathered and used as grain.’ Red Shank soup? Bread? I kick at a thistle, frustrated that ancient hedge-row knowledge is missing from my brain.

I reach the stile at the covert: my turning point. Not wanting to go home just yet, I perch on the stile like a silly fat pigeon, looking across the valley to Horley. I can see our house, the inexhaustible To-Do List scrawling out of our chimneys.

I turn my attention back to the Red Shank, and wish I were brave enough to serve it for dinner, mixed with pasta, some marrow (which I’d chop and oven-bake, with salt and rosemary and olive oil). Topped with pecorino and a few splinters of smoked streaky bacon.

‘Oh yes,’ I’d say. ‘Red shank. Or Lady’s Thumb. Delicious, don’t you think? Yes, of course…grown locally.’

Redshank - persicaria

Author: mrscarlielee

Country housewife. Mother. Writer. Wearer of frocks with wellies. Loves Dancing, Frivolity and Good Books. Blog at https://mrscarlielee.wordpress.com/ Tweet @MrsCarlieLee Website: www.thecountryhousewife.com

3 thoughts on “On Walking: Wednesday 14th August”

  1. eatweeds.co.uk has a recipe for redshank & aubergine spring rolls; perhaps you could substitute marrow. I have never thought about the colour of the elderberry stems in that way but I do have a silk scarf that fits into a 2 inch square pouch that might be a good thing to carry now I am in my mid-sixties!

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  2. Hello Lynne, what brilliant site! Thank you so much!

    As to the scarf – do crushes abate when you’re older? I’m 34, and have been faithful to my husband for fifteen years, but still develop thumping, inappropriate passions on deeply unsuitable men. I’d be horrified if anything actually happened, but I do enjoy the whole heart-stopping, heart-thumping flirting of it all.

    Will I need my silk scarf, do you think, or might my mind be occupied on higher plains? Like properly understanding the work of TS Elliot, or appreciating Dutch Masters (which currently leave me completely unmoved). Hope you don’t think I’m rude to ask, I really don’t mean to be,

    C

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  3. Glad you like the eating weeds site and no, I don’t think you are rude for asking. From personal experience I can say that crushes abate but do not cease although, in my case, they are played out more subtly. Those of us lucky enough to be in good, strong marriages are the perfect candidates for flirtatious exchanges with unsuitable men; they inject extra excitement into your life but you must take care not to give a false impression of your availability. I think the blushing of later years may partly come from embarrassment because society imposes ludicrous age-related rules (I recently wrote a post about being pigeon-holed.) I am happy to report that developing a better understanding of or enthusiasm for any of the arts (opera in my case) and feeling your heart race from physical, or mental, attraction to another human are not mutually exclusive.

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