On Walking: Monday 2nd January

It’s just past nine and the dogs and I are slipping and sliding down the Banbury Road. We were just whizzing round the cricket, five minutes at most, but the beauty of the morning has untethered us, sent us spinning off down the valley beneath the drying barn. The dogs are bonkers with excitement; pulling like kites on their leads.

The air is so cold, and I take great gulps of it; I swoop down the hill, an unwieldy mummy-bird in my thick anorak and blue-and-pink bobble hat. The ground is stone-hard beneath my borrowed snake-skin wellies, and I’m reckless with my ankles, stumbling half-jogging, greedy to see and feel and be amongst the crystal gorgeousness that can’t be described, only lived.

We reach the bridge between the fields, still thickly silver despite the sun. The treachery of the bridge demands Empress-steps, and I pause, finally, when I reach the other side.

These are the fields that once held wheat, or rape; they are now farmed by someone else, and the change had filled me with dread. Idiot me. The tenants put the field to grass, for sheep, but today it’s empty of sheep. Instead, I see hundreds of starlings, almost a whole field of them,  bobbing and dipping in the wide bars of silvered shadows. I watch them, they seem so unafraid of me, of Pants wheeling his endless circles.

I stand in the pale gold of the sun, hearing the flit of the birds, seeing the new curves of the field. The frost on the grass nearest to me has melted to glass baubles, hung on the very tip of each grass blade, utterly perfect.

I walk on, carefully at first, but soon at a march. I want to see Emma’s Meadow, the Old Mill field, the ravages in the poplar wood. I want to see how frozen the path is to Drayton, how high the Sor Brook runs after yesterday’s day-long rain. I want to think about the scene I’m writing later, about my new book and my future and my family and all we’re going to achieve this year.

At home are jobs waiting to be done; meals to cook, ironing, paperwork, Christmas to put away. But the dogs and I are on Back Lane now, and there are puddles, thickly frozen, iced white. My borrowed wellies demand pay, and I jump, hop and smash-crack my way through the ice. Pants barks and tries to snatch at muddied shards, Dora disappears beneath a hedge, thinking we’re both mad.

We reach the last pot-hole in a chain, the deepest, and I jump with both feet, splashing freezing mud up behind my knees, inside my thighs. The shock makes me gasp, incredulous – I’ve forgotten how cold a puddle can be, how little it matters compared to the joy of snapping the ice.

We reach the poplar spinney, and I should go right, across the fields towards home, but instead I choose left, on to the old railway. The place of twisted blackthorn and broken ash trees. The place of divots and hollows, of the most fantastic, uncracked puddles.

I jump again and again, shouting at the cold, barking back at Pants, smashing and cracking and splashing, hooting with happiness.

Happy New Year to you, Reader. May 2017 bring you health, peace, and silly moments of pure joy.

Dora and The Pants

 

Author: mrscarlielee

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

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