On Dog Walking – Saturday 29th April

Sometimes, if a thousand tiny things click into place, a dog walk can become a memory so precious, it epitomises something too huge to put into words. I realise that sounds a bit pretentious, but I can’t think of how else to put it.

Ellie and I went walking on Saturday evening, and we were only going to whiz the block, because Ellie was desperate to watch The Voice. But when we reached the gate to Roger’s Field, Ellie hung off it, frowning.

Dog walking, Apr 13.
Dog walking, Apr 13.

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I thought there’d be the sunset.’

‘Too early, my love. Get off the gate, let’s go. Dor! Dora-‘

‘Can’t we just go to the Sledging Field?’

She had the same querulous tone she’d had all day, just dying for a fight. So unnerving. Ellie is like a bad-tempered show-pony. Beautiful to look at, but lashes out without warning. She climbed the stile with poker legs, and stalked off up the track. Distracted by pale primroses (lemon laced on the edges with a pastelly pinky-peach), I didn’t follow immediately.

But this is where it happened – a kind of creeping joyousness, stealing over us like magic from a cauldron.

Ellie turned to me as I climbed the stile, her face alight. ‘Mummy!’ she said. ‘Let’s just keep going.’

The light had turned to mellow gold, painting the sledging hill emerald green. We could hear the laughing of the ducks down on the old Carp Ponds, and a blackbird sang in the spinney next to us, almost unbearable in its sweetness. Ellie started running down the hill, Dora at her heels, and I wished I could just hold my hands out and stop that moment, and lock it in my heart forever.

‘Mummy! Look-‘ She’d found a patch of daisies, about as big as a dustbin lid, all tightly closed against the coming of the night. They looked more pink than white against their cushion of grass.

Wriggling through the spinney, we could see into one of Dave’s fields, planted with oil seed rape. I ducked beneath a shattered ash, and looked up just to see a shock of yellow in the green – the first flowering of rape I’ve seen this year. But I couldn’t stand for long, Ellie and Dor were out of the spinney and haring up Ross’ field on the other side.

‘Why are you laughing?’ she said, when I finally caught her up. I bent over, trying to squash stitch back into my body.

‘Because I’m happy,’ I said, between gasps. She ran at me and swung round my neck to give me a kiss. ‘When I’m a farmer,’ she announced. ‘I’m going to have fives ewes and a ram. But they won’t be sexing all the time.’

We crossed Ross’ set-aside and the view on the other side of the hedge caught me, as always. The very tip of North Oxfordshire and the very bottom of Warwickshire, all rolling hills with Hornton tucked in its folds like treasure.  It’s the view to look at when you feel hopeless, or exhausted, or you’ve just bounced your mortgage for the last two months. A view in which to escape, and understand context.

We reached Clump Lane and more loveliness awaited us. Ellie and Jess invented a secret path, years ago, when they could barely toddle, and Ellie went to climb up to it, as always.

‘Mummy!’ she called. ‘You have to come up here. Right now.’

A bluebell had flowered. She knelt on the damp ground, her hands gently holding up so I could see. ‘That’s what you’ve been waiting for, isn’t it?’

I thought I might burst. Or cry, so instead I sang, and we danced up the lane singing the Romeo and Juliet song the children are obsessed with.

When we reached the end of Clump, the golden light had gone and it was dusk. The Voice was probably half way through, but we’d reached that place of high, silly nuttishness that doesn’t care about anything but right here, right now. The daffodils nodded yellow heads to us as we quick-stepped home, and my daughter swung from my hand, yelling, ‘Juliet marry me, then we’ll never be alone-‘

We both waved to every single passing random in their cars, their surprised or grumpy faces making us laugh even harder.

On Dog Walking 6th April 2013

Decent Saturday dog walks are hard fought. Ordinarily, Saturdays to us are work days, with Stevie doing endless Go-Sees, and the daughters dancing, then off to little buddies’ houses, or little buddies coming here, and I have to feed them all, and generally present myself as A Good Mummy.

I did slide off though, today, at about five, with Dora. It feels like the first proper day of Spring, after the longest winter imaginable. Swathes of snow still lie incongruously beneath hedges, like sheets that flew off some giant’s washing line.

We walked the Bottom Meadows, Dora sending up pheasants from the stream. Their frantic Ee-full ee-full ee-full and ungainly, neck-stretched flight always make me think of fat ladies running for the loo. They also makes me think of shooting, and how I wimped out of my first game shoot.

Dora also sent up a brace of ducks, the mallard flashing green in the low sun. They both flew silently, and low, with none of the panic of the pheasants.

Along the first of Dave’s big fields, I stopped to examine the skeletons of giant cow-parsley type stuff, which I need to look the name up of. They are hollow and the children like snapping them down and using them as ineffectual weapons. They make a good swish sound when whizzed through the air.

Normally, I love walking with the children, but today I’m relishing just being with Dora. She doesn’t moan when I get fixated by an interesting piece of lichen. Nor does Dora stir up the brook so I can’t see the bottom and try to look for stickle-backs. I really want to see some stickle-backs in our stream, but I never have done.

I cross the stream into Emma’s meadow, and admire the new mole hills by the stream. Dora insists on weeing on every single one.

I’m supposed to be taking the children to Hornton for a sleep-over, so I up my pace to cross the meadow and swing round to the bottom of the village.

But then I bump into a Horley beauty, walking her gorgeous Labradoodle, Ted. We pause to speculate whether a funny little white-flowered plant by the brook is chick-weed, or something more exciting.

And then we’re catching up on gossip and eyeing up the sweet, strangely dressed Frenchman who walks briskly by.

Eventually, Dora and I wander on, totally forgetting about taking the children to Hornton, and I find a whole wall by Pete Miers’ cottage, frothing with green aubretia leaves, tiny scraps of violent and purple hinting at the show to come.

Dora decides to crap on a verge and I don’t have any bags left in my coat. Luckily, there’s a drain, so I flick it down with my welly boot.

We climb over into the cricket field, and the instant I see Jess flying down on her scooter I remember we’re horribly late. All the lovely peace of the walk is lost in the desperate scramble to pack pyjamas, and Rabbit and Lamby, and to stop everyone walking in the new puppy wee.