Frightened of the wind – 24th May

Fear of weather is such an ancient, instinctive thing. I’m never scared of snow, rain or cold, but howling wind sometimes terrifies me beyond all logic.

All day I’ve watched the weather, feeling a nameless anxiety pinch at my heart. It’s freezing, and the wind is hurling itself around Horley like a vicious drunk – stripping magnolia brides, smashing the cups of tulips.

The dogs and I set out around half-two, both of them full of nervous energy, winding their leads around my legs, yapping at young leaves blown end-over-end along the lane. I shout at them and pull their leads to get them to heel, but two seconds later they’re launching themselves in opposite directions, and I haul them back. Through my general wind-induced bad temper, I’m aware of a flicker of something positive: hard to get bat-wings when you walk two dogs.

I stomp up the Jackie Chan, heading for The Clump, which I reason will at least be sheltered. Walking any of the meadows would be awful – the wind snatches at my cap, and shoves rude cold fingers up my jacket. It’s not May. It’s some dreadful mis-shuffle with the worst of March. A branch of lilac is torn free, and lands at my feet. The dogs leap on it, mangling the flowers, barking now. My eyes are stinging, my nose and mouth numb.

Outside St Ethelreda’s, there’s carnage. The wind is ripping free the blazing candles of the horse chestnuts, and I can hear the groan of the stiff old branches. There’s a lighter, skittering noise, like someone rifling a tray of bones; it’s the huge holly, shuddering on the corner of the graveyard.

I put my head down and march on, holding onto the dogs as if they were all that is sensible and rational.

I reach The Clump, and catch my breath, sheltered for a moment by the final fold in the hill to Hornton. I hesitate for a moment before letting the dogs go, but then tell myself off.

Of course there’s no malevolent spirit. Of course the dogs aren’t my protection.

I think of the stories of the Gytrash, and remember my own hell hound, with whom I was never frightened. For the millionth time: I miss him.

Our own benevolent hell-hound, Dark Archer (Archie). He died in September 2012.
Our own benevolent hell-hound, Dark Archer (Archie). He died in September 2012.

Arfa-Pants and Dora disappear in seconds, launching themselves into the banks of swaying cow parsley.

On my left is a field of rape, the flat light rendering the field a sickly yellow, liverish. Unwholesome.

I walk up The Clump, pulling faces and daring the wind to stick me. At the top of the first hill, I start to lose my nerve. Here, the wind has a run-up from one of the Taylors’ fields, and smacks full force into the side of The Clump. Great wands of sycamore spin down like shot game, and the noise is starting to hollow-out my head. It’s a low roar that I feel as well as hear – the resonance makes my guts shiver, my bones loosen, as if I’m about to fly apart in pieces. I clutch my jacket with both hands, and promise that the minute I reach the stone table, I’ll turn back.

I want my dogs to be here, in front of me, but the wind snatches my voice, renders my whistles and shouts puny and ridiculous. I keep my eyes up, scanning the branches of ash, of sycamore. Watching the treacherous elder, and knowing how suddenly they can fall.

I reach the stone table, tag it with my hand and turn for home, determined not give in, crumple up and hide in a badger hole.

Halfway back, I notice a gap in the hedge I’ve never seen before, about four yards wide. The wind has come through it as a solid thing, crushing flat the cow parsley and bluebells, ripping free their petals and sending them in a blue-cream swathe against the dried red-mud of the lane. I’m too afraid to cross. Both dogs are back with me now, fretting around my legs.

‘Go off!’ I shout. ‘Go on. Go off!’ But Dora just whines, and neither dog will go forward. A tiny, sensible part of my mind is telling me there’s nothing to be frightened of, but I am frightened, horribly. Every sense and nerve is at full-alert, telling me there is something evil, something there that will do me harm. The roar changes pitch around me, and I hear the rubbery squeak of two branches forced to move against each other. The light darkens still further, and I feel an awful desperation that spins me round to face whatever it is coming after me. The lane behind me is empty.

I swing back, just as the dogs dart forward. There’s a black cat, sat in the lane ahead. I’ve never seen it before, and it doesn’t move as the dogs pelt towards it. There’s a crack behind me, as distinct as a pistol-shot, and I run, flat-out, down the hill, as fast as I ever have.

Dora and Arfa-Pants are nowhere to be seen, but by my side is a black shadow, running with me as he always did. Keeping me safe.

Walking, Monday 9th April

 

Dora and I did not escape the house last night until 7:45, by which time, we were both going crackers.

It took me a good five minutes of head-down marching before I even noticed I was still in my slippers. I didn’t dare go home to change in case Stevie said, ‘Thank God you’re back. I’m off to Nick-The-Brick’s.’

It took another five minutes for my shoulders to drop from round my ears, and to let the beauty and peace of the evening seep down my spine.

The sky behind St Ethelreda’s was the first thing I noticed – that beautiful unearthly grey-blue just before dusk proper. There were faint streaks of rose and gold, and birds appeared against it, briefly, blackly.

We walked up Hornton Lane, admiring the tête a-tête narcissus that everyone seems to have planted this year. Their prim neatness seems to make daffodils look gawky and unsophisticated, like leggy school-girls in their first night club.

Snowdrops are mostly over, flinging off their shrivelled petals and waving tiny bare stamens. Nothing very demure about them now.

We turned up Clump Lane, me picking my slippered-way over puddles. Dora shot off, intent on finding squirrels to murder. The light was playing tricks on ordinary colours – the clay of Clump looking its most vibrant orange.

Coming to the top of the hill, I bumped into a Handsome Horley Husband, and immediately tried to hide my feet and bat my eyelashes at the same time. He looked a little surprised, but we had a lovely conversation about the satisfaction of digging veg beds.

I was distracted by the beautiful view over towards the Scout Woods, and left my mouth on auto-pilot, which is always a worry. I tried frantically to remember what we’d been talking about – Spring? Mother-in-laws?

I hoped I’d not said anything inappropriate about beds, veg or otherwise.

A brace of duck called down in the valley, and I realised it was almost dark. Stevie would be dancing with frustration, eager to escape a Small Girl Sleepover party and reach the manly sanctuary of Nick-The-Brick’s.

‘I must go,’ I said regretfully.

Dora refused to leave the badgery-smelling garden of Bramshill Farm. I was too embarrassed to go in and get her. I waved the Handsome Husband good-bye, and slid off on my slippers, praying that Dora would notice and have some sort of female loyalty.

She caught me up at the end of Clump Lane, panting with the joy of her run, mouth wide in Jack Russell grin.

I grinned back, fussing her silly head. We turned for home, my red slippers livid in the half-light.