Now 33 minutes and 40 seconds in London crosses boundaries.
Battersea to Chelsea.
Clapham to Wandsworth.
Hampstead to Camden Town.
But 33 minutes and 40 seconds where I live takes you into the rain forest the only boundaries are the hedgerows full of ancient plants.
The first fifteen minutes had me marvelling at the dogged ‘Unofficial English Rose’ which looks like its having a field day.
I have never seen so many flowers. Blousy and open, their faces flat to the sun.
I had my timer in my pocket, and I walked fast. As fast as I could given my foot, and back.
My ant bite is still painful but the rest of my body is finally settling down. At home I walk barefoot on my soft rugs and carpets, and have started my Tibetan Five – ancient rites from Tibet. I work with Sarah Kline on the side of Curtis Canyon in Jackson Hole Wyoming, the Teton montains in the distance. Of course I don’t actually work with her she talks at me from the computer and I pretend I’m standing on the side of the canyon with her and her two acolytes, a surfer and an all American girly sports woman.
I’ve even started meditating. So the old back is not so stiff and I am getting more and more balanced.
I took my blood sugar this morning and its frightfully high so I’ve factored in walking now. Walking and breathing, breathing and thinking.
The hedgerows behind my cottage always remind me of my mother. 28 years ago she picked the blackberries and hid from the cows.
Eleven Simentals in the field next to our cottage and eleven three fields down. Six were standing and five were sitting so I figured it would give us just over a 50% chance of rain. The first drop landed on my left lens. The second on my top left lip. I didn’t care I was walking. Finally striding in the open air.
The air smelt sweet.
The grey clouds low and soft.
The walk down hill was easy, I pushed myself. Spread my arms and my fingertips very nearly touched the ferns on either side of the road which felt narrower because of the overgrown cow parsley.
Trees had been blown down, I could hear the sawmill in the wood yard. Slicing the huge trunks into logs.
On the way back, sweaty and more aware the woodland felt magical. Honeysuckle binding and winding around Silver Birch.
Serried rows of nettles, taller than me. Foxgloves bending under the weight of raindrops in their fingers.
The grasses waved at me; ‘Crested Dogstail’ and ‘Timothy.’
Little yellow flowers drooped next to the erect wild orchids. I had to look up the name of the poorly yellow ‘Mouse-ear Hawkweed’ .
One of my most treasured books is the little fat WILD FLOWERS of The British Isles. In fact I have two of them. They are both the same but one is more available than the other.
Never ceases to amaze me the names of all the wild plants from ‘Great Lettuce’ to ‘Golden Rod’. Obvious ‘Dictionary of Signatures’ but who named them. Shouldn’t you just love to have a flower named after yourself?
One of my never to be lent out films is ‘NEW LEAF’ with Walter Mattheau, the love story of naming and claiming and falling in lurve.
But it was the ‘Dog Roses’ that did it for me today. So many of them, hundreds of years old, hanging in and reclaiming their territory.
The Beeches and Oaks, the Hawthorn in the hedges. The power of the grasses punching through the tarmac.
The ground soft and damp, two streams flowing, nearly onto the road, the birds whistling down the wind.
Yesterday I didn’t care if Andy Murray won Wimbledon or not, I have a pathological dislike of his morose angularity, of his mother, of his humourless character, but after walking in the Engish countryside i thought maybe I’ll change my allegiences from Switzerland and Federer to the Brit boy – but then again!
I’m off now to mow the lawn, pick a lettuce, weed the garlic and eat some lunch, read Kitty Aldridges wonderful book ‘A TRICK I LEARNED FROM DEAD MEN’, research tomorrows show which includes, three actors a musician and a writer.
Please listen to BBC London 94.9. if only to hear Keith Allens latest ‘Fat Les’ song. It is official I am in love with KA and why not I’m old enough to be his housekeeper.
8 thoughts on “33 minutes and 40 seconds”
Simply beautiful, Jenny. I am 100% behind Roger tomorrow. He epitomises beauty to me. So lovely.
AUNTY JENI – i can not imagine you having a pathological dislike of anyone!
Here’s a thing… Andy Murray may be a grouch, but he does have passion and a depth of emotion. Federer is gorgeous, hot and…. but, he shows no depth of emotion. For me he is a little too calm and slick. I would like to see just a glimmer of passion from him. Something we probably won’t see until he loses. Could today be that day..
I have GoldenRod herb tea to clear the sinuses. It works better than the over the counter pharma chemicals, and has no side effect. Nature really does have it all worked out.
I love your expression of blousy flowers and roses. My breath was taken away when i first saw the petals of a rose through a plm – microscope. Unfathomable magic and beauty.
Love Light LV
Roger Federers eyes…..beautiful. But Boris Becker all over! He’s the one for me!
Just to say how much I enjoyed walking with you! Especially the blowsy roses and the smell of the wood from the sawmill, bliss.
Loved your interview with Keith Allen but we will have to fight for him as I’m in love with him too!
As for Rhianon what a hussey!!
To all our lovely bloggers, I know the sun is absent BUT how lucky are we, no really, we had a water shortage and now we don’t, so many countries would love to be where we are at this moment. So perhaps we really do need to see the glass is half full, well actually brimming over! Just another way to look at this summer perhaps?
Love to all
Oh Jeni, u should write a book! You have this magical way of bringing to life the sights, sounds and smells u experience whilst strolling in the countryside as we envy u for being situated in the open countryside instead of breathing in the polluted London smog!
I hope your sugar level has stablized. If u walk regularly at least every second day, your levels should remain low.
Keep us informed of your mother’s health, I hope she’s improving.
All my love,
What can I say, June? He’s lovely!
could dancing possibly be better than walking
Bit behind on the blog but love it. Classic from my 6-year old granddaughter after ‘that tennis final’ – “oooooh, his mummy’s going to be awfully cross” You bet.
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