Spring is nearly sprung

My garden is waterlogged. Instead of being able to tiptoe through the tulips I have to slip and slide my way round the Hellebores. Clumps of daffodils push their way through tangled ferns and purple crocuses under the Magnolia.
I tried to meditate in the very bright sun clutching two hot water bottles and sitting on a cushion but it was just too cold.
To compensate I’ve started walking again.
Down the hill, over the road and into the orchard. My heart sunk so many apple trees have been chopped down, turned left to the kissing gate but the mud slapped at my heels and my boots got stuck in the claggy earth. I’m all of a yearn at the moment. Remembering walking with our dog Jackson, smelling the smells of my teenage years when I sat atop of a WW2 pill box discussing life and art with a fiddling boyfriend.Life was so full of sweet promise.
I walked down the hill, lorries whistling past and soggy, wet leaves threatening to upend me.

Crossed the road again and finally I was traffic free. All quiet – the birds filled the air with clear song.
And then there they were primroses, yellow faces turned to the sky jostling their shoulders in the wind. Celandine, wild daffodils, beautiful pink camellias and soft new holly leaves. Water streaming down the road. The noise was spectacular.

Took a right into the winding rocks and monkey puzzle trees and stopped to read about women climbers from a bygone age. Photos of them in their cut off trousers, ropes wrapped round their bodies. Photographs of well heeled women who got blown away in 140 mile an hour winds, whose bodies were never found. Pregnant women climbing up mountains carrying their babies inside them. Women of pluck who died trekking the Himalayas. I struggled to get up the steep hill – no crampons for me. Got to the ski slope, I reached the lime tree that is now tall and strong. I remember when they planted it over thirty years ago,

I slugged through the avenue and found my tree, all pruned and bare. Wet trunk and not a glimpse of my lippy, it had all been washed away.The bark thrillingly earthy, I was surrounded by the smell of impending spring.

Just thinking about the walk and I have to take a deep breath.

I like walking but I have been negligent. For a whole year worrying about the old git and my health took a battering. Now I’ve introduced myself to the out doors again. I try not to think about Trump and Hunt. I try not to think about cynicism and the manboy we call our leader. I walk and slurp in the cool, clean air. And I try not to think about the Munchian screaming faces of the Gazan women. My head needs a break from the glumness of war.
I’m 75 in a couple of weeks and I dont take prisoners any more. No more flogging dead horses for me. I white lie and let the phone ring and ring. I have boundless excuses to cancel appointments really good ones like gastroenteritis or broken piston rings. I meter out my energy so I can walk again. Tomorrow I’m up to London, a trip on the train to London Bridge then the tube to Clapham. I’ll marvel at city life then come home again.

Right now I’ heading up to bed, slotting my head into the deep hollow of my pillow. When I was a girl I could decide what kind of dreams I wanted. I might try that tonight. A Costa Rican zip wire through the canopy, and a sun bed on the white sands, the waves lapping at my feet. I can do what I like, thank you very much, it’s my dream.
zzzzzzzzzzzzzz