Sun Day

So I stepped out this morning, having mowed the lawn. I wore a red daisy sarong and trainers. God Forbid I had an accident there was no underwear, clean or otherwise, to be seen.
I left the cottage my head full of lethal loops….’Will B ever get a music deal?’ ‘Will Jim ever work again?’ ‘Will my mother go gently?’ ‘Will I ever be able to sell my writing?” And so on around and around until I got to the open gate.
And there on the golf course was Gods Gift, wearing a hat that won us The Empire, his golfing partner sporting a titfar that would have done Lawrence of Arabia proud.
I snuck onto the green, knowing that my outfit would not have gone down well in the club house, watched the ‘oosbind hit a blinder, called him and he, as if it was everyday that a nearly naked woman commented on his balls, said.
‘Alright?’
And I answered;
‘Yes.’
As if it was everyday that I went onto the green to ask him to put the rubbish out, change the fuse in the humidifier, recycle the bottles and put a new light in the bathroom.
I gathered up my loins and walked the first bend.
The first stream sounded like cicadas hissing its way to the other side of the valley.

And then that miraculous moment when you realise that you are thinking outside of yourself. That the delicious outside world is talking at you. That the birds and the flowers, the sky and the trees, the breeze and the thwop of golf balls on 5 irons have replaced the loop inside your head.
The Sun had muscled its way through the trees spilling puddles of sunlight over the road, tip-toeing through them, as the white Convolvulus trumpets jostled for prime position with a population of yellow Hawkweed that nodded towards the Sun.
I walked fast, my body in sync, for a change, and then when the road filtered to the left I had a stream of sunshine, a wide river of golden light with only the shadow of ferns making the shade.
The smell of wood assaulted my nose as I passed the woodyard. The second stream really bubbling round the bend where we used to catch frog spawn.
My heart was ready for the steep climb, one deep breath and onwards and upwards, past the milk farm, past the handwoven hazel hedges, pass the furry May blossom, and one last push to the kissing gate leading into my field.
A lone Crow cawed four time; ‘SHE’S ON HER WAY.’ One wood pigeon flapped its wings once, just a lone clap, and then hidden the other side of the hedge a pheasant clucked, it sounded like a throaty laugh from a barmaid. A bee buzzed past my ear. The very sound of Summer.
I collected seven different grasses. From Timothy, Creeping bent, Yorkshire fog, False oak-grass, Upright brome, Cock’s-foot and Common Sedge. I’ve poked them into the flower pot of the Succulent I took from my mothers flat.
And then a hard and fast walk through my field to the two big oaks, up the hill, through the farm and back onto the road.
I walked just shy of an hour.
I’ve made myself an itinerary, each day a different walk. In two years I’ve promised myself we’re getting a dog, right now though, I have to self motivate so that my old ticker gets a work out.
But I can’t stop and chat it’s the first day that I’ve managed to put out the washing line.
Everything is getting a good wash and an airing. White towels and sheets.
Blowing in the wind.
We’ve only got another couple of days of this weather so I’m taking advantage.
But then don’t I always?