
The cold seems to have been hanging on this first week in June, the house struggling to warm, most days never breaking eighteen degrees. The boiler lies dormant. Jumpers and jackets suffice for comfort and, of an evening, only essential lamps are lit. Appliances are scrutinised for kilowatts, and used as necessary but with circumspection. I don’t know if such economies are futile, but we make them anyway. And as I gaze out along the street, none of my neighbours are lit up either, so I guess I’m not the only one feeling a way through these strange times.
Meanwhile, malodorous smoke drifts, chugging out from the chimneys of those with wood-burners. These were purchased no doubt, for fancy, when they were of a fashion, but are now pressed into the more serious production of free heat – this, I suspect, from the burning of old pallets, and window frames. All of which is to the chagrin of those with hung out washing, and to me, whose sinuses swell at the merest whiff. Reluctantly, I take an anti-histamine.
For such a tiny pill, the anti-histamine packs a mighty punch, and I never could handle them. It does nothing for the sinuses, but puts me in a muddle all the next day long, and takes my legs. We’ll say that’s what it is anyway, as we feel the path bite. We’re in White Coppice, a little late in the day, so it was a struggle to park. I think some schools are still on Half Term – so hard to judge them these days. The plan is to wander up the ravine of Dean Black Brook, breaking out towards its head to Great Hill, but I find I’m overdressed for the day, which warms suddenly, and my legs are – well – leaden.
It’s becoming quite a sporting route, this, the path eroding, and dangerous in places as it slides away to a long and exposed drop. Or it may just be my age, and it’s always been this way. As an approach to Great Hill, it’s a more intimate route than the more popular path by Drinkwaters with its wide moorland vistas.
There are little cascades along the way, some accessible, some not, as the path sweeps up and down. At the first of these, I rest a bit, pull off the jacket before I boil, and settle down to take a photograph. It’s a cheat, I suppose, but even a modest runnel of water like this can be made to appear dramatic, from the right angle, and with a bit of cropping. Thus, I fuss over dozens of shots, thinking at least one is likely to come out all right. I’m packing up and turn to recover the path, only to be startled by a pair of Amazons coming at me like they mean business. That’s it with running water, you don’t hear the approach of others.
They have stepped out of an Instagram shoot, these girls. They are – what do you call them? – influencers, or perhaps more likely influenced. Tall, both of them, blonde and shapely, in their twenties, hair tied up in identical ways, like twin sisters. They wear identical gear: very short shorts, tight tee-shirts, little back-packs bouncing in the smalls of their backs, and running shoes. They are moving fast, and have looks of grim determination about them.
The lead girl is bold, and sure of foot, heedless of the sometimes sporting nature of the path. The girl who follows is more hesitant. She is the one I would have most in common with, I think. I never had much time for bold leader-types, nor they for me. I feel almost bowled aside by them, but they do not seem to notice me.
I venture a polite hello. The lead girl ignores it, or does not hear it. The girl who follows makes a belated, surprised response, as if indeed they had not noticed me. With a fragrant waft of body-spray, they are gone, up the side of the ravine, climbing like mountain goats. I see only legs, and sky. I reassure myself I would have outpaced them once, but not today. Today, I flake out at every opportunity, and fiddle with the camera.
We fiddle with it some more, at every insignificant sparkle of the brook along the way. Our progress is slow and halting, the day of a sudden somehow jaded. We take pictures of the more unfamiliar flora to identify later (heath bedstraw), and note the fresh green ferns now sprouting, marking their assertive dominance. In a few weeks they will be tall and wavy, and the valley will be pungent with them, and the air caught in their fronds will be thick with the drone of flies.
I see the crown of Great Hill ahead, and the sycamores by the ruin of Great Hill Farm. The Amazons are already two jogging dots of white against the heat wobbled green of the moor. They were indeed beautiful girls, but they struck me as cold, and that’s always something of a paradox, as I always imagine beauty to be warm. Bodies to die for, of course, and which would lure even the most nervous would-be lover from his mother’s apron, but they possessed not a smile between them. I don’t know why that struck me. Perhaps it was just the day and the muddlement, caused by the anti-histamine. It would need a poem to explore it.
We leave Black Dean Brook by the kissing gate that brings us up to the ruin of Drinkwaters, and there we sit in the shade of trees, enjoying a cooling breeze. Even the sheep are reluctant to relinquish their shade, now, and keep us company. A few lines of a poem by Betjeman comes unbidden:
Fair tigress of the tennis courts,
So short in sleeve and strong in shorts,
Little, alas, to you I mean,
For I am bald and old and green,..
And while I thank the unconscious pixie for its wry humour – which does indeed raise a smile – I know that’s not it, and it knows I know, but challenges me to mull it over and come back with a more serious answer to the question the day poses. So then it’s down to White Coppice in weary defeat, Great Hill seeming an Everest of effort, and quite beyond us, nothing in the legs, and this haunting sense of Beauty having turned its back.
At home, we sit out with coffee, and watch the sunset. The day is cooling again, and needs a sweater for comfort. Then the village stokes its wood-burners for the evening, and we withdraw to the cleaner air indoors, to dream, not of Amazons, but of sparkling rills along the Dean Black Brook.
And we attempt our reply, not as erudite or as witty as Betjeman:
Awakening to loss, we mourn the day’s swift run,
Seeking shallow waters, so to play,
Mistaking splash and haste for meaning,
And with foolish swings,
Scythe then our harvest home,
Thin as air, wholesome as the dust,
Of windblown clay.
Only in the lingering pause of beauty,
Do the depths reveal,
And then, smiling, lead the way.
The forecast says the days will turn warmer. I welcome that.
Thanks for listening.
I’ve scrambled up that Dean Black Brook in the past. I never had visions of Amazons ahead of me. Betjeman’s Olympic Girl is a taut expression of ageing men.
The Amazon’s were a surprise. I first read that poem when I was a young man, but now I suppose I am that man. There was someone scrambling up the first of the falls. It must be very greasy when there’s a lot of water.
Just another dichotomy.
I love your writing because you see and describe the world around you as you walk.
I am (even in my late 70s) like the girls. I don’t look outwards as I exercise but inwards. Aiming for the maximum, for the burn, overcoming the challenge be it speed or distance or incline. We enter the zone and see only the next footstep, I love doing the same route over and over, so I can blot out the familiar, not have to make decisions and concentrate on my inward thoughts and feelings.
I was in one of the world’s beauty spots which offered 10 or 12 posted trials. The longest was a 5 hour trail through the forest. The hotel offered sandwiches and drinks for a lunch stop which I carried with me. I was back in 2 hours. It was a brilliant, adrenaline raising walk. I loved it and did it again the next day but didn’t bother with the sandwiches.
Viva le difference.
You’re right. Those girls were on a mission. They probably have their more relaxing days when they smile a lot. I tend to be more focussed in the mountains, and review the day afterwards.
Indeed, moving quickly reduces the amount of gear required almost exponentially. But I have been known to run over a Welsh hill, only to arrive on the other side almost hypothermic and disoriented. There’s always a balance I suppose.
Probably, but I had my arm in plaster (aggressive field Hockey) and a friend had his in plaster from coming off his motorbike.
I said that we were stupid, taking too many risks and his reply has stayed with me ever since.
“Yes, but if you are not living on the edge, you are taking up too much space.”
Alas your pictures are invisible to me, on my Samsung Galaxy S5 mini, which is now almost permanently in ultra energy saving mode, offering only a dim black and white screen, and refusing any attempt at screen rotation.
I can pictures though the ferns, as I can the legs and sky.
I was distracted by more than legs this afternoon in Sainsburys in Pimlico, she was wearing a very colourful sporty number, very loud but even more skimpy. I think it was lycra, but thinner and skimpier than what the club cyclists wear. I spied her 1st down the main aisle, the bright colours and the blonde head, screamed something, but amazon she was not. I hate to confess to something close to stalking, but I found myself next to her surveying a selection of morning goods, in which I am sure neither of us had any interest. I was obviously paying more attention to her than the other crumpets on offer, as I noticed that when a girl puts so much flesh on show, all she does is draw attention to the little imperfections. It is, of course those imperfections that make someone special, but they somehow clashed with the skimpy, perfect lycra. I nearly caught her again at the self checkout, but, having her credit card ready tucked into her waist band, she was through in lightning speed!
Ah, the delights of summer, when the girls dress loud for the weather.
A colleague pointed out a likely explanation to the behaviour of the girl I saw, he thinks she was a shop lifters decoy. If she was, they must have been ambitious shop lifters.
A lovely lyrical stream of consciousness. The hypnotic babble of the stream and the confounding clash of different worlds in the encounter with the influencers (“or influenced”), all blurred with the suggestion of the antihistamine side effect. The blending of Betjemen and your own verse dovetails nicely.
Thank you, George. Much appreciated.
The more adventurous way up Great Hill.