It’s time to walk along the beck where it is evident that here, in the north, we are into the softness of the late summer sun, and nature hinting that the season of mists and mellow fruitfulness is not too far away.
But first we need to announce to the pony that we are coming up behind him. We did. He did not move. So a bit of a pressure on his shoulder, and orders to back, and voila, he does. Lift the dogs, who have no intention of going near this monster, and through the gate, looking back and see his longing to slip through after us and eat up the verge.
First we pass the blackberries, later than the south I daresay, not ripe enough yet, but getting there.
The hawthorn is full of berries, but they need to be plumper to attract the birds – soon then. These are the hawthorns we used to back into – ouch – when joggers roared towards us, not stopping for man nor beast and immune to calls about social distancing. Here my grumpiness came into full voice. Are we walking earlier, or are they running later?
And now the honeysuckle, some still in flower, but the berries are with us.
We turn left, pass the church, and on the walk back we pass a garden which has been put down to vegetables, and just a tiny lawn, utilising every little bit of space for fruit trees against the fence, herbs companion planted amongst leeks, cabbage, lettuce, courgettes, not to mention runner beans. Bees abound so they are not forgotten. We have grown vegetables too this summer, but not in sufficient quantities. It will not do . So half our lawn is going in order to extend our veg patch. Time we became more self-sufficient which the lockdown has reminded so many of us.
A bit of a diversion as we almost arrive home in order to let the o dogs run like crazy on the freshly mown sports pitches of the new Sports Village, so while others ran, cycled or walked around the tracks on the perimeter we came across this gift from a child to us all, made out of the grass cuttings. A bird’s nest lined with petals and laid within – clover and a yellow daisy.
Life is good.
By Annie Clarke, author of Wedding Bells on the Home Front (aka Margaret Graham and Milly Adams)
