Walknotes

Tuesday

“Surely they can’t get on, bro?”

It’s a fair point, but the driver doesn’t reply to the man in the corner, pressed against the door. Instead he keeps that door closed and opens the ones in the middle. Somehow, two more people squeeze on. 

I walked halfway to the station but chose to get the bus when I saw how much time I’d lost talking to the guy in the newsagents. My life savings for four first class stamps and a chat about Thatcher and privatisation: “She did it. We all have to live with it”. He was even more miserable than I am, and I wasn’t sure how to make that better. 

“Ah, well…Umm! Right! Have a good day anyway! Thank you!”

All the exclamation marks hung in the air as I slipped the stamps into my pocket. My first stamps with the king’s face.

Later I get the District Line. The woman opposite me folds downs a seat. Minutes later I look up when she hits the floor. She was reaching for something in her bag when the seat folded back up behind her. It’s the second time I’ve seen this happen. She laughs too loudly while the dog belonging to the woman one seat over wags its tail enthusiastically. 

Wednesday

Head to the silent wood for the smell of the bluebells. The canopy there is lower and traps the perfume – or so I thought. It’s leaking out today and hits me well before I get there.   

It’s 4 degrees and chilly. My wellies are gleaming, washed and polished by the long wet grass. Sky larks were singing in the fields on the way over, accompanied by the low hum of rush hour traffic.

It’s impossible to take a good photo of wild bluebells, so you’ll have to imagine it. The intense blues and the vibrant greens of undergrowth saturated by weeks of heavy rain.

The wood is far from silent today. So many trees have fallen recently it’s opened up the sky for the birds, and they’re chattering loudly. But I don’t know why, there’s still something unsettling about this wood.

Later I crossed the field and went to the other woods to see the springs. I should’ve come before, because they’re in full flow and they’ll be gone by summer. 

I saw Podcast Man there too, walking his dog. As usual, I heard him before I saw him – he never wears headphones but he’s always listening to something. Perhaps it’s an audiobook. We exchanged surprised hellos. I normally see him in the other wood or on the street. Never here. I assume he’s thinking the same, if he thinks of me at all.

Thursday

The sky is blue and cloudless on the way to the station. There’s a shadow at my feet and bluebells in every garden. Last night as I turned in bed I found I have BPPV again. I’d forgotten by this morning and the violence of the spin took me by surprise when I stood up. It happens again as I leave the station, so I get the bus and I feel sorry for myself while a weight hovers above my forehead.

Someone asks a question on the street WhatsApp and there’s a flurry of activity. Everyone feels compelled to say they don’t know the answer. Number 47 doesn’t know, nor does number 26. Number 34 doesn’t know and 28 doesn’t know either. On and on it goes and no one knows.

On the way home there are two drunk kids on the train.

“This ain’t us”

“It is”

“It ain’t us”

It’s the end of the line. If it ain’t them now it never will be. When they leave the carriage I hear them behind me as they bump into an older man. He’s drunk too and falls over. They catch him just before he hits the ground and leave the station as old friends.

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Other things

• We came home from the coast via the M25 tonight and there were tailbacks for over an hour. At various times, marked and unmarked police cars and vans sped past, blue lights flashing. If you search for news reports about the M25 it’s hard to find the one you want. There’s an incident every day: air ambulances; life changing injuries; deaths. Perhaps I’ll never take the M25 again?
• I’m reading another book of Ann Patchett essays. I started it a while ago but had to put it on hold to read something else. It’s great. I really like her essays (actually more than the Dutch House, the only novel of hers I’ve read so far.) There’s an essay about hiring a winnebago which is somehow so oddly moving I read it in the evening and again the following morning.
• I found this site, British Pilgrimage, this week, with walking routes of different types. It looks nice.
• I read this book, a graphic essay last week: Walking Distance by Lizzy Stewart. You’ll get the gist from this excerpt. It would make a nice gift. (Hat tip to Paul Mison, who found it.)
• WordPress have changed their fav icon. It’s darker and more crisp. You’re welcome.