I’m sat on the ground on a hill and not far in front of me, to the left, are a couple of those smaller wooden pylon/electricity posts or utility poles or transformers or whatever they’re called. To the right on the ground are the remains of a rusting fallen corrugated iron roof. Over the ridge below me a digger is clanking and if I stand up I can see its mechanical orange elbow jutting up and down.
I’m currently sat on rabbit droppings (it was either that or crusty old cowpats), I have a chesty cough and the wind is giving me mild earache. It’s been a lousy, wet and windy June so far, and today – the first day of summer, I am wearing a long black, knee-length cardigan even though it’s finally sunny. The puppy woke us up at 5am this morning needing to empty his rear and in a minute I have to rush home for a grocery delivery, put it all away, arrange tea, and other evening family and household doings.
But it’s easy to ignore all the above right now because between the pylons (or whatever they are) and the corrugated iron is the one of the prettiest views I have ever seen.
I won’t take a photo for you because you wouldn’t see in a photo what I see now.
You wouldn’t see the way the eye sees past the pylons and the corrugated iron and leads us down and through and on and on to the inch-wide scribbles of white water, holding the blue triangle of sea to the rounded green buttocky hills like knicker-elastic. You wouldn’t see the full panoramic view as I turn around and head back to the house. Walking as if towards the new giant wind turbines in the distance. Standing strong and new and proud. Defenders of the planet. You wouldn’t necessarily pick out the way the wind-flipped leaves on the birch tree mirror the white on green of the tiny sheep on the opposite hill.
And the smell. No not dung. Rich warm fertile earth and long strong healthy grasses blowing and growing.
The smell of green and brown. Can you smell the green and brown? Can you feel the blessed feeling of a comforting, rich blue sky that frames the hair that licks about your face? If you don’t have hair you will have to imagine in the same way I have to imagine having a bosom enough ample to bounce or even move when I run down the slope with the black dog. The black 11-week-old gundog who has instinctively begun his inbred training today by chasing butterflies and hunting grasshoppers.
Start small they say.
(A few words written on a walk so I could try out the WordPress app on my phone.I was tempted to edit but that would be cheating)
(okay I added an ‘e’ )