‘A few steps from the field gate the crimson ears of Yorkshire fog sway on a gentle south westerly. They, like the repetition of breakers upon sand hypnotise, and over the meadows wild flowers ‘pop’ in nature’s most beautifully curated show’
Well, despite the temperatures and associated humidity climbing their respective scales, a walk is as clockwork as the dog who craves them, whatever the weather. Earlier, Wynne and I began a lovely, just-before-first-light amble. Being with her is a joy. However, I never cease in remembering George who walked with us throughout this countryside for years; it’s been eight months since his passing but the light he shone never fades and shines ever brightly.
The good thing (among many) when walking the meadows is there are plenty of water stops where the river, without a high bank, navigates low and peacefully through this delightful valley, so the ‘over the shoulder’ with water bottle and bowl may be left on its peg.
Making an initial and rather tentative step out from the cottage far earlier than is usual today; a balmy night leads to a restless one but, still, what on earth was I thinking? Wynne on the other hand bounded out, chasing her tail to a sit. Her bright eyes focussed, sending signals with immediate effect sighting me, with the meadows and river beyond.
The heat from an as yet unseen sun was, as the humidity, rising. Down the steps we went, along the hawthorn-edged path that I mowed a couple of days ago, to the field gate. From here the views were looking splendid in the half-light; at this time of year a day’s beginning can appear as its end, however, with a sleepy head and that just awake feeling lingering, I know exactly where the hour-hand rests.
I’ve never been one for early starts; I have the trait of an owl not a lark. Indeed the thought of tench fishing over the next few weeks is always slightly veiled by the prospect of the ungodly waking hours associated with their calling. If it were not for the many seasons when, in the height of summer, I have been immersed beside the ethereal qualities of an English estate lake, I’m sure if asked today to wake at three without my aforementioned experience, the answer would be ‘I would prefer to dream about it.’
A few steps from the field gate the crimson ears of Yorkshire fog sway on a gentle south westerly. They, like the repetition of breakers upon sand, hypnotise and over the meadows wild flowers ‘pop’ in nature’s most beautifully curated show. I could stay, watch and lose myself if it were not for the fact I have an effervescent ‘Border’ with me.
The stirrings of birds call from the wood, rooks and jackdaws are already at odds with each other, a tawny sounds a last hoot and the lilting romance of larks begins to drift on the breeze. The peep-peep of a kingfisher tunes a well known frequency; the river, bright, clear and melodic, burbles in spirit echoes, those undine voices that whisper sweet everythings; already, the consolations in a reluctant early morning start are vivid and ever present in this, a very English pastoral…..
Writing & Images – Pallenpool, North Norfolk Summer 2025
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