I wake up upset. I feel stuck in the two areas that matter to me most – Frog and my writing. A good way to get unstuck, they say, is to change your routine so I decide to venture further than normal when I walk the dog today. I will wander through the tangle of lanes over the top of the hill which I haven’t explored since Christmas.
I’m always slightly nervous in territory where I don’t belong and which I don’t know well, wondering if I’m going to meet stampeding cattle, rabid dogs, rabid farmers or find my way impassable but all goes well to start with.
I am transfixed by a magnificent oak tree beside the road. I love oak trees. I always find myself sitting underneath them without realising it. I stop to photograph this one, but because of the hedge I can’t step back far enough to get it all in.
A tiger-striped dragonfly zooms past. A peacock butterfly flitters in front of me, resting from time to time on the tarmac, its orange-brown wings glowing like leather in the sun. House martins swoop and shriek like swifts.
In a field next to the road is a hump topped with rough grass and twisted trees. I wonder if it’s a prehistoric burial mound and long to go and sit on it, but I don’t. I would be trespassing and I wouldn’t be able to relax.
We reach a farm. We have to cross the farmyard to get to a track which I intend to take. It’s the only off-road part of the walk and not actually a public right-of-way but I know the people who live further up the track and when I passed at Christmas I met the farmer and he said it was fine for me to walk it.
Two dogs however – a collie and a bad-tempered-looking caramel labrador-cross – shoot out as we go by, barking viciously and even Ellie – who is not normally frightened of very much – is unnerved. The dogs follow us, still barking, and I expect a chunk to be taken out of my leg at any moment, but it isn’t. Nevertheless I shall think twice about coming this way again.
The track turns into a very wet, very overgrown footpath (wet because a stream has decided to take the same route). A fallen tree blocks it but I refuse to go back and face those dogs again. Thank goodness I have my secateurs with me. (I nearly left them behind, trying to minimise the weight in my backpack.) I spend a careful five minutes removing nettles and brambles so that I can crawl through, while the dog waits the other side of the tree, puzzled at my slowness.
We have to cross a field full of bullocks but luckily they’re more interested in eating grass than charging at us.
The dog slips under an electric fence into another field and I’m terrified she’ll hurt herself on the way back. She’s not very clever about electric fences. She once got wedged under one, too upset by the shock she was receiving to wriggle away. She makes it back safely.
At last we reach civilisation again, or at least tarmac. Another evil-looking dog (Caramel-coloured, labrador-ish. I wonder if it’s related to the other one?) hurls itself against its fence, furious that it can’t get at us. The sign on the gate reads ‘Beware dog. Enter at your own risk.’ God, it’s like hill-billy country round here.
Finally we’re on the home stretch. It’s all uphill, and a bit of a farming desert, but I’ve been out for three hours and I haven’t seen a (human) soul – which is how I like my walks. I’m proud of myself for surviving so many hazards – and maybe adrenalin as well as a change in routine is good for unsticking the stuck.
I expect great things.
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