Silence

There was an eerie silence as we set off on a long walk this morning. It's a bank holiday, and no one was stirring. It felt like the world had ended and we were the only beings left. There was rain coming so I wore wellies and a mac, but though the weather map showed it currently lashing over the village, it stayed dry until we were nearly home. Where to walk? After yesterday's extended car journey I wanted Sasha to have a real run, so we set off down Bannock's Lane and climbed to the very top, her first time. Then we struck off across the upper edge of a shorn wheat field where hundreds, possibly thousands of daffodils flower in the spring along the hedgerow: it's quite a sight then, though I don't think there's a house near enough to enjoy it; a quite extraordinarily generous act on the part of some farmer. I set Sasha free and she leapt in the air again and again like a deer for the joy of it.

Oh, it was good to be out on such a day, in such a place. The peace, the beauty of the golden stubble, the broad sloping fields, the dancing, haring dog, all near overwhelming. At such times it's best not to think, just be. The air was warm enough to need just two thin layers, my cagoul tied around my waist for later. How the landscape can change dramatically with the seasons. The last time I did this walk it was very hard going, the grassy edges overgrown and tangled and difficult to penetrate. Walking under those circumstances is a slog, and often we've had to turn back, exhausted and defeated by the struggle. But pass a giant mower across the wild grasses and the coast is suddenly clear to stride out with confidence. The bare fields make changing course easy too, and we followed our fancies, zigzagging hither and thither. We ended up where the pheasants are bred and fattened for shooting. Last time we trekked along this track we were told by a young man in a tractor that it wasn't a public footpath, so we proceeded along this last bit at speed, Sasha back on the lead. Luckily the coast was clear, the village as silent as when we set out an hour before.

On another note: reading The Times online as I do, I came across an article entitled "My Secret Was I Couldn't Act", an interview with Bill Nighy. I couldn't resist adding a comment. "Oh Bill", I wrote, "It never was a secret!". Dozens of readers found this hilarious. Such fun.