Footpaths

The bubble has burst and it is just an ordinary day again. But what a day! A totally white frost covered everything, and I watched two hares in the frozen field behind me sitting very still and then moving convulsively to another spot. How cold they must be. The sun melted anything within its reach very quickly, but some of the lanes were still icy, a bit treacherous under foot. I set off across the fields to Framlingham, and was happy to note that not only has the farmer reinstated the original footpath rather than the deviant, long-winded one of last year, but he has scorched the winter barley to mark the way, so a clear tawny scar scores the landscape. Within 20 minutes I could see the tower of St Michael's Church and the imposing Gothic shape of the college. No birds, no animals, no people, no planes, just me, the sun and the chilly air.

It reminded me of a walk I did from our house in Dublin across the fields to deliver Easter eggs to my cousins. It must have been late March or early April, and very hot. I was about six. We set off across Craigies field, the large Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted sign an intimidating presence though there must have been a footpath somewhere nearby. My sister and I were in short white socks, crocheted like American Bobby socks, that came up to our calves. This was a thrilling development after the long winter and signalled the freedoms of summer to come. Socks were a big deal in our family, or they were to me. The knee-length beige ones couldn't just be replaced at will, but were only put aside when the weather had definitely changed for the better. Perhaps this was just an Easter treat. There were cows in the hot fields we walked through, lying in the baked, parched ditches under the scant shade of still leafless trees. The countryside was already intoxicating to me then, sixty years ago, and I remember the hum of insects, the scents of early blossom, and grass, and the ripe smell of the cows. I don't recall arriving or the journey back, but that scene is imprinted on my brain and I return to it often.

Today I didn't make it as far as Fram. The melting ground was becoming muddy and my boots were building up a squelchy, weighty platform. As I turned I could see the gable end of my house in the distance, a comforting shoulder waiting for me.