Coviditis Diary
Paddy Tanton
©
Copyright 2021 by Paddy Tanton
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Spring
– Summer 2020
Week
14
I
walked a lot after Gilly died, especially during the cold winter of
2012,
mainly because I couldn’t sit still. Walking turned out to be
the best of therapies, getting me through each day of loss one step
at a time. It helped calm the agitation in my body and soothe the
grief and rage in my mind. Processing as process! Gary
Rogowski writes about being a carpenter and a walker. He reckons
walking and thinking share the same heart beat and I agree. Walking
frees the mind to focus without diverting awareness of what’s
around you. I set out yesterday to walk up the hill to Syleham in
order to find a path I might not have trodden before – a rare
thing. I stopped first at the river bridge in the village and looked
over the old brick wall to see what was happening down there. Sunlight
through the trees was hitting the river in patches, causing
grey/blue smudges of reflected light on the water surface alongside a
bright yellow ochre as the light
hit the river bed. These patches were like openings into the life of
the river, and through them I suddenly saw several huge fish, a foot
or so long swimming back and forth – into the shadows then back
into the light. In the shallows, small fry were jumping to catch
flies. (I think the large fish must have been pike or
trout but
when I tried to look them up later on line all the websites were
about how to catch and kill them rather than what species they were).
I
set off again up the hill in the heat of the day watching the
swallows and dragonflies skimming the barley fields. Coming off a
hill round a beet field in the shadow of the hedge I spotted a young
hare hopping around outside a corrugated tin grain store by the road.
Coming down to the road I stopped to look at my map and the young
hare reappeared out of the field and came loping towards me. I
stayed very still, hardly breathing, and it came to within a yard of
me and sat down. We both stared at each other for
quite some time until
it decided I might be a threat and left running, as only hares can,
back into the field. It
was the most beautiful half-grown creature, sleek and slim and all
ears, eyes and legs. The
fact that the animal could trust me for so long a moment was like a
blessing connecting me to the earth.
It feels rare and very special to encounter wild animals in this way,
like the dog otter I met
crossing the road in front of me as I drove home late one night. Again,
we stared at each other for a while in complete mutual
surprise before he trotted on. When the hare left I set off again
and found the track I was looking for but couldn’t get the
beauty of the animal out of my mind. The track took me back to
Syleham and from there
familiar territory home. This landscape seems so tame in comparison
to that walked by Gary Rogowski – he writes about hiking in the
spectacular mountains and river valleys of Oregon – but I doubt
his pleasure is greater than mine.
Week
20
Lovely,
warm, early autumn days have arrived with that soft slanting light
that shimmers off the morning dew. I have come down to the wide river
valley at Mendham and set off along the line of enormous willow trees
by the bank. The day grows hot with a cooling breeze and I watch
conjoined dragonflies – red in front, brown behind –
dipping eggs onto the surface water. As I rest under the largest
willow to watch the life of the river a kingfisher flashes by, a
streak of iridescence then gone. The old tree creaks behind me in
the wind, moorhens paddle and dip, coots call from the reeds and fish
ripple the surface between patterns blown by the wind. In the far
distance I hear the voices of children from the playground of the
village school making life seem almost normal again. A brown-winged
insect is busily skimming the water and fields of sweetcorn glisten
on the far hill. As I wait and wait, hoping the kingfisher will
return, wind hisses through the trees and the odd yellow leaf spirals
down. Following the way the kingfisher went, I walk further down
river and find two swans and their young gliding by a heron standing
on an outcrop of reed in the middle of the river, neck stretched,
beak pointing downwards, fully intent. Further round still, two
sparrowhawks, one adult, one young, sit on an old tree stump gazing
at the world together till the adult flies up into the nearest
willow. I used to live near this village fifty years ago and visited
this valley often. Not much seems to have changed in the landscape
since then, yet in the human world, almost overnight, everything has
changed. As I drove home a storm gathered, one side of the sky was
black the other bright blue and across these spanned a double
rainbow. An arrow of seagulls flew across passing to the dark side
gleaming bright white from the suns rays.
Winter-Spring
2021
December
Week 1
After
days of rain the temperature has plummeted and there have been some
beautiful cold bright early winter days. I took a long walk
westwards, upstream to Hoxne along a lovely green lane by water
meadows. In the low light, horizontal web-threads were streaming and
flashing silver between the trees; twigs and branches were covered in
shards of ice along the windward side which clattered down in my path
as the sun dislodged them to rain down leaving a dazzle of water
droplets along the bare branches. Either side, angelica seed heads
covered in frost added a stunning festive decoration. The path was
littered with ice and deer prints and eventually I saw three roe deer
in the field above the path feeding on the scrub. They knew I was
there but held their ground checking on me now and then. When I
reached Hoxne I felt quite elated and decided to treat myself to some
chocolate biscuits from the community shop which was full of
delicious things, though the woman serving me told me it was about to
permanently close. Whilst waiting for my turn to be served a woman
came in and we got talking about how covid messed with our brains and
made us forget things. She told me that, only this morning, she had
multi-tasked breakfast and the washing machine and had found herself
about to sprinkle a water-softening tablet on her cereal. We
laughed. I left the shop with my precious biscuits and she hurried
out after me – I had forgotten my stick, left behind at the
counter! After munching my way through too many biscuits on the
village green, I set off home. Down at the river bridge I saw two
egrets and two herons flying around the wide valley and heard
buzzards cry as they circled the woods. Further down the lane and
almost home I took a side track down to the river bank and came
across a miniature music festival site – a tiny Glastonbury!
Or, in my particular history – Woodstock! There was a very
small stage jutting out over the river, wooden notices pointing in
all directions – bar, toilets, shack, bonfire, village - and
back in the scrub and brambles there was indeed a shack, a shower and
kitchen with solar panels. There didn’t seem to be much room
for tents but I’m sure they managed. It seemed rather sad
under current circumstances, like a good idea put on hold – but
whose idea was it? I sat on a log by the stage like a punter waiting
for the main event and looked over at Syleham church amongst the
trees on the far bank. The main event arrived! Two swans lazed by -
the one in front had her wing feathers raised upwards and the low sun
shone through them illuminating her like an elegant, majestic river
spirit. It was breathtaking.
February
Week 1
The
last few days have felt like spring. Snowdrops and celandines have
been carpeting wild gardens for a while and today I saw primroses on
the leeward side of ditches. Birds are doing their spring singing
and as a result we are reminded of change and life feels more
hopeful. I walked to Rushall under a wide blue sky. On the way I
counted ten hares and three Roe deer spread across three ploughed
fields. Over by the woods, mist was rising as the sun evaporated
the pools of rainwater along the field’s edge. On the way back
I was walking into the sun and decide to turn and look back to give
my eyes a rest. All I could see was an advancing wall of dense mist
rapidly swallowing the landscape behind me. Soon a freezing fog
enveloped me. I was still aware of the blue sky above but could see
only a yard or two in front. More rain is forecast. The land cannot
absorb any more. The river is already full and lapping against the
walls of the house nearest to it in the village, a plastic chair is
lodged in an overhanging tree. Where the beck enters the river used
to be almost hidden, now it is estuarine by comparison, and the rest
of the landscape continues to be scoured and changed by the endless
rain. Water is still pouring down the road as drains are constantly
blocked by topsoil and debris. The man in the first house in the row
that was flooded was out with a bright luminous pink plastic shovel
trying, like Canute, to hold the waters back and away from his drive
which slopes inconveniently to his front door. You could see in his
actions the sense of desperation and outrage, his manhood defeated by
mother nature. I’m hoping he wasn’t there all night.
I have been keeping a diary since
April 2020 entitled ‘Coviditis’ and am sending in four of
the weekly entries –
two
from spring to summer and two from winter to spring, each involving
encounters with wildlife. I am 74
years old and live on my own in a village in Norfolk called
Brockdish. I have never published anything before.
(Unless
you
type
the
author's name
in
the subject
line
of the message
we
won't know where to send it.)
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