Thursday 08 October
I have been really fortunate this week to have been home in time to take Mabel for a walk.
Over the weeks and months of writing this blog, I have mentioned our evening walks casually, fleetingly as part of something else. A means to observe something interesting or new. I don’t think I have ever written about how pleasing the actual walk is.
This week, the apples are ripe. Crunchy, sweet and full of juice. It’s like biting into a saturated, crunchy sponge. And by 6pm, regardless of the weather, they are cool.
So it’s a real treat. I get back home, rush upstairs, and change into joggers a t-shirt and fleece. Then back downstairs to grab the lead, dog treats and a torch. Mabel is jumping up at me whilst I’m doing this, she knows what’s coming. I’m hurrying, partly because it’s getting late and the light is fading, but also because I am genuinely excited.
On the doorstep, wellies on whilst holding on to the lead, then turn right at the edge of the drive. Climb over the metal gate, Mabel slips through the gap between gate and gate post. She then leads us down between the apple trees, and I pick an apple on the way. Tonight, my apple had rain drops on it, straight from the tree, you can’t get any fresher than that.
Then crunching and walking we weave through the long grass, nettles and brambles. They’ve all lost their sting or prickle, and as they die back the stems flop and bend. Our recent walks have carved a meandering pathway. I bend down as we walk passing small chunks of apple to Mabel. She loves it.
Finally out on to the road and on to the big field. All of its summer crops long since gone, only a murder of crows lift the horizontal profile with bold, black lumps. They hop over the mud, hunched, looking like they are holding a black cape over their shoulders. I let Mabel off her lead and she chases them. No chance of getting one, but it makes her happy. She runs back to me, ears waving, teeth bright and I swear she is smiling.
Then back home through the lanes as dusk becomes dark. My eyes adapt without me trying and the torch isn’t needed. Mabel sniffs the hedgerows and ditches and then we are back home again. A priceless 45 minutes.
The Bald Birder 