Like Grace, my cat, I am not built for heat. So recently, I’ve adopted a Mediterranean approach to life, being outside during the day’s edges, early and late, retreating inside during the bulk of the day. It seems like a waste of good daylight hours, but I cannot work outside in the heat of the day.
The alarm clock goes off at 5am to enable either a trip to the allotment or a walk before doing my yard duties at around 8am.
This feels like such an unseemly hour that I expected to be alone as I headed out for a walk just after 6am on Saturday morning. But no, everyone had the same idea, and it was a time of camaraderie.
As I walked out of the door, a young woman trotted by on her skewbald horse. ‘Good morning,’ she called out. ‘I was onboard at 5.30am to beat the heat. This is the best of the day.’
Having ridden for many years, I bowed to the grit and determination it had taken her to achieve that. What a girl. What a caring owner. She and the horse trotted off and were undoubtedly home before the heat boiled up.
There is a three-mile loop that takes you along single-track lanes just outside the village. Because I am slow, I don’t often do it, telling myself that I don’t have the time. I do, I’m just lazy. So, I took that route.
The hedgerows and farmland look like late August, not mid-July, parched, dry, and with late fruits such as blackberries and elderberries starting to ripen. It messes with your head.
At first it was quiet, but as I turned back towards to village, I met lots of people also trying to beat the heat. Horse riders heading to their stables, dog walkers and fellow walkers. We all greeted each other in solidarity, silently acknowledging each other’s endeavour to get outside early.
All the while there was the background thrum of harvesting, which I’d heard as I went to sleep at 10pm and again as I woke at 5am. The farmer definitely wins the prize for working on the edges of the day.
As I walked down the main road, I heard a noise that is the plague of the village: someone proving their manhood on a motorbike. The revving and popping could be heard before the bike appeared. Aghast, I stood and stared at him, so as he neared, he revved again. I have PTSD, so loud noises are less than fun. I mentally put the motorcyclist in the same less-than-favourable bracket as the housing developers: people who spoil the village for others.
I’ve done evening walks too, and they tend to be solitary, everyone having been out on the 6.30am shift. The evening light across fields of corn is extraordinarily beautiful, and I leaned on a gate and gazed at the scene.
It is such a privilege to be able to see the natural world, our home, every day, rather than be removed from it by concrete and steel.
I find myself praying that it will outlast me, flourish and remain as it is, a world of creatures that we may never see, but live alongside. May our desire for more, never drive them to the edges.
