Morning

By Maxim Griffin.

Another year – the debris of the last one has yet to be picked up by the council – the temperature dropped in the final couple of hours of night – windows are thickening and puddles begin to stiffen – Jupiter is still very clear – deliveries of bread and milk are being made to the supermarket – the local heron is on patrol, calling from the river with its eerie croak – most people are still sleeping, most people are off work today – a toilet flushes in an unlit house – shift change at the care home on the hill – early dog people take advantage of the quiet, a couple of miles while the going is still quiet – you can cover more ground when there are fewer distractions.

Sky is turning purple – bitter cold – no breeze just raw – the first proper cold of winter – head down, pockets stuffed with hands – a quick pace – the occasional slip – a fella coming the other way is in animated discussion on his telephone – mistakes were made, a relationship now in peril – he doesn’t look up as you pass – he sucks and huffs some raspberry scented vapour and is dressed for the previous night – he disappears in a fog of his own making, cursing his choices – the sky is now full of gulls and red eye flights from the United States – a man in a dressing gown checks the bins of his neighbours to see if they have been taken – he too curses his choices.

A platoon of blackbirds feast on the now frozen remnants of a spilt takeaway – pitta, salad are picked over – the meat is long gone – there is a metaphor in there somewhere – feathers of ice spread on the glass of parked vehicles – the roofs of the new-builds have no sign of frost – that vulgar house at the town limits has acquired a life-size model of a stallion rampant (in aluminum) – the metal shifts as cold develops – the path goes between a small field of actual ponies – it is getting light now – the division between night and day weakening – a fine grade of colour from west to east – Prussian blue to purple to a remarkable orange – magic hour, the first of the year – while the sky is beginning to put on a grand show everything else is shades of grey – grey and quiet.

Winter walk
Something of a January tradition – a walk to the cemetery of Bronze Age barrows that lie a few miles to the south west – time it right and one should be there in time for the sun to reveal itself – that should be at twenty-two minutes passed eight – ninety minutes – should be enough – after the ponies are two fields of impossibly sticky clay – the choice is to go straight through or round the edge – coin toss – straight ahead – urgh – boots get caked in a sole of mud – bitter cold now, a rumour of snow imminent – a milky band on the western horizon – after two fields, a stick is found, used to peel the earth away.

A big road to cross – no traffic – no sound of traffic – the remains of a badger on the opposite embankment – a heap of fur and ruined flesh in the litter – been there a fair while – a set of spade cut steps lead up to the gap in the hedge and the sign that permits the right of way – Lincolnshire lies ahead – bone cold and rolling – big fields and parish boundaries – ominous woods and birds of prey – an aeroplane draws a pink line from one side of the sky to another.

A little box on a wooden post – a trail camera – give a big wave and your best smile – something whirrs inside – hopefully your image will appear in the reels of indifferent muntjac – path passes some impressive woodland which is protected by an excess of homemade signs warning against trespass, the presence of closed circuit television and other dire consequences – curiosity will have to be dealt with another time but if the signage is to be believed then these woods must hold a great treasure.

Lighter still – colder still – a little cloud inversion towards the Bain Valley – Stenigot mast with fog at his feet – when the conditions are right the clouds gather in the low points of the territory and the high points exist as islands – it’s quite a sight – if the temperature drops any more we might get lucky – minus one – we’ll see.

Someone is calling – must be for a dog – a singsong voice in a friendly tone – can’t seem to pinpoint where it’s coming from or what the dogs name is – a black and white something or other – collie cross maybe, dashes up to say hello – greetings are exchanged as is tradition and that singsong voice calls again – name unclear still – two syllables – must be a good boy – he dashes off and out of view – the path goes down then up – a hard field of smashed chalk and splintered flint – the meat and potatoes of our hills – sun should appear in twenty minutes or so – it’s bright in the east, Halloween orange with bird shapes and a flat landscape.

Kick off more clay when the path hits the village – not even really a village – half a dozen detached houses and a church that opens once a year – a little stream runs through here – take the first left up a steep road – the barrows are ten minutes along this lane and one field over – a 4×4 pulls out of a long drive – the driver clocks the unfamiliar figure on their turf – offer a cheerful wave – a thumbs up even – the driver lifts an index finger from the steering wheel in return and pulls out into the lane.

There are six barrows on the top of the hill – seven if you count the older one in the next field – sunrise begins to spread as you approach the six – you call across the occupants of the mounds – Happy New Year lads, don’t mind me, just passing through – just passing through.

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