Resistance

By Maxim Griffin.

May – good – everybody knows May is the best month – the trees are rich and full, the fields grow tall – a hot spell gets everyone swishing to the shops in shorts and summer dresses – there’s lager in the fridge – it is a good day for a long walk – a vague plan, that way then that way – a packed lunch and cold water – the dog jumps in the back of the car and you are off in search of some bucolic exercise.

The radio is full of tyrants and dread – fresh horrors everywhere – you pull in at the end of a chalky bridleway and turn it off – the bridalway points deep into the rural – verges thick with nettles and cow parsley, the odd rogue rapeseed flower, an occasional poppy – a warm spring on its way to the full tilt of summer – 22 degrees and not a breath of wind – these are days built for dreaming along quiet paths – the gorgeousness is at odds with the state of, well, everything else.

Perfect specimen
There’s an ash tree a mile in that is the greenest thing you have ever seen – out in the middle of a vast field of wheat, probably marking the site of a bronze age burial mound – this is the tree that would be used to illustrate the dictionary definition – a perfect specimen against a cloudless sky, outrageous with chlorophyll and shadow – you reach for your telephone to take a photograph but think better of it – not taking a photograph is an act of resistance – a breeze picks up and the green wheat billows.

Straight ahead – a wide track between parishes whose churches you cannot see – a spirit level horizon of oilseed fields – that eye-stinging yellow that used to make you feel sick as a kid – heady, industrial – bound for refinement into cooking tinctures and marg – hedges so dense they absorb light – the black carapace of the thunder bug – the landscape as a Hi-viz jacket – a big blue sign of arrows and Union Jacks requesting votes for some far-right shill – same as it ever was – tricksters, hucksters, barkers for the bad carnival – they always come this way.

You head elsewhere – where serpentine chalk streams feed an old canal – wide banks, shallow water – reeds, crowfoot – it’s a good spot to let the dog off – dandelions at the ruined lock – it’s very impressive – most of the stone was half inched from an abbey just over there – you point helpfully in the direction of where the abbey once stood – a ruin has become another ruin – good – what will become of the Babylonian warehouses of Messrs Bezos, Musk etc., after their inevitable collapse? One never knows but it’ll be fun to find out – meanwhile a pair of swans glide along the water who are no doubt considering breaking your arms – you call the dog back and buckle up, wishing the swans a good day as you do so.

Sun-baked
The path by the water goes on forever – you feel sun on your skin – you could go this way a long time – you’ll turn at the next junction, the next possible route – a knackered post points into smaller, grassy fields – this is the way – a sign warns of cattle but there are none to be seen – the dog sniffs heartily at a sun-baked pat – this is what you were after – good, honest bucolic exercise on a perfect day – the hedgerows explode with blossom, the wild flowers are up – and that green just keeps on giving – you near a stile and see cows in the corner of the field to your left – they lift their heads to check you out as you pass – morning ladies – a heifer, brick red and unfazed, voids herself.

You get the dog over the stile and see that you are on a lovely lane that leads deep into the hills – you walk up past a pair of estate cottages – a branded electric car is parked in the drive and there’s a sign on the fence that says Vote for X, Make Britain Great Again – sigh – you plough on and take comfort in the heat death of the universe.

Seriously – it’s hard work sometimes – the news, the weather, fascists, genocide, imaginary money, imaginary value, charlatans at every station, what pope is it? They are trying to dim the sun – perhaps it’s time you sat down – you open the plastic tub of sandwiches – nice, seeded bread, cheese and mango chutney because that’s what Father Christmas has in the Raymond Briggs book – you give the dog some cheese – it’s a simple, direct interaction, she licks your fingers and leans in for a scratch behind the ears.

Crossing high, big fields in the general direction of home – a gentle breeze, bone dry chalk, no clouds – swifts above electric wires, shrieking, ecstatic as is their way – acres of yellow vibrate against sky blue sky – it is certainly beautiful here and walking these distances is nourishing in many ways but it’s not enough to be the lone walker enraptured saying hello to the birds and the cows – the world, both near and far is boiling with malevolent energy and it is seeping into everything – resistance is necessary.

You walk on, head full of earth’s commotion – a path downhill in a low point between gentle rolls – you’ve exhausted the dog, but she’s happy, happy to be here, happy to be anywhere – the pair of you cross a dusty fallow field speckled with pebbles from some ancient river to a place where a chalk stream meanders – river bugs hover across the surface and the dog drinks long draughts – she’s not really a swimmer but she is enjoying having a splosh about – it’s a happy sight – you walk on a bit to where the stream widens into a large pond – dog shakes herself dry and follows – you stand and consider the next small act of resistance – a pair of swans slide into view from some unseen corner of the water – no doubt they are plotting to break your arms but you wish them a good day anyway because it’s the proper thing to do.

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