Observations of a Londoner on the Roar
of the Countryside when on an early morning walk with William, the dog.
By Bobbie Allen
The
roar of the countryside deafens me. The gregarious starlings and their
guttural garblings are nothing compared with this rude fellow the thrush as
he relentlessly reeds of the topmost shoot of the lurching, squeaking,
larch.
The
thunderous roar of the worker bees and the shrill, sucking noise as they
greedily slurp from the sickly sweet syrup of the overpowering, strangling
honeysuckle – these are competing, it seems, with the clickety, clickety,
clacking of the grasshoppers and the squeaks from the blades of grass as
they are pounced upon for yet another take-off spring.
For
sheer persistent torture though, the crack, crack, crack of the ripe vetch
pods as they burst to vulgarly spit their peas upon the earth – to bring
forth yet more of their kind – perhaps these slightly overrule the
monotonous scurrying, hurrying, worrying of the ants – as they hurtle from
one heather to another.
To
cap it all, I am taking a moments rest, dozing on some brittle, creaking
bracken, when I am startled into wakefulness by the thud of a butterfly’s
feet as it lands on my knee, shivers its wings at me as if to say –
“it’s time to go, you lazy Londoner” and flutters deafeningly skywards
to pester yet another unsuspecting would-be country dweller.
I
forget about the stream, which crashes its way down through the firs and
over the stones in completely mannerless fashion, arriving splashing and
spluttering at William’s feet, who drinks, but is taken aback by its
untreated, un-chlorinated damagingly pure state, and has to rest afterwards
– in a bed of rustling ling and heather, before staggering back to the
cottage – to partake of his tinned Chum.
Ah
– for the gentle purr of the diesel lorries as they softly rumble towards
London
’s Docks from
Stratford
. The people there, heard and perceived through a romantic blue haze of
heady fumes, are dressed in colourful saris, sarongs, jeans of indeterminate
hue and ‘Granny’ dresses of drab, unworrying colours, and occasional
out-dated mini skirt, fighting valiantly to keep warm the upper limbs of its
wearer, whose charms have increased an admirable ten-fold since the skirt
was first purchased.
The
painful longing to hear again the dulcet tones of the Cockney fellow,
requesting one to ‘gitartavit’, the childish trebles, pleading
colourfully, one with the other to ‘give us it or I’ll slit yer bleeding
froat’ – ah me, those days are gone and here I am, a Country Dweller
(exile?) - - I suppose I’ll just have to get used to it…!
| Written for the Sandgate News - December 2005 |