Postcard from Watermead

Dear Cordelia,

A few short lines to tell you about our walk this morning at Watermead. We looked for you and your father but couldn't spot you anywhere. Saw a woolly mammoth, though I’ve no idea what significance he has – was he in Mr Shakespeare’s play, too? Would be a difficult role to find an actor for, I imagine. Could descend into pantomime farce if not careful.

The son parked at Birstall and we walked round the lake twice, avoiding cyclists, dog walkers, families with the odd excited toddler storming towards gangs of swans and geese at the Belgrave end, marshalling ready to mug passing pedestrians of bread. 

‘They’re all like that till they learn different,’ the son said, nodding at a sweet giggling boy, arms wide to welcome the throng; and we chuckled, remembering the duck who’d pecked his wellies at the same age, cross we had no food for it, and his howls of fear at the attack. 
‘You’d be able to give it a good kick, now,’ I said, looking up at him then across to the trees it would soar over. ‘Or eat it,’ remembering how nice Chinese crispy duck tastes – another of those things coeliac’s disease has robbed me of.

Watermead’s not a Rutland Water, the son said, and twice round the lake more than enough to discover its delights, however blue the sky. We came home via Tesco’s, picking up treats and a spot of lunch. Not duck but chicken, though tasty all-the-same.

I’ll end now, Cordelia. I hope you and your sisters are well – your father not so, obviously. I hope your pontoon has floated some place exotic and isn’t stuck in a warehouse somewhere, shielding from inquisitive hands and the Covid curse. I’ll nip back and look for you again in the summertime, when hopefully all this madness will be done.

Every best wish,

AM