Summer 1955

I park my bicycle in the shade, and climb up to my preferred location, the bridge wall.

I sit and wait, and look, and listen.

The gates are closed and locked as usual, and the grass has grown higher since the last time that I sat here.

Below where I sit, the old bridge serves to cover the small stream of water that flows from the nearby fields.

The morning sun has heated the huge stone parapet upon which I am sitting, and is now warming my nether regions as I settle to my hobby.

A skylark rises almost from nowhere, and hovers in the clear blue sky, singing its heart out.

In the field, a rabbit comes to my attention and after a few moments others bob into view, ears held high.

A flash of blue turns out to be a dragonfly, closely resembling a small helicopter as it lands on the top of the nearest gate.  

I have recently seen butterflies at this location, red brown, yellow and blue. All these I’m sure are quite common, but interesting just the same.

The peace is disturbed by a local farmer with his noisy tractor, as it converts a green field into a dusty brown carpet. A flock of plovers are his enthusiastic audience.

There is a warm breeze blowing through the trees and hedges, and it always reminds me of the sounds of the sea.

A sudden plop in the water below invites investigation. It turns out to be a water vole, going about its daily chores.

Some days very little happens, but one afternoon I saw a pair of hares doing their boxing thing, just a few yards into the field.

Two bicycles have arrived, with their respective owners.

The normal greetings are exchanged.

Ay up! (Times three)

‘What’s been through?’

‘Only a couple of relics,’ I reply.

The three of us sit, swap news and look and listen.

Metallic noises and the smell of hot tar are things that we take for granted as we sit in the happy world of unspoken friendship.

The sun is getting lower, and I feel that tea time is drawing near.

‘I’m off home’.

‘See you’, chorus the chaps.

‘What have you been doing, and why are you so filthy?' my patient mother is asking.

‘Train Spotting’ I say truthfully.

 

David Taylor