Two Sundays. Two earlyish morning starts, one for a walk, the other on my bike. Sunny mornings with clear blue skies, but still cool, particularly in the shade – the sorts of days where you never quite get the right temperature, too hot one minute, too cold the next.
My walk: in Jane Austen country, apparently. I didn’t know there was such a thing – does every writer get a bit of the country named for them? I was looking for somewhere with open country to explore, and found it here: splashes of white on the OS map only punctuated by the thin yellows of winding country lanes and the dots of isolated farmhouses. Maybe I’m walking here just in time: banners on the road to my starting point protest against the prospect of 20,000 new homes here.
My cycle: from home, through the remains of suburbia initially, where those 20,000 new homes probably wouldn’t make such a dramatic difference, along roads that never sleep and are never truly quiet. Then over the biggest and loudest of them, the M25, and everything changes, concrete to countryside in the space of a few metres, and into tracks and lanes which, in contrast, are only now slowly coming to life with the morning’s sunlight.
Whether on foot or on bike, the morning chorus is intense at this time of year; so much so that I’m reminded of the Amazon rainforest from just before New Year. The only dissonant notes are the awkward squawks of the pheasants, out of place and proudly out of tune compared to the melodies of the song birds. Birdsong on mornings like these carry me to childhood memories of my grandparents’ house in Herefordshire, though I’m not entirely sure why. Perhaps it’s as simple a trigger as being reminded of the deep peace of that place, nestled under the Malvern Hills.
At this time of morning, I have these worlds largely to myself. I’m greeted by a suspicious “Good morning” from a local as I set out on my walk, as if I’m one of those outsiders bringing the 20,000 homes, but otherwise I see no-one for an hour. My ride is only slightly busier: a few other cyclists, mostly the serious types – serious bikes, serious lycra, serious faces, most floating past me without acknowledgement. But occasionally I take a childish pleasure in overtaking one or two on my non-serious bike (30 years old counting) and in my non-serious biking clothes.
Part of the reason for going out early is precisely to enjoy the solitude, to have the time and space to let my mind run free and enjoy the small details as I go along. I love to bring my family to places like these, but this is my time; their companionship will have to wait for later.
Instead, I find company of different sorts along the way. The sheep huddled, immobile, in shelter from a morning breeze, so still that I thought they were rocks initially; those awkward pheasants, so many in the fields and strutting through the woodland, revelling in the freedom of surviving shooting season; the small birds that bounce forwards and upwards through the sky, propelled by invisible trampolines.
And also the colours of spring: tracks dusted with fallen blossom, pinks and whites, one moment, and lined with flashes of bluebells the next.
Finally, there are those little patches of Eden that make these outings all the more worthwhile; those places, often simple, sometimes unexpected, that are just perfect, for whatever reason in that particular moment.
On my walk: not the open country I came to look for, but a holloway between two fields, a tiny easy-to-miss entrance, but opening onto a hidden path scented with wild garlic, dappled by sunlight edging through the branches above and to the side, and filled with the skitter of countless squirrels and the scatter of two white-tailed deer.
On my cycle: not the joy of weaving along tight country lanes, but a view across pockets of deep green pasture slung high on a hillside, a hideaway for my eyes only this morning. It’s a place I’ve been to a couple of times before, a farm halfway up or halfway down a steep hill, depending on which way you approach. I’m envious of the owners every time I pass by.
In the grand scheme of the grand views of the world, they are perhaps nothing out of the ordinary. But I increasingly try not to take these moments for granted. I spend too much time at a computer and in roundabout meetings. Or worrying about when my next tension headache is going to appear, a vice-like grip on the top of my head that drains my energy day after day. Or watching the rain come down from the confines of my house. So when these Sunday mornings come along I have to take advantage, because I’m never quite sure when the next one might be.