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Writer's pictureCrone

Titchmarsh serenity

Truth be told, I'm not a lot keener on fencing than I was last week. However, I had marginally more success pulling out staples and although I don't think my post-ramming was hugely effective, I did toil at it.


What was lovely was the day. That sky. The birds - kites and buzzards and water birds. The people. Suzy getting me to listen out for water rails and Hilary and Pete teaming up to remove the staples I gave up on. Clare's other half telling me about bats. Clare saying how she loves silence. And me, trying not to reply.


Ian pointed out the bark on this tree - which, it turns out, is an aspen.

Then we raised a rotting gate-post and underneath found a Newt Metropolis, with resident millipedes and other invertebrate citizens.


Of course, we put the wood - carefully - back in place.


At lunch time we sat, however many of us... nine?, in utter silence. Hearing the wind and the birds and nothing else. Looking across the meadow and water at trees and birds and blue blue sky.

To let your mind expand or dissolve into that, just and only that. For a while.



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