There is a direct path from the kitchen window featuring our late beloved blogging friend, Pauline’s, light catcher to my computer station.
The light prism cast by this often accompanies me as it did this morning – a comforting reminder of a lovely lady.
After a reading session this afternoon Jackie drove me to Puttles Bridge so I could walk
along the Ober Water Trail. There were very few other walkers; only the barking of dogs disturbed the otherwise silent solitude. Fallen and broken trees, some across the stream, others sporting graffiti, gave evidence of the recent heavy winds. Leaves floated in the rippling water until coming to rest at a log dam; beneath my feet acorns nestled among exposed sylvan roots. The red and yellow notches in the various posts along the way signified the length one could choose to walk, red for one mile and a half, yellow for one mile. It is only when you near the one mile bridge that the path offers a glimpse of the water reflecting the surrounding woodland. When I first took this walk at the beginning of the year I didn’t have the energy to approach the stream for pictures such as these. Today this seemed not far enough just to turn round and retrace my steps.
I therefore decided to take a chance on the path across the bridge at one mile linking up with another path leading from Puttles Bridge.
It didn’t. It took me up a slope offering silhouettes of walkers and ponies. and leading to a closed visitor centre.
Looking back at the tree line tracking Ober Water I set off across the tufted, often soggy, terrain, avoiding heaps of pony droppings, trying neither to trip over clumpy shrubbery nor sink into boggy bits, and eventually finding the location of the Puttles Bridge area.
Feeling on my last legs this is what I met.
I then had to scramble my way across to the road and take the long way back to the Modus. By the time I had reached the entrance to the car park I was so obviously knackered that it was necessary to persuade a party of four leaving the car park that I did not need them to turn round and drive me the last fifty yards or so. The trek had lasted 70 minutes.
This evening we enjoyed a dinner of Jackie’s most flavoursome sausage casserole; creamy mashed potato; tender runner beans; crunchy carrots and firm broccoli, with which I drank more of the Cotes du Rhone and Jackie didn’t.