The light this morning is amazing. It is golden and mellow and it's bouncing off the reds and golds of the trees and illuminating and enhancing thei already vivid colours. The bricks of the old houses next to the railway line look they have been drizzled in honey. Pheasants are glreaming, their plumage set on fire.
Every now and again there is a pocket of mist, the kind that clings the ground, the hedges and even the sheep. It adds an extra dimension to the landscape, a different atmosphere. I want to stride through it and make it swirl around like whirlpools in my wake. A good, dramatic, long cape would of course aid this but may well be verging on the melodramatic.
We pass through villages, beginning to stir. Lights on behind curtains, dogs being walked, children dragging satchels. Queues of cars, their occupants yawning and bleary eyed, wait at the level crossing. Everyone beetling off to do things for the day that no doubt seem terribly important, but when you really think about it, all these so called important things that we do every single day are of our own making. They don't change anything in the long run. The leaves still turn, the rain still falls, winters will come and go. It's comforting to know that the truly important things never change, but it makes me feel greedy. I want to see it more and more and be out in it all of the time. I begrudge the hours where I am confined to the indoors. I begrudge the constant constraint of bloody clocks more than anything. What would it be like to have no clocks badgering you to be here, be there, be at the next place? Hard to imagine, isn't it?
