Night walk

You came with me last time – we walked down to the Post Office and we wandered past the Crinkle Crankle wall and down the hill, into the main hub of the village, looking in shop windows, saying hello to passers by. So tonight, walk back with me.  We've been for a curry in the restaurant a bit further along; our bellies are full of Rogan Josh and Dansak, sweetness and sourness and lemon rice. Our voices are hoarse from having to raise them in competition with the birthday party next to us (that loud, high pitched laughter of women of a certain age and demographic; an Estuary English cackle) but soothed and refreshed by two pints of Kingfisher.

We step out of the restaurant into the damp night air and head back home, along the main street. Past the Working Men's Club where two rotund couples are smoking outside, and a lanky dog the colour of a fox wanders over from them to sniff our legs, we stop to stroke him and notice the way his whole body seems to bend like rubber as he weaves around us. I'm reeled in by expressive eyes and the long, straight line of his nose. A noble looking dog.

We can hear a rhythmic thud thud thud from the large timber framed hotel across the road, gradually it forms itself into a distant song, a song as if heard underwater. Beyoncé. I think. Coloured bulbs mimic the beat and illuminate the dancing shapes behind the leaded light windows, exaggerating this contrast between ancient and modern. Built in the 1400s, this is the pub where a local man was murdered in 1648, apparently over a heated argument about politics, I wonder what party he supported?  His ghost is said to haunt the corridors... but I expect he stays away on nights like this.

As Beyoncé's voice fades behind us, a group of young women emerges from the shadowy distance ahead. Is the collective noun 'gaggle'? A gaggle of young women sounds right anyway.  I notice the legs first. Legs of various thicknesses, disembodied legs in pale tights that pick them out against the darkness of black skirts and grey pavement. Legs that seem to tiptoe awkwardly in tall fragile heels. Deep in our own conversation we don't say hello as we pass but our eyes flit across briefly, taking in shiny doll hair and Rimmel tans.

We walk over the bridge, next to the open field, but the mud from the tractor tracks makes our soles stick and slip and slide, so we step into the road and walk by the kerb. There's no traffic. I love this stretch of road at night, so quiet and dark. And then it's back up the hill past the grander houses, a chance to steal glimpses into bedroom windows and see their oak beamed ceilings and shelves full of books and wonder what it's like to be inside looking out.

Up ahead an older woman in a Russian hat walks slowly along the wide path, her little dog on an elastic lead running on blurred legs to catch up, stopping to look back at us, running to catch up, stopping to look back, running to catch up... Suddenly another animal shoots past my ankles and seems to disappear. Another dog, I think. She must have another dog that's not on a lead. But then another one does the same, so fast it nips past me before I can make out anything more than a tail and then it's ducked under a car parked at the side of the path. As we catch up with the tiny beige elastic dog, one of the mystery creatures joins us: it's a brown and white cat. “They're mine!” says the lady at the other end of the lead, smiling warmly. “They come out for a walk too?” we enquire, laughing. “Yes, they always come with me at night” she informs us, “but only at night – in the daytime they've got more sense and stay at home because of the cars”. Cat number two appears and I feel sure I can detect that typical feline expression of: so what's the big deal?  “That's just so sweet!” we say as the cats decide that there are more interesting things going on behind the hedge and their owner stops to wait. “I know! Goodnight then!” she says as we overtake. “Goodnight!” we call back and walk on to the top of the hill - nearly home, “goodnight!”

In pictures

Remember that walk last week?  I went that way again this afternoon; took my camera this time.

I don't have a lot to say today so, if you like, just come with me.

Telegraph wires criss-cross the sky like tramlines.

I look over the bridge for ducks - can't see any.

The Christmas tree lying on the grass makes me think of a wounded animal (with green fur).

No, I don't know what he did... but I'm curious.  Bet you are too.

I just like this...

...and this.  I notice it's been freshly painted,

unlike this basement window.

 It's not even 4pm but the streetlight at the top of the hill is glowing against a heavy sky as I walk back.

Nearer to home, there's a Still Life with Traffic Cone.

Back here now, and someone's just left a boat - a boat! - outside my house.  It had a flat tyre.  I think he's going to pick it up in the morning.

Walk with me

Out the front door, turn right, past the rest of the red brick terraced cottages, the two big detached houses, and then the crinkle crankle wall. I love its curves, designed to economise on bricks and help fruit trees flourish by providing a sun trap in each of its concave spaces. There are around 50 of them in this county alone, twice as many as in the whole of the rest of England, apparently.

Aerial view of a crinkle crankle wall

 On to the corner, turn right again, I'm near the top of the hill and the wide path slopes down in front of me. What a view.

A beautiful big crow swoops across from my left, its flight seems more languid so close. I stand still while it flies directly over my head, I can feel the ripple in the air from its wingbeat and I get a thrill from its proximity. It lands on the roof of the nearby house and I watch as it drops something large and brown from its beak and tries to figure out a way to eat it. It looks like the remnant of a roof tile but I guess it's a very stale piece of bread. Or toast. I could watch this lovely creature all day.

Not the actual crow.

(pic: Anemone Projectors)

A middle-aged couple, dressed from head to toe in a mossy green the same hue as the shadowy patches in the verge, stride towards me briskly, heads down. I start to open my mouth to greet them as we pass each other, but their faces remain determinedly fixed to the ground and I don't continue with my acknowledgement after all. Tourists, probably. Only tourists here make such a huge effort to pretend you don't exist. Everybody else looks up, smiles and says “Hello!”

Down to the bottom, through the gate, over the bridge and into the main street. The pub looks welcoming and I could just fancy that goats cheese dish advertised in curly writing on the board by the steps. I notice Helen inside, she looks out just as I glance in and we exchange silent salutations through the glass.

Onwards and I pass the fancy shoes and handbags shop which I've never been in. A bright pink, almost fluorescent, tiny satchel in the window catches my eye. I like it but I think it's probably for a child. And there's no price on it, nor on any of the items – not on the leopard spot court shoes or the shiny gold sandals. You know what they say about shops which don't display prices: if you can't see how much it is, you can't afford it. I keep on walking.

A shocking pink version of this.

There are prices on the items in the window of the adjacent gallery, but I still couldn't afford them. I like this gallery, though; it's full of wacky sculptures, weird things like baby dolls inside bottles and hares with incongruously long ears. It also houses some original signed prints from Bowie album covers and right now his Hunky Dory face, framed by the golden hair and clasping hands, looks on distantly from behind the wide window.

A man in a hi-vis jacket is walking towards me, checking his phone, puts it back in his pocket, looks up and catches my eye as we pass each other. His are sparkly blue, lively eyes, set in a pleasant face; I return his warm smile and they linger on me for a second. A subtle, vital, extra, second, just enough to notice, betrays an appreciative flirtatiousness which makes me feel a sudden frisson of excitement. It's just so nice to receive a little attention, to feel I haven't quite yet joined the brigade of the invisible, although I know those days won't be far off. I take this moment, meaningless though it is, and enjoy the brief boost it provides.

I say "Afternoon!" to the short fat lady with the little white dog and then, further on, the tall man and his wife looking in the window of the estate agents. "250,000!" she exclaims in disbelief.

On into the Post Office with its papery smell and racks of Haribo sweets, greet the staff and bid farewell to my parcel of artwork, then retrace my steps back home.

My mind is free as I smile at the party of pensioners coming out of the Old School, and pass the time of day with the man I seem to see every time I walk this route, the one who always wears a grey raincoat and looks like Mr Price from 'Please Sir!'

That's him, on the right.

It's an uneventful walk but somehow it feels like more: a thumbnail of my life, a snapshot of my small world. As I stroll past the oak tree and a huge group of rooks take off from its big dark boughs, I almost feel like writing about it.