First Great Western pulls away. Beautiful day, hawthorn blushing, wildflowers
rampant, countless shades of green splashed across the countryside.
An unexpected field of rams, several hundred, grumpy.
Calves in a gang, running back and forth, while one hides in
his den in the nettles, curled up and nose-to-tail.
Two crows fight on the ground, cheered by a third. Wings outstretched, beaks locked tightly
together.
A hairy hare hares across young wheat, pauses and watches us
pass. Curious.
Buzzards fly low, and the occasional red kite lifts on the
wind, forked tail subtly adjusting as she goes.
Ubiquitous wood pigeons blunder about.
Gloriously handsome horses walk in single-file along a
track, unaccompanied, heading towards a country church. Further along, a donkey sneaks hay while a
girl feeds her pony.
Newbury Station car park full of BMW and Audi, looking like
a showroom. The occupants board the
train, suited, and plug themselves into phone, laptop, tablet and
self-importance.
We shadow the canal, reeds flushing pink with anticipation;
willows and bogs, locks and leisurely barges don't envy our hurry.
Rabbits and young buns sit pretty in the no-man's-land
between railway and waterway, their whole world bounded, while beyond a fox
jags away as the train rushes by.
A heron labours across the sky, backed by blue and a
criss-cross of contrails as people speed home or away.
Low conversations, dull susurrations, broken by a mobile
phone.
"Yeah mate, can you pick me up at East Croydon? You can?
Great, you are a legend."
What a horse's arse.
