A man is standing in his garden, the summer
breeze riffles his grizzled locks like a friendly grandfather, the zephyr slips
round the hairs on his manly thews and exposed chest. Who is it? It is me, the
Captain, starting the day with a breakfast peach in the garden, there are
several reasons for this: I like peaches; it enables me to discern the
temperature and pollen count; it avoids dribbling peach juice on the carpet or
my shirt. I then retrieve the bike from the shed, strap on the grabber (the
litter picker’s friend, an extension to the arm that avoids bending and the
direct handling of festering rubbish, both of which are essential to the picker
of a certain age) making sure it doesn’t grab anything important or compromise
the steering, then I hit the road and start up the hill to Potten End.
Aha, the Pinot Grigio dumper has been back,
there are now seven empty wine bottles scattered along the verge, now with the
added bonus of a broken Vladivar bottle, why remains a mystery, teenagers on
the raz, overflowing bins … SHAME? Who knows? Still this gives me a chance to
hone my litter-spotting skills.
As I cross the golf course, I stop to pull
some Himalayan Balsam, trying to ignore the half-acre I know is hiding just
over the bank, and also trying to ignore the nettles that have discovered I’m
wearing shorts. As I return to the bike, brambles wrap me in their spiky
embrace like lovers spurned. Then, cross-country to Coldharbour, followed by
Lady’s Ride, I pull up to the gate to check the Old Dairy field for deer, none,
flippin’ wild animals never about when you want to see them!
There then follows a quick wheeze up
Monument Drive, to strap the bike to the bike stand and a pop into the office
to demonstrate my presence, and to check the “out-of-date" box for
goodies, becoming mildly depressed when it reveals a welter of fruit jellies
and nothing else. I then head purposefully out to the start of my run along
Duncombe Terrace, I say purposefully, I actually head over to the PMV (Personal
Mobility Vehicles) guys so that they can take the Michael out of my hi-viz,
grabber, and monster plastic bag ensemble, then I head purposefully out.
Behind the gate there is a baby wipe, then
another... and another, consulting my inner Sherlock and disdaining the
prospect of examining said wipes in detail, I plump for: the devastation caused
by exposing small children to ice cream! This is reinforced by the fact that
the baby wipes stop after 500 metres, where they are replaced by tissues, as
used and discarded by serious walkers. Tissues that give me time for
introspection, two years ago at this time, I was in the Dolomites, battling my
way up a black dotted path (those of you familiar with Alpine maps will know
what this means, for those of you not familiar it’s a path that, if you fall
forward onto, there may be a slight abrasion of the nose, backwards, and there
may be a slight abrasion to the path, when you hit it - on the bounces), there,
at every turn there is a tissue discarded by the “serious walkers”, personally
I use a handkerchief and pockets.
I continue, more tissues, a banana skin,
some cigarette butts. But, behind the “Observe-a-tree" bench there is a
cornucopia of filth: first a tangerine skin (Pink Floyd – St Tropez pings
unrequested into noggin*), tissues, a coffee cup and finally a plastic bag.
Eyes glassy with fulfilment I continue: a packet of cigarette papers – empty, a
packet of cigarette papers with the corner torn off (Ping! PF- Grantchester
Meadows**), the front of a bicycle light, a bank card (is there anything I need
from Amazon?), two Red Bull cans. There are, of course, the inevitable dog poo
bags, this is new psychology, a bloody annoying meme. “I’ll pick it up, but
then I can’t be bothered to do anything else so I’ll hide it. No, even better,
I’ll hang it from this tree so people will see how responsible I’ve been!”
Then the breeze sends me a signal, I am
within nose-shot of the septic tank at Clipperdown, my turn round point. On the
return I head off–piste, disappearing into Hazel Copse to admire the
clandestine off-road MTB track, and returning through the gorse to emerge near
the Observe-a-tree again. I then head back to the Visitor Centre via the backs
of trees (always good for tissues – I never study these closely, and always
hope for a decent amount of rain the day before I pick) and climb the tumulus
at Moneybury Hill, on the top I find – nothing(!), perhaps a respect for the
dead, or more likely respect for the brambles? Ancient burial sites have always
fascinated me, I find I always seem to lose a piece of myself there, this time
a piece of my calf.
Back at the Visitor Centre I dump the bag,
wash the gear, sanitise myself – liberally, and head back to the bikestand...
”You know you told us to tell you if we
found any rubbish?”
I gurn assent.
“Well we’ve found a lot, a hundred yards
down there by the meadow.”
“Umm, thanks, that’s not actually my pat...
I’ll sort it!”
Emma gives me a new bag. I find a fish and
chip supper with extra chips, 14” pizza box, plates for 6, spoons, napkins, and
tomato ketchup – 2 pots, plus assorted detritus.
Back at the Visitor Centre I dump the bag,
wash the gear, sanitise myself – liberally, and head back to the bikestand.
On the way back, I pass the apple tree in
the back garden of Woodyard Cottage, I contemplate my grabber and wonder if
there’s a way in.
*
“As I reach for a peach,
Slide a rind down behind,
The sofa in St Tropez.”
**
Nothing specific just being stoned in the
countryside.
