Walking The Dogs

I was walking my son’s dogs today. I am not a dog lover, but I like a walk, and he is working all day. I strolled, in sunshine, along the defunct railway track outside Truro, listening to woodpeckers calling and rat-tat-tatting, and admiring the first of the bluebells, while the two dogs did what dogs do, seeking out badger droppings to roll in and so on.

The walk is about twenty minutes out and twenty-five back (on slightly weary legs). The peace is welcome and the occasional bit of wildlife lifts the spirit; and I recall the rural environment of my youth. At that time I used to cycle along a farm track to the village, and as likely as not startle a covey of partridges, a wheatear or a yellow hammer, and I would usually hear a sky lark. The estuary bank would be lively with numerous waders, shelduck and little terns (which I believe are quite rare now). I am well acquainted with the propensity of the old to reminisce and am aware how easy it is to bore the listener, so I try to give nostalgia a miss – but I got to wondering what the next generation of pensioners would look back on with fond memory.

There is a point on the walk when the track crosses a bridge over the main Truro Falmouth road, and the noise of the traffic permeates the air from some distance off. The road is busy with commerce and commuters, often with a tailback from the junction. Even twenty years ago there was not a quarter of the traffic there is now, and although I can’t resist the temptation to lean on the parapet to watch (and smell) the flow, I still feel irritation at the crude intrusion into the quiet day.

But perhaps in 30 years time, a walker like me will be thinking back to these times, with a nostalgic tug, remembering the busy roar of diesel traffic, and wondering where it all went! When the oil industry is effectively dead, when most of the traffic is electric, and when long-distance road traffic is as rare as the little tern, and people no longer commute because they work from home by phone and internet, will this walker regret the passing of all this way of life, as I do the tranquillity of my youth? And will he welcome back the butterflies and the bees which are struggling to survive? Will he curse as a newly invigorated dawn chorus wakes him, when our wild birds find habitats returning under the new environmentally appropriate farming methods?

Or will he simply curse the destruction wrought by the generations before his?

A Satisfactory Day

It was my time to give blood again yesterday. I am never quite sure why I am so keen to do this, or why I get such satisfaction from it; but I am almost on a high when I have done the deed. Strange.

Before I kept my blood-doning appointment I went to the centre of Truro for a pasty and a relaxing stroll. It was the first opportunity I had had to view Truro’s newest landmark, the sculpture of the Drummer. I am not particularly keen on it and don’t think that most people will have the slightest idea what it is supposed to represent, or what its significance is. The drummer is a naked figure balanced precariously on a globe, beating on a drum strapped in front of him with very extravagant arm movements. I guess that his position, off centre, on the globe, is supposed to indicate forward movement, but it looks to me as if he is about to fall off! His dignity has been somewhat punctured by the placing of a condom on the appropriate organ. Perhaps it is part of a ‘safe sex’ campaign!


I arrived early to give blood, but they slotted me in straight away. I found myself sitting next to a charming 20 year old woman, whose mode of dress and presentation were full of character and interest. I asked her about the beautifully drawn fake tattoo on her face – it was a kind of celtic design, which her mother told me that she painted on herself. I found her dress style attractive, especially the pronounced fish-net pattern of tights and the shoes which were yellow on one foot and green on the other! It was her first time at a blood-doning session and she was a little nervous, explaining that she couldn’t stand the sight of blood! (It later transpired that she was not permitted to donate until certain checks had been made with her doctor; the Service being their usual cautious self.)

During conversation with her and her mother I discovered that Zoe and her boyfriend were to emigrate to Brisbane in a year’s time. They are going for a year in the hope that they will be allowed to stay permanently. She is studying Psychology, and he Journalism. I explained my own Antipodean connections, and gave them my email address, just in case they fancy some time volunteering as interns at a certain site in Tasmania!

My lovely friends, complete with Great Dane, have successfully moved lock, stock and barrel to their forest-covered hillside in Tasmania, from Holland. They had to wait in Melbourne until the dog escaped from quarantine, and finally made it to their new home last week. They have many challenges ahead, including building their house, sorting out a satellite phone connection, setting up rain water collection, sanitary arrangements, a garden, an aquaponics unit, all from scratch. Exciting and scary! But they are young, energetic and talented, and have become experts in permaculture and natural building methods like cob, super-adobe, earthship techniques, manufacturing solar panels, and much more. I am looking forward to visiting in a few months.

Perhaps on a future visit I will once more meet Zoe with her different coloured feet!