Hinksey Park, Oxford.
This is a part of Hinksey Park used only by fishermen, of which there are none today, I am thus away from everyone. Surrounded by bramble and by a lake (once a reservoir). Getting here, I nearly fell in the lake twice. But at least the sun is out and I am alone with the water fowl, the ducks, swans and two geese, in a January day, a day quite warm as New York and Ohio are covered with snow.
If I survive my way back without falling in by a a “No swimming” notice, then maybe I’ll use this scribble in my Clowne blog.
The only none nature sound is not traffic but the railway line yards across the other side of the lake (or pond, as the park calls it). Train after train goes past mostly hooting because of the sidings and (I find later) some track-men. If this was the days of steam , then it’ll be a frustrating spot as dead trees hide much of the railway.
Dead trees. Funny I should say that, what was I told once “they are not dead, they are only resting” umm, just wrote a Sophie poem, (see LordPineapple ). The leaf-less trees are covered with ivy, well, the bigger of them are.
The ducks and pigeons and the cold wind provide the only noise when the trains are gone, at least to my one good ear. I’ll be getting avian flu with these birds and the wind, wonder if the Sarahs’ can give out avian flu?
I should pack up and walk the (just over a) mile to the pub, but it’s so peaceful, so serene, and in a way I am scared of falling in on my way back. I can imagine my ex sneering about me entering my second childhood, writing in such a lonely spot, but after weeks of depression I can use the excuse that this is therapeutic! Any bloody excuse!
I wrote about Sophie, yes just wrote a long poem as her, no wonder some nutter on Xanga accused me of being a nonce! Still, that is what some sad people think about, sex sex sex and of course they believe everyone else does too. Such people do not understand creativity or imagination or the delight of writing serious fiction, all they think about is one thing, no wonder such sad little losers believe everyone else is as nasty and as dirty as them.
My grandson slept here last night before going off to see his nanny, that’ll please the nonce-screamer no end! But there is a lot more to life saddo, there is trust and beauty and immortality and the eternity of the universe.
Two more trains are passing, this is a busy railway. Ah well, back along the path!
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It was a lovely walk on the long footbridge over the lake and the railway and the ballast sidings and more ponds and brooks and a long narrow empty path to the village of South Hinksey.
What a sad village though, no shop, the pub is closed Mondays and the church is locked. (Keys from the Vicarage. When I was a reporter I’d have gone and got the keys and perhaps a cuppa; now, with my hard-to-understand voice, and my deafness, I chicken out.)
Ah well, it was a lovely walk back, if a thirsty one. There used to be two pubs here, but the other, The Cross Keys closed five years ago.
Back onto the main road beyond the park and into “The Berkshire House” for my pint of Ruddles Smooth.
Few wild flowers seen, the daisy is about, but that is not exactly the flower to cheer me up even after 28 years.
So, at least I have covered up the last depressing blog on this.
Terry.
