As I walk down the gravelled towpath I remembered the old way we used to access the canal during my childhood. There was a two foot gap that led onto a partly grassed bank with a steep incline to the old towpath and waters edge. The two foot gap had been increased to about four foot to allow wheelchair access and the grass bank had been turned into a sixty foot gravel slope to allow the disabled and immobile easy access to the waters edge.
I noticed that the field to my right had not changed since my younger days. The field was dominated by scorched couch grass; it looked like a magnolia carpet. Although the grass was dry, the field was alive with tiny white moths dancing franticly and bouncing off the tips of each pale stem. As I stared into the field the moths turned into little white bubbles fizzing above a magnolia sea; I was amazed that I had never noticed this before.
There was a belt of nettles running round the outer edge of the field, this prevented anyone from trespassing; allowing it to be preserved for another 40 years or more. The gravel slope had a solid wood fencing both sides that had been partly destroyed somehow. I can only assume that the fence was erected to prevent any wheelchairs from careering off the slope and plummeting down the steep incline into the canal.
The incline that ran away from the fencing towards the canal edge was peppered with white and purple clover, with a sprinkling of tiny purple flowers popping their flower heads just above the triple green clover leaves; my search for the infamous four leaf clover was hopeless and short lived.
I was overcome by the silence. Realised how lucky I was to be standing in this beautiful countryside, I gave up the search for the lucky green crest; luck had brought this far, there was no need to pursue a crazy superstition any longer.
As I stood up I wondered why the nettle and the clover were so green with life yet the couch grass that grew amongst it was dry, pale and uninhabited; the thought soon disappeared as was distracted by the sound of three young mallards approaching from inside the canal bridge. Because they were babies it was impossible, without picking them up, to determine the sex of each duckling. They were like triplets all wearing the same clothes and all moving in the same direction. Neither of them had any distinguishing marks that set them aside from each other, from their beaks to the tips of their tails they were identical and a pleasure to watch. An old friend once told me that if you sit down to watch some ducks for five minutes you will still be there two hours later. The behaviour of ducks is fascinating and extremely funny. They can be motionless one minute then out of the blue dancing about mischievously the next. These three ducklings were no different; their antics were charming and relaxing.
There are 2 benches on the tow path made of good sturdy oak beams; they should last a lifetime if the vandals don’t destroy them. One is at the end of the disabled ramp and the other is under a hawthorn close to the bridge.
The bridge brings back many memories for me, however, none more dramatic than the time my brother nearly drowned when I was about 11 or 12. We were all together as brothers and sisters playing on the canal bank when my eldest sister said we had to go home. My eldest brother was stooped down on the edge of the canal, hypnotised by the slow motion of the water carrying tiny twigs and leaves like a miniature shipping lane.
One of my other brothers shouted him but there was no response, so he tapped him on the shoulder. He was startled and stood up too fast, lost his balance and slipped into the dirty water taking the twigs and leaves with him. He rose to the surface for a second then disappeared under again; back up and under again. My eldest sister was screaming frantically for someone to rescue him; none of us could swim. She ran up the bank waving her arms and screaming as we all watched him bobbing up and down. As we sobbed and felt sick at the thought of losing our brother, my other sister joined in with the waving and screaming on the main road. We heard the screech of car tyres, a scrape and a thump as the wheels must have clipped the curb as the Samaritan spotted my sisters’ pleas for help.
The man was very athletic as he leapt over the three foot steel railings like an Olympic hurdler without touching any part of it. He ran down the bank and dived into the cold murky water. As he dived under, my brother bobbed back up. As the Samaritan surfaced my brother disappeared again. The Samaritan paused for a while and spotted my brother surfacing only feet from him and dived back under in sync. The next time we saw him he had our brother in a headlock and dragged him to the waters edge then finally onto the bank. After a little resuscitation he popped him into his car along with one of my sisters and took him home. We were left to walk sobbing and wandering what trouble we were going to be in when we did arrive home. Apart from that dramatic episode I have had many hours of great fun along this canal.
I took a seat on the bench near the end of the ramp and watched the ducklings as they swam through the derelict lock. For as long as I can remember that lock has never been in service, with no paddles or arm to push it. The lock resembled the traffic calming measures we see on our housing estate; they simply reduce the width of the canal by about three feet on both side so only one boat can fit through.
Every now and again I could hear the ducks’ wings slapping the surface of the water as they played together. I could hear the continuous melodic sound of the skylark high in the sky but couldn’t see one. Sky larks tend to fly up to sixty metres high before rapidly descending to spend time on the ground looking for seeds and shoots to eat. I tried to spot the familiar white marks on their tail and feathers; I spotted neither feather nor lark.
As I stared out over the large green field that lay in front of me I was aware of the slow moving clouds dotted about in a blue sky. The fresh white Cumulus clouds sat high above me like little balls of cotton wool with a flat base. They created a spectacular effect by giving the impression that each one was sat on an invisible glass force field; a clear dome that encircled the earth. An aeroplane emerged from one of the clouds leaving behind the familiar white condensation trails in its wake. When I was a child I thought these trails were smoke coming from the engines and wandered if the birds ever choked to death as the planes passed by.
A herd of cows, about fifteen or twenty, were all cuddled up together as they lay on the ground. Again I always believed that this was an indication that it is going to rain. A farmer once told me that although it is an indication of rain, the reason they lie down is because the falling pressure that comes with rain affects their digestive system and makes them unwilling to graze, they become idle and lie down.
There is a strong whiff of cows’ manure that drifted across the field, this again was a reminder of my younger days; believe it or not this pungent smell brought back happy memories of me and my brothers playing in these fields.
In the distance I could see the spires of St Nicholas church, at the top of church road Codsall. My mother was buried there three years ago, a day I will never forget. I have always admired the spectacular views from the rear of the church over looking the Brewood area of the South Staffordshire countryside; I never thought I would be burying my mother there one day. She is in a beautiful spot that allows her to see the church tower, as well as looking over a field that is home to wild rabbits and horses.
As I was a Pallbearer for the funeral I find it very difficult to visit the church let alone visit mother’s grave. I remember the long walk down the sloping path that divides the grave yard into two halves. Halfway down, the procession passed under a brick arch that separates the older graves from the more recent ones, the realisation that I am taking my mother to her final resting place began to sink in. I was stood over a six foot open grave, ropes in hand, heart thumping, legs unsteady and tears running down my face. I was there to lower the woman I have loved unconditionally throughout my life into the cold dark soil below; it is an image I will never erase. The beauty of this magnificent church surrounded with the beautiful Staffordshire countryside could not lift the despair I felt that day; I much prefer to view the church from the canal bank for now.
The sudden sound of feet against the gravel path took my attention away from my loss and towards the elderly couple strolling along the towpath. They were both, the same height with silver hair. They clasped hands and swung their arms like school kids with their first love. They both smiled as they passed me and had a little giggle as if they knew that their lovers stroll was almost childlike. As they disappeared along the towpath, chatting and holding hands, my attention returned to the canal and the tranquillity that is inherent to this area.
I could hear the deep chugging engine of a long boat as it entered the bridge. The boat had a black base with a red and green top. I giggled to myself as the image of Rosy and Jim hiding from Fizzgog entered my head. Rosy and Jim were puppet characters on children’s TV. They travelled the midlands canal network on a long boat. Fizzgog was the pet name given to the captain; John. Fizzgog would steer the boat while Rosy and Jim came alive and had outrageous fun in the cabin while Fizzgog was not looking. As soon as John could here the commotion below, he would investigate. Rosy and Jim would turn back into puppets preventing Fizzgog ever finding out who was making all the noise. The boat coming from the bridge was decorated in a similar way to Fizzgog’s boat and the man steering was similar too. As the boat passed me I got a wave from a lady looking out from one of the 6 round windows that ran along the boat. As it disappeared into the distance it left a v shape ripple behind stretching from one side of the canal to the other. A thought entered my head; I wondered if the lady in the window was real or a puppet.
I decided to move to the other bench by the bridge so I could sit in the shade of the hawthorn that stood behind it. The grassy bank was dominated by clusters of daisies with their bright yellow centres waiting to be picked for daisy chains. I was tempted to become the chain maker but my nails were too short to split the stems. Dotted amongst the daises were the familiar tiny purple flowers I saw earlier. They were as small as forget-me-nots but I did not recognise them.
As I sat I noticed another longboat moored up just past the bridge on the other side. There were two people lying on top semi naked taking advantage of the sunny day we were having. I was tempted to take a walk for chat but I wasn’t that sure how naked they were and I didn’t wish to embarrass them.
As I looked away from the boat I noticed the three young mallards grouped together in front of me, they were opening and closing their beaks as if they were asking for food. They would pick at the surface of the water chopping it with their beaks then look in my direction, opening and closing their beaks again. I had the feeling that this bench was the feeding bench where pensioners and young courting couples came to feed the ducks. I was empty handed, and sat thinking, in hindsight, that I should have considered the ducks before I left the house.
I sat for a while staring out over the field watching the clouds tell their own story by changing shape. The cows were chomping on grass and shaking their heads to remove the annoying flies. Little midges danced on the surface of the water, every so often one would make contact and create the tiniest ripple that seemed to spread for ever. Suddenly a larger ripple would appear from the open mouth of a hungry fish taking the bait of the dancing midges. As I looked into the mouth of the bridge I could see a collection of gnats all jumping about in mid air moving from one side of the bridge to the other; always staying together.
Apart from an occasional car passing over the bridge and the distant sound of an aeroplane, it was silent. Everything was moving slowly with no effort involved. I wished that everyday was as relaxed and peaceful as this. I thought about Monday mornings and the hectic office, everyone rushing and moaning about the week ahead, buses rushing to and fro up the main street in front of my office window, car horns honking and ambulance sirens coming from the Manor hospital around the corner. The telephones ringing continuously and the beeping sound as the office computers all fire up, the many printers and photocopiers spewing out last minute documents for their board meetings, and medical staff coming to their training sessions.
There is always a stagnant smell in the large open office after a week end away and the toilets have an ammonia smell that is more pungent than the smell coming from the field in front of me.
The bridge becomes busier as cars pass over more frequently. It is nearly tea time and the workers from the local factory are packing up for the day and heading home; this human activity is an indication for me to head home also. I am sad to have to leave but I know that I can return anytime I wish. I also know that the view will be different each time, including the sounds and the smells. Even the ducks will have changed, they will be bigger and will have more colour. I walk to the end of the ramp to collect my bike and join the busy traffic for the journey home.
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