I woke up this morning feeling empty. I had been dreaming about gorging myself on a cream tea while a strident female voice reminded me that this was not the way to lose weight. I have been trying to trim a bit before a hospital appointment, where they will undoubtedly comment on my body mass index. The need of Lancashire miners to have short, stocky wives who could haul their coal to the pithead pre-dates BMI, and it is in my genes. Or so I tell myself when I am hungry. I also tell myself that I want some padding to reduce my risk of broken bones – something old people like me should avoid unless they want to spend hours on end on a trolley in a queue in a hospital corridor in acute pain.
So, breakfast beckons, listening to a podcast, then a walk. I need to remind myself of my quality of life, and my regular towpath walk is life-affirming. The High Street is quiet at this time in the morning. I can stride easily past cafes, galleries and boutiques which will be heaving with people in a few hours’ time. And the road will be blocked by parked cars and cars waiting to park. But now, it is as quiet as they show it on the credits to “Marlow Murder Club”. That shot is definitely taken at about five in the morning. On I walk, through the park gates, under the plane trees, to the water’s edge where the pleasure boats moor. It is just a little way before the path gets a little wilder, with water meadow on one side and dense vegetation clinging to the banks on the other. Spots of yellow and mauve wave in the meadow grass. Bees dive into the trumpets of bindweed on the bank. There are hundreds of these bright, white cups of nectar ready for them. In-between willows dipping in the water, I spot a proud pair of swans with four little grey cygnets. There are lucky young cattle in the next meadow, munching on grass which is under water for much of the winter, so it is still lush. I can just hear the rhythmic grind of rowlocks, as rowers pull along the river. It is a classic, comforting sound. Runners overtake me, and there are a few dog-walkers who say “good morning”.
The highlight, as ever, is Temple Weir, with its thirty artificial mini-waterfalls, which makes a musical sound that my failing ears can still identify as water. I always stop here for a few minutes. Then I pace north for a short while, and take “the back path”. Meadow on one side; light woodland and ditches on the other. I have a view to the foothills of the Chilterns, where I notice the many different shades of green of the trees – grey-green, yellow-green, red-green, dark-green, light-green, and on the top, the unique beech-green.
But, not even a short haiku comes into my head. My to-do list will chide me when I get back: this needs doing, that needs doing. Things which are enormous for someone with my difficulties, which require the help of others, such as “switch mobile provider”, may sit there for weeks. At the moment, even “empty bins” feels threatening. As for doing anything to promote the book – well, I need to be realistic. There are thousands of authors using the techniques recommended by “experts”, so it doesn’t really narrow the competition much. I must maximise my chances of a lucky break, but today might just have to be a rest day. My friends urge me to slow down, to rest. Dear me, the summer warmth must be getting to me. And, although it is still very much morning, the Kinks’ so-singable song “Lazing on a summer’s afternoon” comes into my head. Can I allow myself to laze? I’ll try for thirty minutes. That should be enough. Then I will reach the “I’m bored” moment that will kick-start the rest of the day.
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Photo: Bisham Abbey form the north bank of the Thames
