Half of me is missing - the half I used to bounce ideas off; the part who explored the world with me, relishing the new adventures; the part on whom I relied in rough times.
As I was walking through Purwell Nature Reserve, I was very aware that it is just me, alone, with whom I will experience these things, me who will cope when things go wrong. I didn't feel alone, because I wasn't - Alf was with me. But there wasn't that other self, to whom I could turn and say 'Listen, isn't that wonderful'
There was no one to whom I could turn and ask 'Can you smell that?' as we passed another stretch of elderflower bushes in the humid confines of the woodland.
No one to join me in the joy I felt when I spotted a young elderflower bush that had been espaliered, beautifully, against the fence and hedge that separated the Reserve from Gypsy Lane.
The strange thing is that, at the time, I did not feel the absence of the other half of me. I listened, watched, and smelled all these things and was 'in the moment' each time.
I mentioned, in Part 1, that I wondered if the inner trail would go as far as Coot's corner, near the junction with the Wymondley Road. Well, it did. I spotted water through the trees on the right and, a little further along, the buildings that belong to the fisheries and cafe on that spot. Getting a picture was difficult but, just like the time I drew the comet I saw one night alone on the boat on the chalkboard, I needed to collect evidence that I wasn't dreaming.
It proved to be the end of the trail. A way marker pointed to the left, the trail became a flight of steps, up which Alf led me to the other end of Gypsy Lane.
The exit gate had a smaller sign from the one at the other end.
The route back to the car was along Gypsy Lane. I met several family groups out walking with dogs and children. None was aware of the wonderful adventure that lay waiting for them, just a short flight of steps away. My enthusiastic description of the trail met with blank stares from some (young couple with a small dog) but with interest and gratitude from those with young children, who were obviously bored with yet another walk along a tarmacked path bounded on both sides by boring trees.
So ended another adventure, taken alone; missing an important presence, but transforming in its own way. I'm listening to Lilac Lane. It called to me because it was about a woman who turned to gardening on an allotment, when her life felt completely broken. There is much I relate to in this novel - " The guilt was the worst thing; guilt for being alive, for carrying on without him. Everytime I laughed or lost myself in the moment, seconds later the memory returned and a knife twisted in my heart as a sharp reminder. ..... widow, bereaved, alone. And the flip side; guilt at not making the most of the life I had ..... "
Eamonn used to ask me 'well what did you learn from that, when I'd finished a novel. I tried to explain that, probably, nothing, but that novels often confirmed my experiences and my life-view. Onwards and upwards. The only way is onward, carrying the memories with me.
As I was walking through Purwell Nature Reserve, I was very aware that it is just me, alone, with whom I will experience these things, me who will cope when things go wrong. I didn't feel alone, because I wasn't - Alf was with me. But there wasn't that other self, to whom I could turn and say 'Listen, isn't that wonderful'
There was no one to whom I could turn and ask 'Can you smell that?' as we passed another stretch of elderflower bushes in the humid confines of the woodland.
The strange thing is that, at the time, I did not feel the absence of the other half of me. I listened, watched, and smelled all these things and was 'in the moment' each time.
It proved to be the end of the trail. A way marker pointed to the left, the trail became a flight of steps, up which Alf led me to the other end of Gypsy Lane.
The exit gate had a smaller sign from the one at the other end.
The route back to the car was along Gypsy Lane. I met several family groups out walking with dogs and children. None was aware of the wonderful adventure that lay waiting for them, just a short flight of steps away. My enthusiastic description of the trail met with blank stares from some (young couple with a small dog) but with interest and gratitude from those with young children, who were obviously bored with yet another walk along a tarmacked path bounded on both sides by boring trees.
So ended another adventure, taken alone; missing an important presence, but transforming in its own way. I'm listening to Lilac Lane. It called to me because it was about a woman who turned to gardening on an allotment, when her life felt completely broken. There is much I relate to in this novel - " The guilt was the worst thing; guilt for being alive, for carrying on without him. Everytime I laughed or lost myself in the moment, seconds later the memory returned and a knife twisted in my heart as a sharp reminder. ..... widow, bereaved, alone. And the flip side; guilt at not making the most of the life I had ..... "
Eamonn used to ask me 'well what did you learn from that, when I'd finished a novel. I tried to explain that, probably, nothing, but that novels often confirmed my experiences and my life-view. Onwards and upwards. The only way is onward, carrying the memories with me.
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