Notes from August.
The once lush undergrowth is beginning to die back and dry out, now tangled and unkempt. Flowers of the creeping thistle all over the Peak have faded and exploded into puffs of seed, dragged through leaves and branches by the wind like candy floss. There is a wistful nostalgia when putting my hand in a pocket or shoe weeks after returning home to find sand under my fingernails or forgotten little pebbles and shells tucked away as souvenirs. Especially to our home, almost as far away from any sea as it’s possible to get in the UK.
Walking usually soothes me back from whichever corners my mind is lost in. But sometimes there is a stiffness in my legs and a restlessness in my mind that resists settling to the rhythm of feet on the earth. I find new paths to walk to coax my mind to move with my body, tugging at stubborn blackberries along the way, small and too tart. Too impatient to wait for them to ripen.
Pockets of sand become pockets of sloes. Harder won, they gather in little clusters, crouching underneath their leaves like umbrellas. Suddenly they appear, one after the other, my eyes catching them faster than I pick. Now, tucked away in my pantry is a kilner jar of sloe gin, waiting for when the hedgerows are bare.
