Ever have one of those days when you want the world to stop rotating just long enough for you to escape the madness? Or when you wish Narnia was really at the back of your wardrobe so you could slip through the fur coats and stay there (the good time Narnia, not the Narnia that is always winter, that would suck.) Today was one of those days.
As neither of these two things are likely to happen anytime soon, I decided to take a walk along the cow track, down to the stream, just to escape the endless torent of political rhetoric coming from the radio, TV and internet. ‘Switch off and tune out’ said the #30DaysWild random act card. So I did.
It would have been easier to ‘tune out’ if I didn’t have a 22 pound baby strapped to my back, pulling my hair, whilst a toddler swung off my wrist. We made our way slowly down the track, C moaning that she had mud on her wellies (yes, that is what wellies are for) and that the track was too ‘sloppy’ (This is word of the week, apparently). I paused to take a quick photo. Bramble blossoms have suddenly exploded out, along with Dog roses, both scrambling along the hedgerow adding a new layer of wildness. Flies droned about the hawthorn, which is still covered in pungent white flowers. Bees buzzed passed us, as we meandered down to meet the stream.
Half way down, our path was blocked by this little creature. ‘Oh look, a beeeeuuuuatiful Caterpillar Mummy’, exclaimed C. And it really was. Orange and yellow speckles adorned a thick, black sausage shaped abdomen. Short orange fuzz covered its whole body, with tufts of white hairs between the legs (Or prolegs, if we are being anatomically correct).
I later discovered that it will eventually become one of these;
We inspected the moth caterpillar before gently scooping it onto the jam jar lid and placing it safely in amongst the brambles, lest it got squashed under ‘muddy’ toddler wellies.
A few more steps down the track and I spied this beauty, dangling from a leaf.
Daring to pause to photograph said creature elicited much screaming, wailing and pulling of (my) hair by JoJo. Off we went again.
The stream nestles at the bottom of a small valley created by the farms ‘Near property’ field and the ‘Cow’s field’. The slope down is a gradual gradient, until the very last few metres when it drops sharply. C decide that this was the perfect spot to ‘Practice running Mummy’. Not ideal. Sure enough the inevitable toddler face plant soon followed, with more screaming and wailing.
I picked her up, dusted her down and we set off again. Now, finally we were at our destination. The stream bubbled along peacefully, washing away my worries from the mornings political turmoil. Sunlight dappled down upon us through the greenery. The water was crystal clear, though I expect this is not the case when the cows are traipsing through. In the soft silt around the water I noticed tracks. Distinctly Vulpine tracks.
C’s complaining had now reached fever pitch. She had become hysterical as her left boot was ‘full of mud and soaking’. This was entirely due to the fact that she had deliberately kicked it off, mid stream, and was now standing ankle deep in the water. Tears and snot were flowing liberally. I picked her up, hoicked her under my arm and set off back up the slope. You would think by now I would have twigged that suitable footwear should be worn at all times. Crocs are not suitable footwear when crossing fields full of cow manure. Especially not gates where the mud is calf deep (my calf, not a bovine calf, that would be serious.) . Most definitely when you are liable to loose said crocs when trying to unhook the electric fence, and end up going barefoot. Sigh. Ah well, it distracted me from Brexit for a bit anyway!