The rural rights of way in England often cut through fields and meadows, and are usually just a gap in the crops to indicate where to walk (see bottom left of photograph above for example). From the lanes it looks as though you are just standing in the middle of a crop. So… I have taken to assuming various scarecrow poses and
freezing whenever I hear a vehicle approaching. It’s great fun because sometimes I can see the vehicle swerve wildly when they see me suddenly wave, change pose or start to walk towards them with that certain dead-eyed zombie/killer/nutcase expression on my face and arms outstretched. It helps that I dress like a tramp and often have straw tucked where straw ought not to be.
This morning’s walk was taken at six a.m. of the o’sundial when the day was still confused and not properly begun in meteorological terms. The only sentient life I met was the trees and the sheep. Sometimes on a walk I plot (storylines, not so much revolutions) and sometimes I just disengage the old brain-gland and simply gawp at the clouds and the sheer rolling brilliance of England.
When in the middle of nowhere in particular, with no road-traffic noise, no air-craft overhead (this area is directly under a commercial and military air-traffic route) it’s possible to forget the time altogether. Not so much what time of day, more what century or even geologic period it might be. Who stomped around the same land before me, also swearing at sparrows? Am I walking exactly in the footsteps of some black-clad Victorian, some smelly Elizabethan (the first lot; from Elizabeth One) or am I sharing a route with some European who had strolled across Doggerland before the current North Sea formed? Time is the only dimension separating us all. A tiny blip in the fabric of time and we might bump into one another.