Distance: 7.00km
Accessibility: Level dirt tracks, with occasional pavements. Some steep hills, and one uneven bridge.
Landscape: Riverside, thin woodland, reeds.
Rivers are the best. A hidden world you can plunge your hand into. A constant flow of change so calming you can fall asleep to the noise of the water.
The Butter Mouse was almost The Butter Vole. He was going to have a miniature house down by the river, rather than a lodge on the hill. But I worried about vole sounding too close to vile, and the dangers of river safety. I did not want kids slipping down muddy banks into tangled weeds thanks to my stories.
Maybe I over-thought these issues. Would a different main character have meant more time down by the river? Maybe not. I have still never been skiing.
By walk three my shoes had a satisfying layer of mud over the soles, and the first and third Sunday of the month were mini-Christmases. Considering the time of year I had encountered blue skies and crisp air, the perfect fuel for winter exercise.
This run did not continue to Pucel Bec.
Rain had rattled the window panes for the last two days, blocking out any sign of the moon. But by Sunday morning a thin layer of grey sky broke through, and I hit the footpath with determination.
Pucel Bec’s route has signage and tarmac. An easy stroll for all. But after so much downpour mud formed a light spread over the macadam. At first I made steady but slippery progress. Then thin streams bled from the river onto the walkway, and I had to slosh through water the colour of dirty cream.
Damp started to rise up my socks. Mud took over the path. I wished for wellies instead of hiking boots. An audible squelch accompanied every step, which slowed to less than ten paces a minute. I had to spread my arms out to avoid falling. The river moved alongside, beating my speed five times over.
I decided the best technique was to head straight through the middle, rather than waste time sloshing around the edge. This new approach last a hundred metres before my boots plunge into murky slop. I try to progress, but two hands seem to grab onto my boots from within. This is not just a sensation. A bony vice clutches onto my toes, stopping any leverage, tethering me into position.
The air smelt of mouldy silt, something pulled up from the bottom of the tributaries. Rotting vegetation and old bike tyres. A rustle ran through the trees. Hazy sunshine had at most an hour left of life.
Surely I was not trapped?
::Too dramatic Barbara? What do you think about the placement of the Butter Vole story Also, an update on my research. I’ve had a dig around for natural reasons behind damage to trees, or rips in the ground. Nothing so far, but lots of local folklore stories to explore. I suppose this was likely considering the weird names round here!::
