At the earliest opportunity, I branch off the main path and take the narrow lane which cuts through the woods. I find I am walking briskly through places where I would normally linger. In the heat of the mid-afternoon it is easier to move than to stay in one place. I can feel the burn of the sun whenever I stop and so I walk as if I can escape it. Birds call and chirp. I can’t identify them with confidence until the wood pigeons coo.
I have developed a new habit of grasping the leaves of trees, just for that tactile connection. Another way to remember the differences between them all, and an extra dimension of the whole experience to recall in the relentless activity between holiday spaces. The beech leaves are past their spring softness and have turned a dark and shiny green. They have a thick, almost leathery feel. Some are already brown, crisp and crinkled. Conifers release a green, musky fragrance with their rough feathers. I touch the tips of my fingers to wicked holly spikes, but the larches have soft, comfortable needles. Lime leaves are among the most familiar to me – I try and breathe in the sweet, sticky scent that I remember, but can’t quite catch it today.
Five minutes through the woods and the lane continues between fields. The hedgerows are full of blackberries. I pick a few ripe ones, and then a red one to eat more slowly. The sour tang is similar to rhubarb and lasts a good long time. Near shoulder level, the border of lacy white cow parsley is dotted with deep burgundy dots of great burnet. In a tangle to my right, lesser stitchwort is scrambling along the length of the hedgerow at ankle level. Thin green stems weave messily through the grasses like a long scribble. On cooler days, I have bent to examine the slender white petals of these small, starry flowers. They travel along the edge of the field, dotted among the green like constellations.
Other people are in the lane, so it’s not a spot to linger long, even if the heat allowed. I follow the path round the field, now parallel with the road. Birdsong gives way to the swoosh and rumble of traffic. Eventually I know there will be a turning that goes towards the lake, although I don’t know how far along it is. The path is much more narrow now. Brambles, shrubs and grasses press from all sides. I watch out for nettles and thorns, avoiding stinging swipes or jagged catches. The late afternoon heat keeps me moving. This path is quite busy with people too. We cram ourselves into grassy passing places to make way, trampling bracken and keeping an eye on the thornier bushes.
After a while, a broader path leads down towards the lake. The air freshens a bit nearer to the water. The hedgerows give way to open grassland and neat gravel paths. There are boarded walkways through marshy areas, green and reedy, with pink accents of invasive Himalayan balsam. Soon the boards open out to fields near the water, where there are people and sheep. I stand in the heat listening to the tearing rip of grass being eaten; a sound of concentration occasionally punctuated by bleats, as if a slow conversation is taking place over the long afternoon.