The glums have been prevalent again the
last week or so. Moods are a series of ups and downs, regulated to
some degree by the tablets. They seem to even things out – the
highs are kept in check while the lows don't reach the full depths of
despair, at least, not as frequently. But the moods still have
wriggle room within these artificially imposed confines, and this
last few days have been a bit flat, to say the least. I did manage a
short trip into the woods for a mug of coffee, but that was as far as
getting out and about went, my mojo had definitely gone awol. This
also happened to coincide with some unseasonably good weather, with
bright sunny days throughout the week, but frustratingly, I just
wasn't in the mood to exploit them.
The forecasters had warned it would all
come to an end on Sunday, as first the sun would be hidden behind
some grey clouds, then rain would set in during the evening. So as
Sunday dawned I tried to get things together and headed out, before
bad weather would put me off even more. Not really able to decide
where to go I just mounted the rattletrap Carerra and set sail, not
particularly feeling the love. But as I pottered along the lanes, not
really happy with proceedings, I found myself approaching a footpath
I have explored before, and decided I'd mooch along that to get amongst the trees and bushes and away from the tarmac.
This footpath is one of those odd paths
that goes from nowhere much all the way to nowhere in particular,
with not a lot happening in between. It is also quite wide in places,
although overgrown in others, and if you poke your nose into the
edges enough, you find it is bordered along most of its length by
Cornish hedges. These 'hedges' actually have stone walls lurking
beneath their straggly green exterior, and often catch out the unwary
motorist who collides with them expecting to bounce off with minimal
damage. Unlike the dry stone walls found elsewhere in the country, a
Cornish hedge is built with stones, packed and topped with soil. Over
subsequent decades then, grass, weeds, bushes and trees will grow out
of and onto the 'hedge', increasing its girth and height, while
concealing its stone heart. This purposeful border suggests that this
broad footpath was perhaps once a Drover's route, although I'm no
expert on these matters at all, but it would fit with other similar
paths in the area.
Footpaths are of course a bit of a
no-no for riding a bike along, and I wouldn't dream of riding or even
pushing the bike along many local paths as they see a lot of foot
traffic and are tricky to navigate anyway. But other paths, such as
this one that are remote from 'civilisation' and show evidence of
either being little used, or as in this case, used by horse riders,
well then I'll potter along them. Even at this time of year the tyres
do no damage to the path, and the more folk who use them, the more
likely they are to remain available for access, that's my
reasoning/excuse.
For a remote rural footpath, this is pretty wide. This not being an old mining district, an old Drovers route is a possible explanation.
This path is also a nice and easy one
for my creaking body to deal with. It's mostly flat and even, just
the odd divot left by a horses hoof to negotiate, so I'm unlikely to
become unseated and lobbed unceremoniously into the bushes.
So I bimbled my way along the short
path, scraping past and ducking beneath some of the lurking brambles,
accompanied only by the wind 'freshing' about the tree tops. I can't
come up with a better word to describe the relaxing and invigorating
noise right now - not a rustle, nor a roar, so freshing will do for
me.
Actually, a quick Google finds
Psithurism is the word given to the sound of the wind rustling the leaves
and trees. I prefer my 'freshing' to be honest, it's easier to spell
and pronounce for a start, and is onomatopoeic too - they really
should've come to me first when wanting a word to describe this
particular sound, my rates are very reasonable after all.
This ride didn't see me finishing up
full of joy and happiness, but it did lift my spirits a notch or two.
There is something powerful about just 'being', just 'living the
moment', alone and out in the countryside, that restores a feeling of
life where mere existence went before. I may not have been doing
cartwheels or singing to myself on the rest of the ride, but I did
feel a sense of refreshing renewal, and a more positive state of mind
as a result of this brief excursion. I also felt the snags of a few
brambles through my trousers too, but I can put up with those,
they're a small price to pay really.
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