My daily walks have gradually been venturing ever more westward. I would have hiked all the way there and got the bus back if it were practical, but realistically even that’s too much of a stretch. So in the end I just used my little car for what little yellow cars are designed for and drove out there. It can’t have taken me more than half an hour.
I’ve dropped by a couple of times already – once soon after I first arrived and again a few days ago. On my most recent visit I parked up in the village and was leaning against the car, pulling my boots on when the front door of the nearest cottage flew open and some irate little man stuck his stupid head out to tell me precisely where I was and wasn’t allowed to park.
Apparently, people out in the sticks are of the opinion that not only do they own their own drive and the stretch of road in front of their garden, but the fifty feet of road to left and right. He actually rather startled me, but I just carried on tying my boots. And when he paused to take a breath I assumed an expression of extreme bewilderment and called out to him, ‘Hang on. Didn’t you park on my street the other day?’
This succeeded in tripping the old bugger up for a couple of seconds.
‘Which street is that then?’ he said.
‘Exactly,’ I said, and pointed an accusatory finger at him. Then I slammed the car boot, turned and went stomping off up the lane. I believe I may have muttered, ‘… you bloody moron,’ under my breath as I went. In fact, I know I did.
I have to say, I felt pretty pleased with myself – for standing up to him and for coming up with what seemed like quite a sharp little riposte, right off the cuff. Of course, nobody likes being called a moron – not even a moron – and I hadn’t gone very far before I began to wonder whether he might’ve heard me. And if he had, whether I might return to my car to find that he’d been slashing my tyres, etc. Which was a little unlikely, considering it would’ve been pretty clear who’d done it. And meant I would’ve just come back a little later and smashed all his windows. Oh, it’s easy to see how these things get out of hand.
So, despite the principle, I vowed not to park there next time. And this morning managed to find a little patch of ground at the side of the lane where people had obviously parked before, away from any houses and not blocking any gates to fields, or likely to upset the natives in any conceivable way.
I walked across a couple of fields and joined the coastal path without much trouble. And it was only half a mile or so from there over to the reserve. I’ve been up and down that path a few times now, half expecting to just bump into him. And earlier this week I found the point where the path is closest to the cottage, which, to be fair, is not that close at all.
Thanks to my expensive new binoculars I have a pretty good shot at seeing what’s going on there. I should certainly be able to see if anyone comes or goes. Which, unfortunately, they didn’t. I found a nice little spot, not far from where I came and pitched up however many years ago it is now. And, having reminded myself of it, became quite upset and had to sit down for a couple of minutes to try and pull myself together.
Anyway, apart from seeing the cottage and apparently nobody being in it and getting upset all over again I didn’t get an awful lot more done today. Although I like to think I got in some practice at pretending to be a budding birder – a performance which consists of little more than staring into space, sometimes through a pair of binoculars. And nodding knowingly at the few authentic birders who happen to cross my path.