A scented nosegay

Since Lyra lost her sight I’ve been trying to think more about sounds and smells, to be more aware of what she is experiencing. Walking round Norham last week, Lachlan got in on the act and we spent a large part of the walk trying to work out the source of a very particular smell, slightly sweet and cloying but with a sharp undertone (bizarrely Lachlan declared that the smell reminded him of snot. Lachlan is colour blind so I know that when he is looking at green, he might not see the same green as I do, but scent blind is a whole new concept. Maybe he just has fragrant snot. I digress.) After sticking our noses into all and sundry I concluded it was definitely a mix of Himalayan balsam (for the sweet ness) and nettle (a slightly dusty sour sharp smell). I can also confirm that a field of ripe wheat smells a bit like toast – which really is far from surprising.

On Tuesday, Lyra and I set off for a stroll through the woods. It was a damp mizzling sort of a day and the moisture brought out all sorts of smells. I was happily sniffing away and sharing my profound thoughts on this with Lyra when a distinctly resistant pull on the lead alerted me to a problem. What with the rush of scents and the drip drip drip of raindrops through the leaves Lyra seemed to have become overwhelmed. It took an age to get her through the tree-lined section of the path. Once the overhead branches cleared and the dripping sound abated, madam perked up and she was striding happily on ahead by the time we were into the woods proper. Where the path neared the stream, which usually manages a desultory burble at best, there was an audible gushing as the swollen torrent hurtled over the stones. Again Lyra fell back and began to hesitate. It occurred to me that the change in volume might have knocked her sense of where she was, making the water seem closer than usual. In the past she’s been able to see that the stream is in the same place, just fuller, and hasn’t really had to ponder on it. Now the visible clues are absent, she’s having to make logical connections that simply weren’t necessary before. This made me reassess her hesitation coming along the start of the road. Was she nervous or simply concentrating, trying to make some sense of new sounds and smells without visual clues. Maybe a little of both. Anyway it was lovely under the trees, with a sidelong light slanting through the ivy making everything glow. We came back at a confident clip and I was startled at one point to see Lyra pause, paw raised, just in front of a puddle then reverse and step around it. Well, that was clever.

Wednesday brought an old friend to stay. Predictably things got out of hand. The fire pit was lit and we were both well kippered and well lubricated by the time we came in for dinner. It was, therefore, with a degree of mutual penitence that we all decamped down to the river for a long walk in the rain the following morning. Lyra seemed to be entirely over her funk and ran to and fro, chivvying up the stragglers. Thursday looked set to go the same way, with grey clouds and descending mist when we set out. As we pressed on the sun came out and I began to look increasingly like a cricket umpire as I discarded first the waterproof and then my jumper and tied them around waist and neck. Most of the wheat has been harvested now and long skeins of straw lie in ridges in the fields, waiting to be gathered up by the balers. Our path was bounded on one side by a field of oats. It positively glowed in the sun – a veritable lion’s mane of gold and amber. Somehow this seemed to add to the heat and by the time we got home I was sweltered. Lyra, having ambled the length of a refreshing puddle was in better shape. I passed Anne next door on the way in and she called out cheerily that it was a grand day for gardening. I tried hard to ignore this, but failed and a really pretty decent shift in the long border followed. Project overplant the daffodils has expanded to include acanthus mollis at the shadier end. I’ve also moved yet more peonies forward – I do hope they survive!

Today, after a very slow start and a giant bacon roll, we returned to the woods. Glorious sunshine brought out fluttering ringlet butterflies and the sun through the trees was like green fire. Lyra decided to impress by finding a squirrel at the top of a tree. It must have been the sound of its movement that caught her attention as half an hour later one strolled slowly across the path in front of her and sparked not a flicker of a reaction. I was picking brambles to munch as we strolled along, mostly wincingly tart but every now an then there was one which had secured a pool of sunshine and tasted wonderful. Just past one of the little bridges that criss cross the stream I found a marvellous bush, hanging with plump fruit of a perfect sweetness. I was wondering to myself that this had been missed by the local jam makers (who are usually all over the best bushes) when my foot caught in a snaking tendril across the path and I nearly nosedived. This bush was fighting back. How many rosy cheeked granny’s clutching bags lie in the undergrowth I wondered….

We took the less travelled path back, weaving through stands of exploding thistles and willow herb. There will be no shortage next year. I fully intended to get into the garden on our return and pull out some of my own but somehow found myself sharing an ice cream with the dog instead. By way of compensation I have made tomato soup.