The Hipster Diaries #7 Purple Patch

I feel rather a fraud now. My various scars are healing nicely (though a touch itchy). I’ve pretty much abandoned the sticks altogether, other than on rough ground, and I am nipping about at home more or less like a normal person*. Since my first proper physio session on Wednesday I’m confident that I can get up and down to the floor, so exercises have moved from the bed to the yoga mat (and thus the internet yoga trousers have been so fully justified another colour might be in the offing..) I still struggle just bit going up the stairs the usual way (rather than good leg leading), but it’s getting easier. Other than that it’s just getting back behind the wheel (still verboten) and finding a way to get my left sock on.

*Keith is not sure I have ever justified this description

With the good weather hanging in there, it’s been really quite pleasant just bumbling round the garden with my camera, immortalising the insects, deadheading the roses and taking a speculative cutting here and there. I have discovered a spot on the patio where, if the wind is in the right direction, there are alternating puffs of rose, philadelphus and freesia. Jo Malone eat your heart out. When it’s just too hot I migrate to the shade under the pergola with an ice cream and a book. I’ve been powering through “In Her Nature” by Rachel Hewitt which is a wonderful mixture of memoir, social observation and fascinating history about (inter alia) 19th Century lady mountaineers. I can’t recommend it enough. As a result of all this hedonism there’s been zero progress with the various planned recuperation projects. Perhaps if it rains tomorrow….

Having demonstrated last week that I can safely walk the dog, I wheedled Keith into dropping Mum and me off at the Hirsel woods on Thursday. It was a fiercely hot day and the darker shade under the trees, now fully in leaf, was a blessed relief. Lyra scampered enthusiastically down to the first stream and made a fair fist at drinking it dry. As sometimes happens, having got down, she couldn’t remember how to get back up and the mandatory twirling stick proved quite useful for beating on the stones to alert her to the best route. We hemmed and hawed then decided that discretion was the better part of valour and decided to take the first turning back to the top of the tree line to make a small circular route. The path seemed very overgrown and I was busy beating it back with the stick when Lyra wandered off and then sat smugly a yard further on at the start of the right (much less overgrown) path the other side of the cherry tree that marks the turn. She led us on with the air of an exasperated parent. All along the path that borders the edge of the woods spikes of woundwort were coming into flower and the scrappy hedgerow was twined with dog roses. Huge tangles of brambles and raspberries have emerged in between the young trees planted to replace those lost in Storm Arwen. These “official trees” are barely taller than the raspberry canes but myriad self sown maples and birches have sprung up from long buried seed, willy nilly, amongst the cosseted saplings in tree guards. These interlopers are at least twice the size of the invitees. I wonder whether there will be a thinning or whether they will all be left to fight it out for light and air?

We make a second trip to the woods the following day, but decide to take the route in reverse and be bolder, tramping on as far as the cross roads before turning down into the deeper woods. The air is hot and still. It envelops like a heavy curtain and as we move into each welcome patch of shade I suddenly feel a prickle of sweat cooling on my back. Mum finds the way marker and, with relief, we head down into the trees, towards the river. In the darkest stretch ivy leaves lighten the path, glowing with stolen light. I peer down from the high bank at my favourite spot, where overhanging branches and their reflections tangle and, in between the floating patches of clouds, sunbeams light the muddy stream bed. Ripples speak of rising fish and overweight damselflies. The first stream we come to is disappointingly dry but we plod on and eventually reach yesterday’s watering place. Lyra seems to remember it, bounds in and snorkels around approvingly. However, this time she simply can’t fathom how to get back out, despite much stone tapping, whistling and hallooing. In the end I grab her collar and haul. Regaining the path, madam tosses her head at the indignity and strides out to take the lead. As we turn up the hill I dig out my phone to alert the chauffeur to our imminent arrival at the pick up point and, in the window of signal, messages from Keith wondering if we are OK appear. We have been AWOL longer than planned but it has been so lovely just to feel easy in my own skin clambering along. I am on the mend.

And here I shall end as the delightful Keith has messaged to advise me it is apéritif o’ clock. What a sweetie.