The world according to Jim
Jim stepped into the morning and breathed in the fresh cool air. It felt good after the stuffy sleepy-ness of the cottage. He noted the wind direction, and the hint of rain on the breeze, but knew it was a good few hours away. Clouds scudded across the top of the moor and the lane was spotted with puddles from last night’s storm, but a bit of water never bothered Jim.
Weather noted, he ambled past the cottage gardens at the edge of the village, stopping here and there to take a closer look. Number four had filled their neat garden pots with bright spring flowers, there was even a hint of perfume, whilst number six’s weather-beaten, mossy pots were a tangled, straw-like mess of last years decay.
He passed the last cottage and headed on up to the moor. The old track was a regular route for Jim, but he never tired of it. Every time, it was different. Colours changed, the light changed, the wind carried new sounds and fragrances. The sharpness of Spring, the smoke of a bonfire, the wet woolly smell of damp sheep after the Summer rain and the sweetness of hawthorn blossom. All these were as familiar to Jim as his heartbeat. In time, the soft wet fields would become firm, the streams would dry to stony paths and the leaves would brittle and fall. Warm or cold, the walk could be counted on to fill one with joy.
Into his stride now and over the high stile onto the moor, the paradox of landing yet lifting, as the feeling of freedom from the absence of walls and fences spread throughout his body. He loved the bite of the cold wind on the fells and the way the birds tossed and turned on the squally gusts. He stood for a moment to take it all in as his breath misted in the air.
By the old square stone, he sat for a while and had his customary snack, before taking one last lingering look at the wild and untouched moorland. It was always a wrench to leave and turn back towards the village. Who could say when a pheasant might explode into flight or a hare might leap from the heather? This was a world worth spending time in, a world worth looking at.
But it was time to return, time to settle in his chair and listen to banality of the radio. Time to watch the world through the window again, time to wait for company.
With a last lingering glance, Jim found a good place to cock his leg and dutifully followed his master home.
Wendy Bowers
1.3.20.
Jim stepped into the morning and breathed in the fresh cool air. It felt good after the stuffy sleepy-ness of the cottage. He noted the wind direction, and the hint of rain on the breeze, but knew it was a good few hours away. Clouds scudded across the top of the moor and the lane was spotted with puddles from last night’s storm, but a bit of water never bothered Jim.
Weather noted, he ambled past the cottage gardens at the edge of the village, stopping here and there to take a closer look. Number four had filled their neat garden pots with bright spring flowers, there was even a hint of perfume, whilst number six’s weather-beaten, mossy pots were a tangled, straw-like mess of last years decay.
He passed the last cottage and headed on up to the moor. The old track was a regular route for Jim, but he never tired of it. Every time, it was different. Colours changed, the light changed, the wind carried new sounds and fragrances. The sharpness of Spring, the smoke of a bonfire, the wet woolly smell of damp sheep after the Summer rain and the sweetness of hawthorn blossom. All these were as familiar to Jim as his heartbeat. In time, the soft wet fields would become firm, the streams would dry to stony paths and the leaves would brittle and fall. Warm or cold, the walk could be counted on to fill one with joy.
Into his stride now and over the high stile onto the moor, the paradox of landing yet lifting, as the feeling of freedom from the absence of walls and fences spread throughout his body. He loved the bite of the cold wind on the fells and the way the birds tossed and turned on the squally gusts. He stood for a moment to take it all in as his breath misted in the air.
By the old square stone, he sat for a while and had his customary snack, before taking one last lingering look at the wild and untouched moorland. It was always a wrench to leave and turn back towards the village. Who could say when a pheasant might explode into flight or a hare might leap from the heather? This was a world worth spending time in, a world worth looking at.
But it was time to return, time to settle in his chair and listen to banality of the radio. Time to watch the world through the window again, time to wait for company.
With a last lingering glance, Jim found a good place to cock his leg and dutifully followed his master home.
Wendy Bowers
1.3.20.
