So I’ve just been for a walk through Swaby, 4 miles I guess, a walk Holly used to take me on most weekends in those glorious days when we were similar ages.
Even though the sun is shining and spring is bursting through every plant I pass, I did have a sense of melancholy as every stream, spinney and field reminded me of the long constitutionals me and my girl would take.
She was always the finest of companions on these adventures, busily pointing out places of interest that she was sure I would miss and leading me excitedly to her favourite watering holes to help me practice my stick location and throwing skills. She tirelessly indulged this hobby of mine, selflessly jumping into any amount of water no matter how deep or dirty just to fetch and chew up these sticks so I could go and find a new one to start the process again.
Holly’s not a great conversationalist but a good listener, however, saying that, she does convey more with a look than a lot of people I’m forced to endure hours of chat with.
She is still a huge fan of the garden and the great outdoors and does what she can, hoovering up the bone meal when I’ve dropped it and encouraging me to deal with the enemy sorties (see earlier posts) but as conscientious objector she doesn’t really enter into the battle, morals which I definitely admire her for.
The sad thing now is when it comes to the customary time for walks I can see in that look she gives me from the sofa, that the minds willing but the body is letting her down. Its obvious she’s worried about how I’m going to manage on my own, finding a way through that journey of a thousand sights and million scents.