River escape

19 Jan River escape

I have this thing on my phone where a newsflash pops onto the screen and makes a little beep to draw my attention. It’s a very particular beep, unlike the ones from Whatsapp friends or groups. It’s nearly always impossible to not look at messages that come in through this uncomfortably essential lifeline to the outside world. I am shocked sometimes at how much I’ve come to rely on these beeps; they’re like ballast. I don’t remember setting this news alert up and there’s probably a way of turning it off and stopping it interrupting my train of thought or my quiet daydream, but I’ve never got around to doing that. I don’t know whether that’s inertia, incompetence or a concession to the feeling it’s important to just stay in touch with breaking news even though it nearly always brings home to me a daily sense of powerlessness. As it did yesterday afternoon when there was one that told me the UK death rate from coronavirus is now the highest in the world. It gave me a jolt – which is quite a relief in a way because it means that I’m not completely numbed to the statistical and human horror that’s unfolding all around us. 

Though I am amazed there’s not more visible, vocal, visceral anger. It’s there, for sure, but who is catching hold of it and speaking for us?

Enough. We are all jaded and need to find ways to escape. Walks in the park or by the river are my other, precious interface with the outside world. And visits to the allotment where winter’s work is a joyful distraction from the everyday. Sunday promised to be glorious after several days of rainy weather. A walk over the lock and west along the river to Kingston then across the bridge and back home through Bushy Park was the plan. An easy 5 miler. Start early, we thought, and the tow path will be quiet, we’ll catch it before people rouse themselves from bed. 

Wrong. 8.30 am isn’t early enough on a Sunday morning. The runners and riders are already out, streaming along the narrow paths, puffing and dinging their bells, passing too close to us for comfort. I edged onto the grass verge to make space but so many people have done that these last few weeks of lockdown and underfoot it’s muddy and damp and there are places where the shrubs grow hard against the path and there’s no room to move aside. I find I’m feeling resentful that this precious outdoor space where I’ve felt safe all these months of pandemic is suddenly feeling full of threat even early in the morning. I realise the anxiety levels have climbed back up again to where they were last spring. The ghastly fear of the proximity of other human beings. I find myself wondering how we will retreat from social distancing and trust ourselves to go near strangers again. I also have to tell myself to remember, these people need some outside escape too.

As we reach the far side of the lock the sun is starting to muscle its way through the clouds, backlighting bare trees. The river gathers into runnels at the weir rushing through day after day, night after night, an unceasing stampede of water. I’m always amazed how quickly its sound recedes or we adjust to it, block it out so we can be alert for other sounds, other dangers. We leave it behind as we walk west along the river’s edge. Cutting down to the lower path, out of the way of cyclists and runners, we find a trail of deep puddles and mud. It doesn’t matter; the boots will deal with it.  With walking my anxiety lessens and with it my hostility to my fellow human beings. Walking soothes my mind. It’s something about the process, how my step synchronises with my heartbeat and my breath, how my pace settles to its natural level and sets my mind free to wander off unshackled for a while.

I have no idea how many times I’ve walked this route. The walk is fabulous in all its familiarity. The same route yet every time it’s different – the weather, the light, my mood, the sights, sounds and colour – constantly changing. Winter light makes everything look clean and eternal.  Within twenty minutes the clouds have gone, fetched away to wait out the day before they gather again in the late afternoon. Half way along we see a cluster of people partially dressed. Wild swimming is the latest craze in the Thames which strikes me as delightful, brave, eccentric and possibly a bit dangerous. The winter light and the still day may make the water look innocent but look closely and it seems pretty murky to me. You wouldn’t want to swallow a mouthful. The voices are excited, urgent, high-pitched, as if they’re trying to persuade themselves the water isn’t that cold and this is really a pleasurable thing to do. I feel myself smile and shiver on their behalf.

We’re nearing Kingston. The tow path is quieter but the river is busier here: a few rowers; some fishermen; crafts moored on an island in the middle. At the far side, fragile homesteads nestle on stilts or slabs looking like pretend houses and I feel briefly amazed that anyone lives there. We pass tiny jetties perfectly reflected in the water. I’ve never seen a boat moored up beside them but they are fixtures here and seem to belong to the riverscape. Moss gathers at their bases; occasionally gulls and geese stop to nibble and drink, wash and preen. We keep walking. I feel my shoulders relax. The movement of the river is reassuring in this time of uncertainty. It still flows downstream silken blue or velvet brown and I am thankful for its constancy.