3 Apr 2016

3rd April 2016 Inspired to textual misbehaviour.


Sunday 3rd 48-56F, 9-13C, heavy overcast with a cold south-easterly wind. POO 6/10 Smoke 6.5.

As I started my morning walk I met a brave and curious Robin and we traveled together for some distance. Myself, busily sleighing the roaring dragons of the road. While it secreted itself, at intervals, along the hedge. The Robin was obviously mindful of the potentially lethal ape ambling aimlessly along the black asphalt ribbon which carries the detritus of our dying civilization. Robins are rarely seen in Denmark. Being of a shy nature, quite unlike those of Gravely Blighted. Where they will often take worms from the human hand and perch [selfishly] near a toiling gardener. I sorely miss their tinkling laughter at the total absurdity of human behaviour. 

Having walked up to the woods, as is my wont, I wavered and then took off through the humped and clinging undergrowth. My unexpected detour was to reach largely hidden fields for a complete change of scenery. Now ensconced within a concealed and soggy valley, I was hard up against bristling conifers on one side and hemmed in by the steeply sloping hill on the other. I plodded on through thick moss and patches of barren earth looking for a safe and non-damaging route to the deeply incised, tractor spray tracks above. Tiny landslides of sandy soil had obliterated the thin, juvenile crops in places. As rivulets were swept down by the recent rains.

A number of the trees had been cracked off at various heights of their muscular trunks. Presumably by a ferocious but unseen wind. For only a Godzilla would have had the power to brush aside such tall and impressive trees with complete impunity. An unfortunate wind may have been channeled between the wall of trees and the rearing hillside in a sort of Venturi effect. One which had lead to the demise of a number of the towering, evergreen specimens.

Having safely overcome several wet hurdles, I returned via the steeply cambered path alongside the more familiar marsh. Here I had the field rearing to obstruct my view to the east, on my my left. While the remnants of last year's bleached and grassy weeds clung to impenetrable, moss-infested, dying elder and stunted alder on my right.

The marsh pond sported a small contingent of distant Mallards and a flotilla of three Tufted duck cruisers. One with a jaunty pigtail in keeping with his nautical traditions and [no doubt]  to impress his accompanying floozies.

Several Mallards decided to be afraid and took off in a tightly grouped formation for an exploratory circle over their claimed territory. Perhaps intending to discover, hopefully from a safe distance, whether I intended to loiter with menaces. A foolish tactic which has always found in favour of the blood-thirsty gun toters from the very beginnings of duck legend and fable. Duck are obviously as incapable of learning from their mistakes as is the human race. I walked on as casually as possible with my capped head bowed well down. My artifice was to give the impression that I had not seen them. Nor cared for their very public show of obvious alarm. The scattered shotgun cartridges on the shoreline should not have convinced any normally paranoid duck. That my intentions were any other than the purest voyeurism.

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