Lindie Heeralall

I was in a dark place, so I went for a walk.

I walk through the metal kissing gate. As I enjoy the feeling of soft mud and tree roots beneath my feet, I realise the tarmac pavement was keeping me from the earth. Beyond the field maples is openness, and it soothes a crowded mind. A second kissing gate leads to two horse fields. I am relieved to find it empty. The city in me is still nervous around large mammals. I climb over the wooden stile, and cross through a third kissing gate that leads to wonky stone steps to the road. The hill is lined with a bank of nettles, hogweed and elders. I cross the bridge over the murky river and go up a lane between woodland. On my right, there is a field, favoured by hares and pheasants, where the occasional deer may grace the boundary between open land and wooded cover. But not today.

I walk up the track past the gamekeepers cottage. September rains have turned dry stony mud, into swathes of grass bent beneath the weight of water, showing their silvery undersides. A man in a hat walks a black dog. He sees me and veers away into the trees. The city in me is still nervous around men in solitary places. There are black cows minding their own business, but one, who looks. The west wind carries a tinny voice from the distance. The dogwalker talks on his phone. Danger does not have chipper chats on mobile phones, does it?

I reach up for the cool, rounded metal handle of the giant’s gate in the high stone wall. I turn sharp right and stroll along the grassy track. A red admiral butterfly accompanies me, flitting from tree to tree. At the dairy farmer’s field, it is written in black paint – ‘Shut the gate.’ There is thin yellow twine looped around the wide wooden post. I remove it and try to lift the gate. It is heavy so I wedge my shoulder beneath the bar to lift it off the metal hook and fight to close it. There are no cows in the field today. A walk along the bumpy terrain and I reach the rusty gate on the other side. The metal latch is broken, and the gate is misaligned. I push it down to get it into the right position to open and use my strength to force it shut. I wonder if the farmer cannot afford to maintain the gates or does not wish to.

The lane returns me to an asphalt barrier. The smoothness is welcome, but the hardness is not. Oak trees line the road. I hear birds, but I cannot see them. The canopy is full and dark green. Pale lime green leaves of ash are a balm for the eyes. I turn right to make the journey home. The quaking aspen on the corner shakes trembling handkerchiefs and fills the air with loud whispers. Horse chestnut leaves are gold and orange. They are the first to come and the first to go. Fallen chestnuts cover the road and irresistible shiny conkers find their way to my fingers. Smooth, rich brown shells. One for my son, one for my husband and one for me.

I stand at the edge of the hare field, where the deer path crosses the lane at the low part of the wall. A low sun shimmers through hawthorn branches. The hedgerow is lush and abundant after early autumn sun and rain. I close my eyes to hear the wind and the birds. Everything is vermillion, except for the echo of the sun. Slow-moving waves appear at the edge and move forward pulling me with them. Old hogweed stems scratch me awake. Beauty reaches in and darkness lifts.