Waves of Autumn

The storm has passed, the day dawns still and wet, Norman hesitates on the path and sniffs the cool, moist, air, the smell of hay from the field beyond my garden is the most suitable perfume to start this day. The terriers are being taken out by my son, Andrew, so there is only old Normy to walk today. He is lying on his back in the hall, wriggling, in happy anticipation of breakfast, as I fry bacon, sausage and black pudding for our full English. After breakfast I read the Guardian on my iPad and then shower and dress, before driving into Beverley with the dog for a walk on the Westwood. We park on Albert Terrace, a few feet from my friend, Felicity's, house, I have pumpkin pie in the boot of the car for her, after Normy and I have returned from the common. We walk up Westwood road and then cut through a snickett that leads to Woodlands, past the old hospital archway, past Barbara's house and onto the pasture. It is colder this morning, the wind has swung to the Northwest, but the sky is clearing and it promises to be a fine day. We turn left and make our way downhill into Newbegin Pits, and wander through the woods, still sodden from the storm. Dachshunds love to snuffle through fallen leaves, like little pigs looking for acorns. Some of the trees are now almost bare but the carpet they have made with their leaves, is rusty brown, gold, crimson, cider smelling, stirring, sighing and rustling as we sail upon its surface. We follow cattle tracks up and down steeply brambled banks, abandoning ourselves to these sensations, emerging after an hour, silently, and in deep calmness, we retrace our steps. Norman is placed on his blanket on the back seat of my car, I collect the pie from the boot, carry it the few steps to Felicity's house, knocking and opening the door almost simultaneously. I pause on the threshold, pass her the pie and then shed my muddy boots. She has a doctors appointment at eleven, and things to do, so I only stay for half an hour. We react well together, each making the other laugh and are merciless if either of us starts to take ourself too seriously. I leave half of the pie for her and her daughter Melissa, who is due imminently. The other half of the pie is destined for my old next door neighbour, Leslie, who as always, is glad to see us when we arrive. I make coffee for us both and then we share some pie with a dollop of double cream. Since leaving hospital, a few weeks ago, Leslie is struggling to regain his old independence, I think it is largely a matter of confidence, he needs more physiotherapy to build up his walking again, but is daunted at the prospect of travelling to hospital to get it, he is ninety years old. We discuss the possibility of a few weeks convalescence and I leave him to think this over. He loves to talk about America, where he lived and worked for thirty years, in a senior role for Proctor and Gamble. He thinks Hurricane Sandy might just have swung the election for Obama. As a Republican he is not pleased by this but he knows I will be. Norman and I leave after an hour promising to bring coffee and cakes when we call again on Sunday. After dropping the dog in Tickton, I head for the pool and arrive in the water by a quarter to twelve. It is very quiet and I have the luxury of a lane all to myself. I warm up on 400m backstroke and soon settle into a smooth, seventeen stroke, pattern. Turning onto my front to tumble at the end of each of the sixteen lengths. I count the strokes, as there are no flags to mark the lane ends and swimming blindly into the wall, is not to be recommended. After the warm up, I swim butterfly, but break the 400m into eight two length repeats. I am not strong enough to do the whole lot in one go. I push off underwater, undulating like a dolphin, before surfacing and completing three smooth, powerful strokes to establish my rhythm before commencing breathing, I try to carry the calmness of the woods into my stroke, keeping low and fluid. the first length is fast and feels effortless breathing every second stroke, the return leg is more challenging, as a conscious effort is necessary to maintain relaxation, as the oxygen debt takes hold and the desire to climb high out of the water to reach the air increases. It takes continuous, relaxed concentration and rest between repeats to complete this set. A total absorption in the task at hand. After completing this, Terry, in the next lane, asks if he can share with me. He is swimming freestyle and a lady who is taking ten minutes a length has decided to join his lane, despite it being labelled as a training lane for faster swimmers. He is a regular here and we swim in a clockwise rotation, up the left hand side and down the right. I have switched now to breaststroke, so he pushes off first and I immediately follow him. This effectively gives him a fifty metre lead, and as breaststroke is slower than freestyle and means we each have plenty of water. He leaves as I switch to swim 400m freestyle, but a woman replaces him in the lane, she is a decent swimmer and we work to the same routine, this time with me going off first. Having completed 400m in each individual stroke, I finish off with 4 x 100m medleys. The butterfly leg is problematic, as the arm recovery takes up the whole width of the lane, but we agree that I will set off as she comes in the other way, the underwater dolphin kicks taking me past her, before I start to stroke. No one else joins the lane, and after completing the set, I warm down with an easy 200m of mixed backstroke and freestyle. I leave the young woman to the lane, after first thanking her for her cooperation and then shower, before retiring to the cafe. Jen, one of the instructors, joins me to eat lunch, she is recently married and her husband, who works in education, has gone to France to climb during half term. She hasn't any holidays left and says she doesn't mind, they are both outdoors pursuits fanatics. After tea and oatmeal biscuits, I drive to Tesco's, where I park and then walk into town to buy a new coffee pot, to replace the old one which Louis accidentally broke on Tuesday. Beverley is packed with half term shoppers, but it has turned much colder. I find a plain, white, china pot and then make my way to Tim's, my hairdresser down Windmill walk. It doesn't take long to cut my hair but needs doing regularly, as it is very fine and quickly grows out of shape. On my way home, I collect the results of my annual health check, all the blood tests have come back normal. Home by four o'clock and give Norman his tin of dog food, after first unpacking the shopping. Then call Zurich assurance, who have taken two life insurance premiums last month instead of one. After fifteen minutes of Vivaldi, I eventually speak to a human, who promises to fix the problem. Then it is time for Normy's evening walk, we go as far as the farm and then turn back. Thanks to Zurich, it is just about dark, but the moon is bright, just off the full and lights our way home. Indoors I cook a sirloin steak and serve it with a tossed salad, oven chips, crusty bread and the obligatory glass of claret. The small amounts of fat and gristle are bequeathed to the dog. After dinner, I check my mail, browse the web for a bit and then play Brian Ferry's "Dylanesque", while I read more of Ismail Kadare. Switching later to Julian Lloyd-Webber playing adagios. To bed around eleven thirty.