26 JANUARY 1985, Page 35

Postscript

A walk

P. J. Kavanagh Too many parties, too many funerals the turn of the year frequently has too many of both — and I woke up in a rage. I am not sure against whom, or against what; against Time itself, probably. The car was far distant, being serviced, and I decided to walk to it. I did not know exactly how far distant, never having Walked it before; some said 15 miles, I suspected it was more like nine, but putting one leg in front of the other would presum- ably get me there, and the mood, the confusion in my mind that I woke with, had to be worked off somehow. So, with a small tangerine wonderingly thrust at me as a form of sustenance, I set off. Snow was on the ground, lumps of earth snowing through it, the colour of plain chocolate. There was a northerly wind at InY right ear, which hurt it, and I began to Wonder about the wisdom of all this. But I arranged my scarf so that the bottom two thirds of my head sat in it, as in an egg-cup, and that gave some relief. So little happened on the walk that it would be worth describing. I was headed for Tetbury, and there is a route to it across Country through a string of tiny villages, With much vacant space between them. It Is, I believe, an ancient, pre-Roman, way, very bare and handsome. The first thing I discovered was the difficulty of embarking on such a walk at all, so near home. I had barely gone a mile before a passing car slowed and stopped; a neighbour, who offered me a lift to the next village, which I accepted, because that stretch was over-familiar. At Winstone he suggested he take me the whole way, admitting, rather charmingly, that he had nothing better to do. Sternly, I resisted temptation. In fact the white road ahead, stretching on into the green sky, looked inviting, and the wind had dropped. `G'merning!' I replied to some passing horse-people, involuntarily imitating their own tones. After that the road was empty, as were the patchy-white fields on either side. A line of bare beeches was the distant hori- zon, and they looked bluey-purple in the light reflected from the snow. Although the main road was far away you could hear the traffic, because the air was so still. There must have been some movement in it, however, because the occasional small beech in the hedge, its dry leaves still on it, rattled them companionably, making a noise as though it was raining. Pigeons rattled too, as crowds of them suddenly startled from the trees. I had never noticed this before, but as they fell out of the trees they made a noise like marbles shaken in a bag. Apart from them, and the beech leaves, nothing moved; except a fox, win- ter beech-leaf colour, that strolled casually across the road, very confident and slow, its brush at half-port. The signposts started playing up. They said `Sapperton 4' but after a half an hour's brisk walking the next signpost said the same thing. It looked as though I would reach no pub in time for lunch. I ate my tangerine and began to sing, but stopped, because it sounded silly. After an hour another car drew up, with a friend in it. Would I like a lift? Yes, as far as the pub in Cherington. After lunch I went into the little church there and thought of the person whose funeral I had recently attended. The names on the Roll of Hon- our were often repeated, first world war and second; family names, different from the repeated family names in my village. I was in different, distant lands. After that the last four miles into Tetbury passed with ease, and without incident. Driving back (the distance turned out to be 16 miles, of which I reckoned I had walked 11) I hoped for a mild form of hero's welcome. When will I ever learn? Everyone was even more preoccupied than usual. An unexpected lamb had been born in the snow and was showing signs of distress. My son was trying to feed it with an ingenious arrangement made out of a tube and the inside of a fountain pen, but as what came out looked decidedly blue he desisted. They had installed mother and lamb in a room outside my study. I was slightly surprised they had not put them into the study itself. The farmer who owned it said we should have put the lamb in the Aga. 'Bottom oven. I've lost count of the lambs that have passed through my Aga.' Mother and child are both doing well, they are outside my door now, chomping and suckling away, a peaceful sound and sight. Nor am I stiff, nor so enraged.