Fridays Floods
162 ViewsNew battery yesterday. This afternoon I had to try it out. Started ok. Went to the post office in Ballywalter then on to the bank in Kircubbin. Any dip in the road had become a small ford. The car in front was being extremely cautious… as if there was some mystery to the depth of the water that it somehow might flood their car or wash them away. They paused at the edge of each to weigh up the dangers before getting their tyres wet. Road rage was beginning to stir in my toes. I could feel it working it’s way up to escape my mouth as a string of exasperated expletives. Saved by the end of the road… they disappeared in another direction.
The bank was empty. Friday afternoons are usually chockablock. No-one has any money left to bank after Santa robbed them of it. No queue was a pleasant change. Called at the garage for some air in the tyres… one was almost flat. Home. Dog walking with big smiles like a small child splashing in the rivers of draining rainwater still flowing along the sides of the roads. Down to the beach to let him run. Decided not to when a family of four were there desperately trying to fly a kite with no clue how to. Two women, a man and a small boy. The small boy wasn’t getting to do anything other than stand and watch one woman drag his beautiful kite through the wet sand while she ran with increasing speed thinking this would somehow get it into the air. The kite was at least twice the original weight they had got so much water and beach on the thing. I could have shouted some guidelines at them but found more pleasure in not. I stood and watched for a while bemused at the antics until the dog became restless for his run. I’d have to take him across the fields instead. We turned around and headed back up the road. Got soaked when one car didn’t slow down to go past. An R driver with no wit or consideration. Same type of driver that ends up wrapped around a tree… no other vehicles involved.
Leaning on the gate, I tried to count pheasant in the field. When I moved here there seemed to be no more than a half dozen. Now it’s more like a good 20-30. They’ve been busy. I haven’t had pheasant in a very long time. Not much pickings on one of those… but 20 of them might be worth a pie. My imagination sets about it’s evil plan to capture the pheasant in traps and proceed to let them go again… too chicken to do the dirty deed. Too chicken to kill anything much other than fish. Oh fish! My mind wanders to trout then on to peaceful June riverbanks covered in sweet cicily. The dog comes back from his run around the field. Energy off loaded. He shakes the muck off.
Home again jiggity jig…
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