From the vaults:

Every day I drive the five mile stretch of road to my son’s home, then drive back. I do this seven days a week, every single day except when I’m away. This stretch of road is an ‘A’ road… no parked cars, few turn-offs, just a couple of quiet junctions and very few bends. I know it well. I have been driving it daily for fifteen years. So well do I know it that I barely have to think about it.

Nevertheless, all roads are alive in their own, particular way and taking notice reveals many surprises. This road passes through the fields and hedgerows of rural Buckinghamshire between the town and my village. Driving back today there were men giving the wide grass verges their annual trim and filling the air with that evocative scent of new mown grass. Being a hot day, the cut grass dried quickly, blowing green-gold flurries across the road. Dust devils danced in the laybys, whipped into action by passing lorries. A flattened can tumbled across the road in silver sparkles, and, as always, the kites wheeled overhead. Beside the road the tragedy of road kill; the vivid green and red of a woodpecker and the glossy russet of a sleek young fox… a counterpoint to the badger, curled as if asleep in the gutter.

In the hedgerows the first, scarlet splashes of field poppies and the yellow of ragwort blaze against the softer pinks of herb Robert and cuckoo pint, while the porcelain blue of speedwell calms the shadows. By the road a feather, a very large feather, stands upright in the grass. There is nowhere to stop here, so I regretfully silence my curiosity and head for home, feeling the road beneath me through the wheel of the car, hearing the birds over the engine noise.

I notice the details, observing my own awareness in the moment, feeling very much alive. Because it is such an easy road to drive, I usually drive in awareness of the road and what is unfolding in the changing seasons of the landscape around me. Yesterday, however, had been a different story…

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