Out and about - the last Friday of February
Meditations on a winter walk
As per tradition, the last Friday of February brings us to the Lancashire coast, at Glasson. We park at the basin car park, our first task being to decipher the encryption of the newly installed pay-meter, then to digest the 100% inflation on the charges from previous years. It’s a misty day, blurring the outlines of the miscellany of boats out in the marina - houseboats, old trawlers, yachts large and small. The air feels raw in the grey, temperatures having dropped to freezing overnight, though there’s a promise of warmth later on, if the sun can break through.
I’d have to read back to remember how all of this started, but I think it boils down to the simple fact of a good day spent here some ten years ago, and the desire to repeat it. And even after all those years, Glasson keeps the faith and delivers something valuable, yet intangible. It might be a glimpse of renewal in the crocuses and early daffodils, or the sheer exuberance of bird-life down by the marshes. Hard to say really, but it keeps luring me back.
February hasn’t been as wet this year, so the going is easier as we take the canal path, then the little road threading us between meadows. Last year these fields were, in some cases, literally lakes. One of the meadows is a landing strip for a model aeroplane club. This morning, a lone flier stands, silhouetted in the mist. I can hear his plane buzzing about, but I cannot see it. I’ve dabbled with model aeroplanes and understand the allure, though it never took hold of me the way it can for others.
So, anyway… there’s no tangible reason for this annual pilgrimage - not an anniversary, nor a significant world event - but then, does anything need a reason to have meaning? Or rather, does meaning arise from reason at all? Surely, meaning comes from something else, something romantic, eccentric, even Quixotic - like that lone figure flying his model plane in the mist. Not for him the race of the rat.
I have several definitions of the word Quixotic. It can mean unrealistic, impractical, even unbusinesslike - sometimes used as a derogatory term, in a world of ruthless wheeler-dealing. But I take it as a compliment, even if it’s meant as an insult.
Words like unrealistic, impractical, unbusinesslike hold value only in a materialistic sense. In a truer human sense, they are literally demeaning. They are infertile earth; you cannot plant the seed of meaning in them and expect it to grow. As you can tell, we’re in a poetic mood today.
As we approach the marsh at Cockerham, the meadows explode with a million geese, and the air is suddenly alive with them. On the marsh, we spot dunlin, snipe, and oystercatchers. Amid the cacophony, the plaintive cry of the curlew rises - my bellwether bird. It is on the verge of extinction elsewhere in these isles, yet it remained a faithful companion throughout my walks last year. Long may it thrive in this northern stronghold.
We’re just after the new moon, and the tide is peaking. The marsh at Cockerham is flooded - a so-called spring tide, which happens twice a month, around the new and full moons. Out in the bay, islands of sheep huddle together, standing on bits of high ground, though still partially submerged, their legs knee-deep in the sea. I presume they know the tides and the marsh better than anyone. The lack of concern from Bank End Farm suggests trust in the sheep’s intelligence. They have an hour or so to wait on the ebb.
Here, we catch our first glimpses of sunlight, beaming through translucent gaps in the clouds and growing stronger as we work our way back toward Glasson, along the coastal path. The mist softens the brutal outline of the distant nuclear power plant at Heysham, lending the scene a more bucolic innocence than usual.
There are birders out with big lenses - another of those unrealistic, impractical, unbusinesslike pursuits. Tracking birds, photographing them, becoming well-versed in their diversity and habits? Where’s the profit in that? Get a life, right? Well, it depends on how you define life. I’m not a birder, but I understand the thrill, and feel it myself when the sky is as full of birds as this. I contrast today with my last walk and the discovery of that pheasant farm, where birds are bred for the gun. Shall we ask where the meaning is in that?
The sea takes on a monochromatic look - black with sparkles, beneath a sky shifting through patterns of grey and white. Fingers of light slant through the clouds, painting bright pools on the water. We’re going to be running our sentences into poetry if we’re not careful. And why not? Only poetry can truly touch this. It’s not enough to describe such things literally. You need poetry to allude to the deeper meaning, to glimpse what lies beneath the world’s appearance. Hmm… there we go again - unrealistic, impractical, unbusinesslike.
We break for lunch by Crook Farm, find a seat on the seawall, and are joined by a little dog from the farm, hopeful for scraps. It’s a friendly thing, calm and patient, but eventually grows bored when it realizes nothing is on offer. But it poses obligingly for a photograph before trotting home. Does it worry about the news from America? No. It leads a simple life, untroubled by the self-awareness we cherish, yet which so often separates us from reality such as this.
We have the sea, the curve of the land out to Plover Scar, and the sky breaking open. The pools of light brighten as the mist recedes. The tide is an hour past its peak, but the waves lap softly, with barely a yard of foreshore. This means we’ll probably be wading, later, where the path crosses the little tidal creek of Jansen Pool. But for now, we just sit, looking out into infinity. I have my phone somewhere - bottom of the rucksack. Were I home now, I’d be settling for coffee and a bit of doom-scrolling. But let's leave it there. It would be an affront to decency to take it out.
We’ll take our time, grab a brew at the Lock-keeper’s Rest, in Glasson, and see what they have for tea in the smokery. I fancy a haggis, actually. Get a life, man. Where’s the meaning in that?