This week I had an operation on my knee. Cartilage. Rum business. Walking was getting difficult — now it’s fixed I can hardly walk at all. I’m supposed to give it time. Well, what else have I got?
I could hardly go looking for wildlife in pursuit of my Wild June ambitions, but I at least I was able to limp onto the veranda and look out. Listen out, rather. Plenty of good sounds: song thrush in good voice, perhaps going for a second brood, murmur of garden warbler from – where else? – the garden; it seems there are warblers at the bottom of the garden.
I reached for my drink but there wasn’t one; I’m supposed to be off the booze for 48 hours after the anaesthetic, and to tell the truth, a drink’s the last thing I fancy. Very rum. And then a bird flew over the grass – the long area we keep uncut – and perched in the big oak in plain sight.
A kind family member fetched my binoculars, providing me with a perfect – but perfect view of a little owl, its yellow eyes glinting like a pair of little suns in his little cross face as he perched there in the first hints of dusk. It was clearly a much-used hunting perch, the long, life-filled long grass beneath him was part of his private hunting estate.
Always mowing, they are, people. Fair enough: but they won’t see many little owls. Tidiness is lifelessness.
Because I could not move towards the wild world, the wild world kindly moved towards me. I’ll raise a glass in thanks. Maybe even tonight…