Much of March has been taken up with going through edits and checking the manuscript and proof copies of the paperback and kindle version of Land Fit For Heroes. The process is slow, and it feels quite strange to become so intimate again, with a book I began writing in October 2020. So much water has passed under the bridge since then and all the characters have changed and grown in the subsequent books, it feels a little like stepping into a time machine. Combined with the decidedly peculiar weather (we had snow last week for heaven’s sake), my walking has been curtailed somewhat. Despite all this, I did manage a couple of short walks that didn’t involve just going up the hill for milk.
The first of these was on 25 March, when I did a quick two bridge lap while Commando was at work selling trainers. I miss the river so it seemed like a good plan, although it was far chillier outside than I’d expected and parts of the sky looked a tad threatening. Still, I needed to get away from manuscripts and edits. Besides the latest project had stalled because of my time travelling and some of it was set in St Denys, so it was part fact finding mission too. For much of the walk I let the characters talk to me and tried hard to listen to what they were saying. I took a couple of photos of a street corner that may or may not become pivotal in the tale and then went and sat on the big wooden benches in front of the Junction Inn and tried to listen a bit more until the men chatting in the doorway of the pub began giving me odd looks.
Walking along the river path towards the bridge a lone swan caught my eye. A little further on a man was staring into the water. For a brief moment I thought he might have been going to jump in but he didn’t. A huge crane was swinging about on the building site beyond the fence. It reminded me of the docks crane in Land Fit For Heroes and I felt a little nervous about walking past, just in case.
I hurried by and then stopped for a moment to look at the big wooden posts that once held the log pond logs in place. How long had they been there? Were they the same posts that held back the logs back in 1918, when Thomas lived there? I walked on trying to imagine all the timber that used to season in the river here and wondering what became of it. Did men like Bert turn it into boats, were houses built from it? Where is the wood seasoned now?
When I reached the bridge I discovered that the underside has been turned into an impromptu graffiti tunnel in my absence. There has always been some graffiti, but now almost every inch of concrete has been covered by paint. A skunk, at least I think it was a skink, told me I thought too much. The editor in me wished I had a black pen so I could add the second o. Then I took a few more photos to document what was there so I could compare it next time I come this way. The blue masked figure seemed quite appropriate, but I noticed that the COVID19 piece had been painted over. Perhaps it’s old news now?
I made it home just before the rain began and didn’t go out again, other than for the obligatory milk run, until Sunday for the last CC6 at Fleming Park. It was another Sunday whirlwind of taking photographs of runners and wondering how I’d ever got talked into leaving my nice warm bed at such an ungodly hour to stand on a cold, windy field. Still, it didn’t rain, it wasn’t muddy and I did get to catch up with a few friends I hadn’t seen for a while, so I probably shouldn’t complain.
It might not have been the most exciting way to celebrate the last Sunday in March. It certainly wasn’t the warmest, despite the sunshine, or all the runner’s flesh on display, but it did drag me back to the present day and stop me worrying about the imminent book launch.
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