and make for the hills.
Who would stay at home
and wrestle with a computer on a day like this?
My back hurts, my neck is stiff
and I have cursed incessantly for hours now.
Buying an up-to-date computer is all very well,
but the damn thing is turning up
its fancy nose at any other gadget I want to connect.
It’s going to take days to incorporate all the data from older computers.
That’s bad for an obsessive, impatient maniac like me.
I want it done, and want it done yesterday.
Sod it, I’m off out of here.
First stop is the secret pond.
Sitting here and sniffing the dank mouldy earth
and brackish water can only be good for me.
Millie loves it too. I only just stopped her from jumping in.
Then off up into the woods.
The path is narrow, steepish and very overgrown towards the top.
I swear some more at the difficult terrain,
wheezing and stumbling and forcing my way through
wild rhododendron thickets.
Millie is better off than me.
Looking down at the idyllic Shropshire landscape,
the gentle, aimless hills and
a farmer doing what farmers have done for millennia,
long before the abacus was invented,
much less computers;
my bad temper subsides.
I am calm enough
to appreciate a bit of accidental modern art:
a mudguard off some small motorised vehicle
stuck on a post (which used to hold a dog poo bin).
And so back home to my own garden
whose spring glory is bathed in bright sunshine.
The season is well advanced, even the tulips are fading.
I gazed a while, and felt as light and free
As though the fanning wings of Mercury
Had played upon my heels: I was light-hearted,
And many pleasures to my vision started;
from I stood Tiptoes Upon a Little Hill
by John Keats