A Bimble down the Thames from Ewen to Cotswold Country Park

The path to Ewen took me along an idyllic stretch of infant Thames, just discernible as a stream, dividing fields. Pylons sang in the wind like sentinels of another dimension; a rusting windmill that once irrigated crops made a striking sculpture in fields of poppies and wildflowers. 

Flag Iris blossomed in the clean waters and I startled a fox into a ploughed field. He turned and stared me out as a I stood stock still.   An epiphany; a moment of peace that charges a walk with deeper meaning and fills a rambler with wonder. In turn the fox fled and scared up a few rabbits.  Familiar birdsong filled the hedgerows as I wondered whether cows could really see my bright red cagoule and pondered whether farmers really had to use ‘barbed’ wire. The skull cinema cranked into operation.

Cotswold Country Park is an extensive myriad of lakes and pools created by mining for aggregates.  At first the change from stream to reservoir is a challenge to the senses. By crossing the road from Somerfield Keynes you enter a different topography entirely.  Initially overwhelmed I went into shock mode as a raw wind battered me across the exposed lake of Somerford Lagoon.  An eerie estate had risen around the banks of the gravel pit but there was a sense of emptiness and absence which spooked me.  Were these holiday homes that no-one visited or an abandoned real estate venture where the homes were investments in some form of land banking scam waiting for permission to start a real housing boom in this prime location? Low Mill Estate seemed like an artificial timeshare nightmare. A nightmare vision of future living in gated communities spawned by the generosity of mining conglomerates in some pact to give something back after pillaging the mineral deposits.  Gentrifying their wasteland is better than leaving vast holes in the landscape but these looked like empty homes in a cod rustic Cotswolds style. Rusty balconies suggested a façade, homes hardly used.  I coin this housing style ‘eerie-dyllic’.  The map suggested it was merely a farm but as I explored further someone had sneaked a housing estate in while nobody noticed. The luxury, clapboard, ‘Cape Cod’ style super-homes that have become the nouveau style in the park appeared quite empty as the wind whipped across the lakes, taking a Beaufort battering.  

My mood picks up as the paths through the water park becomes sheltered and less windswept. Lakes are revealed like Freeth Mere.  There is no-one here in this sanctuary for wild-life and the morning rain has freshened spring growth to fill the air with green scents. The earthy smell of sand and gravel brings childhood memories of sailing clubs. There was water everywhere and it had to go somewhere.  I was thinking that if this all goes into the Thames it will be a very different proposition by Cricklade. It will get big, fast. 

A swan watches me as I find a calm spot on a fishing perch. Elegantly supercilious afloat he is less gainly taking to the air. The swan runs on water for fifteen paces and miraculously defies physics to eventually take flight. The beating, flapping and slapping of water accentuates the awkward display. Upon landing he gives an insouciant waggle of the tail as if to say, ‘ no-one saw, I think I got away with that.’ 

As I get into my stride I think of Beowulf and his Whale Road name for the sea and I collect compound nouns to illustrate place as my mind drifts.

Dog Rose,  Blue Tit.

Damson Fly, Duck Weed,

Corn Bunting,Otter Spraint.

Water Lily, Reed Warbler…