99 Red Balloons

OK, I know you will have noticed it as well but! For the sake of my own record then. A week on Hallett’s Mountain without a single plane breaking the wind…..errm breaking the silence.

I was sat sitting in the sunshine the other day underneath a clear blue bowl. A bowl stretching from horizon to horizon. She Of The Townhouse was off in the Unions Capital. Visitors were departed for home. I was alone with my thoughts in the garden. A cold cider close to hand. Beyond the birds in the bushes the only sound was the faintest of whispers of a train in the valley.
Trains in the valley leading people far away. Over the mountains and across. The bor… here hang on a mo! I nearly went back to my Herman Hesse days there. That was a narrow squeak. Ooh don’t start me on that track it always leads to trouble!

The thing was that I was struck by the beauty and simplicity of the sky. No vapour trails. No sardine cans scurrying packed people down the jetstreams to Manchester or beyond. No daily flypast of jet fighter heroes, scraping over the ridges of Craig Celynin. Not even the angry chatter of the police helicopter.
And you know its not till you have a week off that you realize just how intrusive it is.
I was stood out in the garden at ‘sparrows’ this morning around ten to six. Hoping that all the dust in the sky would produce a glorious sunrise picture for A Black Country Boy (Alas it wasn’t really there mate).
After days of profound silence, I was aware once more of the low background hum. Fingers of white cloud chasing the 747’s east. Broken sky.

Some time this week I shall hear the cuckoo.
Hopefully the St George’s Mushrooms will be out.
I’ll probably let you know….