It’s The Dunorlan Mornings

It’s the Dunorlan Park mornings that make some difference to my days. It’s always been good to go for a jog after dropping the Little Person at nursery, warm up, hear the steady tempo of my feet, pass by pretty flower beds – because that’s just what they’re like at the cul – de – sac streets of Hawkenbury, along the sheep grazing, or run under the arches of green tree branches with squirrels occasionally letting me know I intrude their territories..   or rarely, meeting one of my Fox Friends of those times, which I always found a good sign from up above, do’t ask me why.

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Nowadays, things changed, and I no  longer go for these rural jogs. Instead I got used to go for a single round – yes, not yet I am able to try more – around the lake at the picaresque Dunorlan Park of Tunbridge Wells. It’s more about birds these days I think – no more squirrels, or not as much as it used be, or the foxes, no, not those at all.

I cannot say I am fond of birds, but I do like watching seagulls, that is a true fact, just love them, and there are some to be found here as well, which makes me quite glad. I once even wrote a short story inspired by these birds, while taking a couple of winter dynamic photo shots of theirs. It was nothing crisp or fanciable to the extend as my other short stories of that period were, just a simple tale of a lone fisherman and his dog.

Besides seagulls, there’s the wild geese, ducks, herons and other sorts of waterfowls that one can admire here, but I’d just keep my distance – and admire as an easy jogger, nothing more, nothing less. I love things about them – and that is, mainly to see and hear them raise from the water surface, or, setting down – that is just wonderful, so nice, so energetic, and full of some kind of enthusiasm, that I can almost feel it my own bones – I would fly with them so, if only I could! However, I still need to keep my feet on the ground – a credo of my days anyway, and I feel sorry afterwards.

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Being nailed to the earth, not letting my wings spread is something I have been through for long, and then, when I really did, spread those wings, the destiny decided to have my wings cut – as they do, for example at my granny’s village, to make the domestic farm birds stay nicely within their backyard fences, calm, fattening and producing what is needed and expected of them..

 

I also enjoy passing by sleepy black ducks, all in one row at the water edge, with their heads burried under one of their wings- now that is usually some view, they’re beautiful. That happens mostly, if I go running rather earlier, without much delay after leaving the Little Person at school at nien a.m. every day – yes, time flies – talking about flying.. he’s about to have his half term hols next week now, and I almost can’t believe it.

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The other week, one thing amazed me though, clearly – it was this bird – a one – winged wild goose, that directed its “pit pat, paddle pat! pit pat, waddle pat!” towards me in a sweet expectation of some dried bread crumbs perhaps – which I, the ‘easy jogger’, didn’t carry with myself.. and obviously, any mp3 player or a camera wouldn’t do with her. I was sorry. (And yes, oh yes! I love Beatrix Potter and her Jemima Puddle – Duck is my favourite character indeed.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Well, to be honest, that day I wasn’t even a ‘lone easy jogger’, I must admit, I was just a ‘blue walker’, making it through the green and grass across the park, wandering, trying not to think of the troubles of few previous sleepless nights, capturing the beauty of the autumn, coloureful leaves, flowers and berries.

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I love how autumn not always turns purely golden brown, but plays of other many colours, too.  And so, there I met her – the brave disabled goose fellow, and I truly was sorry about not having anything for her, except my camera, while approaching her slowly and as gently as I could – yes, she had hopes, I had nothing, so she turned her back at me after all, thinking to herself probably that I was just another selfish human.. Oh well..  I still keep thinking of that strong bird, who didn’t seem saddened by its own faith at all, rather found its powers in its feet, when there wasn’t any more of such power in its wings.

 

I often think that perhaps even I should be more flexible, and if things are not possible one way, try the other, without worrying so much, without much of complaining, or mourning at some cases – maybe like that bird.

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Till I will be able to do so, I most probably will stay the walker and jogger as I am, doing my pleasant morning runs, after more or less sleepless nights, admiring the berries, leaves and flowers in bloom.. secretely hoping I’m not the only one, thinking of all the other joggers I meet there every time – who they are, what they do, how much they wish to fly with those wild geese, or do they rather prefer keeping their feet simply, and no doubt, usefully on the ground..

 

 

 

 

 

 

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