Day 53 – Bank Holiday #peaceinEurope
I am driven to the edge after four days of consistent IT issues and am SO ready for the long weekend. My Manager kindly suggests that I finish early (obviously sensing the desperation in my voice) so I pack away my laptop an hour earlier than usual.
I decide to go for a cycle. The sun is beating down on me, a podcast is playing in my ears, and I feel peaceful and at ease. I push myself but am also finding cycling a hell of a lot easier than I did 53 days ago. In fact, I ride past my usual point of return and brave travelling to the next village. I am sweating and my thighs are aching, but the rush of endorphins is intoxicating. The last hill almost beats me, but I make it to the top. And who should I see upon the crest, but Darren!
In spite of the exhilarating exercise, I am quite pleased when Darren offers to give me a lift home in the van. I bore him with the details of my frustrating day, and as he pops my bike in the back, I am distracted by huge bags of wood offcuts. I later convince Darren that it would be a grand idea if we use them to make Jenga, and so our evening is spent sorting out pieces of timber as we enjoy the last bit of sunshine.
Friday is VE Day and we wake up refreshed and motivated, cycling to the village to pick up duck eggs. We have them with toasted soldiers – quite fitting really – then bimble around the house and courtyard doing “stuff”. There are a couple of topical programmes on TV throughout the day and into the evening, so we pause every so often to watch the moving scenes: black and white, nostalgic videos of celebration and reunion; collages of photos of those lost to war and the heroes who made it through; grubby children who look a little lost and overwhelmed, clutching their teddies amidst the joyous street-dancing; strong and courageous women with their painted lips, glossy hair and smart uniforms; and images of veterans, skin wrinkled, their uniforms covered in well-deserved medals.
I am particularly moved by a scene which depicts Nazi soldiers surrendering and marching out of the city with their heads bowed. A woman in her fifties, her clothes covered by an apron, steps forward and shakes her fist at one of them – every single emotion passes across her face – fear, sadness, grief, relief and then absolute exhaustion, her arm dropping to her side. A lump forms in my throat.
Peace in Europe. “Long may it continue” we say, raising our glasses as the sun begins to sink into the horizon.
It has been a day full of emotion – not just because of what we have witnessed on the telly – but because of the situation we are in. It’s not comparable to the war in any way really, but it makes me think of our current society and the restrictions; and of the bereaved and those taken from us too soon. I feel very lucky to be sat in the sunshine with my glass of wine and plate of BBQ food and wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for those who fought to bring us peace 75 years ago.
*****
Confused about what day it is, I wake later than I have in a while and idly stretch out to fit the whole bed. I can hear the kettle boiling and various other household sounds as Darren potters about the rest of the house. He suggests we go on an adventure and I text our landlady to ask if we can explore beyond the gates of the farm. Permission granted.
The heat almost takes my breath away and it feels as if we are stepping off a plane to an exotic location. My muscles are aching from recent cycling exploits and I find it tricky trampling over nettles and through the long grass, but it is totally worth it. There is no one else around and the buzzing of insects and chirping of what sounds like hundreds of different birds fills the air with pure Nature. A mayfly lands on me and we are surrounded by hovering blue, turquoise and black dragonflies. A variety of butterflies flicker on and off the buttercups and one lands on my leg, but I am not quick enough to capture it on camera.
The wood is shaded and the cool temperature is respite. Patches of bluebells are beginning to wilt, whilst the trees remain thick with foliage and the forest floor is a tangle of weeds and grasses. The surrounding bird call is jungle-like, as if there are monkeys whooping high up in the branches, although we see nothing but a few mosquitoes and the ruffling of leaves in the breeze.
We observe a pond, still and covered with a skin of luminous green. Then follow the forest path, dark under the canopy of the trees, before coming across a wooden gate. Beyond this is a small clearing: “This is the perfect fishing spot” Darren grins, standing on the bank to take a closer look at the rippling water. A small fish plops out and catches a hatching mayfly. I hold on to a crudely-made rope swing and picture myself leaning against the thick tree trunk, reading a book and absent-mindedly nibbling on a sandwich. Bliss.
It is hard to drag ourselves away from this little piece of heaven, but we make our way home, fighting through a swirl of dandelion clocks, furry and almost invisible in the sunshine. There is only one other person on the trailway and we smile as they whiz past on their bike. Out of the corner of my eye I see something soar across the sky and I excitedly grab Darren by the hand: “look, it’s the barn owl!” I whisper. We stand and watch him twist and swoop down towards the ground, his widespread wings streamlined. He is a magnificent bird and it is a pleasure to see him majestically surveying his land.