Meet behind the Teazels

 

The dog leaves little post-it notes of wee in different places around the village.

It is while waiting for her to complete her reading of the smells around a telegraph post that I spot the sign.

As Witchy the Dog reads the different aromas emanating from the grass at the base of the post telling of the passing of Great Danes, the meanderings of mastiffs and the peccadilloes of poodles I am reading of a walk.

“Meet Ed behind the teazels,” the sign suggests

What ingenuity I think.

Wow teasels! What a place to meet.

Ed has probably had laminated posters advertising his availability tied to lamp posts throughout the village.

What an enterprising chap!

I imagine doing something similar in Northampton, “Meet the World’s Worse Mum behind the Nettles.”

I wonder if anyone would turn up.

I doubt it.

I resolve that I will indeed meet Ed behind the teazels in the nearby country park. What a wonderful place for a rendezvous. The teazels. Even if the poor chap can’t spell the word. I can already imagine the scene: the teasels swaying gently in the breeze, their silhouettes dark against the pale glistening blue of the lake. Wow! How could anyone resist such an invite?

I go.

I leave the dog in the cottage. The poster didn’t make it clear whether or not dogs were allowed to also meet with Ed behind the teazels too.

And I arrive.

I discover that ‘The Tea zels’ is the name of the wooden framed café.

Ah!

There are others, six in all, who have responded to Ed’s alluring siren call. Ed appears. He is tall and wears a special yellow vest that proclaims his status as a walk leader. There are formalities to go through. I have to fill in a form and declare myself to be healthy enough to attempt the walk, and I have to give the name of a next of kin to contact should I not make it. I’m beginning to wonder what I’ve let myself in for.

We are all introduced. Ed can’t remember any of the names of the people he’s introducing despite leading many such walks with them before.

Then we’re off.

The pastures are dry. We haven’t had much rain these last few months so the usually squelchy grass is dry and the going is flat and easy. There are soft-faced, creamy coloured cows who watch us with interest as they chew the cud.

The walk seems to be a race.

Two young women, with purpose built child carriers on their backs are setting the pace. Ed is in the middle and I am at the back with John who is elderly and is brandishing a walking stick to help him negotiated the tussocks of grass and Pam.

Pam is the woman who has drifted to the back to regal us with tales about various grandchildren and their ages.

At one point I walk with Ed who tells me a very unpleasant story about two huskies that worried a field of sheep. I’m unable to look with outward eyes at the lambent light that is flickering over the lake, or watch the birds as they take flight, as I’m looking with an inward eye at a worried sheep being pulled out of the River Ouse half drowned from the weight of its wool before it is taken to the vet’s for a very unhappy ending. Ed hasn't noticed how quiet I'm becoming as he continues his tale.

After half an hour the walk is done. We are back at the café. The young women arriving there a good five minutes before John completes the circuit.

I’m disappointed.

It’s a walk I’ve done many times before. I was hoping to learn about the wildlife, the names of trees and the lore of the place. I hazard a question.

‘Do you get any rare birds here?’

‘Yes, sometimes,’ Ed replies, in fact I saw a lapwing by the first lake today.’

Perhaps I have the name of the bird wrong, but I’m disappointed he didn’t point it out to the rest of us, and I’m disappointed by the ordinariness of the walk. Ed bids us all adieu and then we sit at the café.

I commit a cardinal sin.

It seems the tradition is to buy coffee after such a walk, and there I am sipping tea.

‘This coffee is nice,’ someone says stressing the word coffee and all eyes shift to me pouring out my tea.

‘Yes,’ this is delicious coffee,’ they concur looking at me askance.

There are five of us sat around the table. The two younger women have already gone, perhaps they are tea drinkers. However, we are blessed to be sitting there as Pam is a great teller of tales.

I learn of her mother-in-law who was the terror of three counties, and thankfully according to Pam no longer walks the earth. This woman apparently came from Yorkshire and was a besom. I’d never heard the word used in conversation before and I’m thrilled to hear it. I query it, and yes she did mean the woman was a brush. I am delighted. Thrilled.

She was, according to Pam, one of those women who could make you feel very small. She was a school teacher.

‘Oh,’ the others say understanding only too well what she means from their past experiences of horrible school teachers.

She also like John, who is sitting by my side, suffered from arthritis so much so that her toes were no longer in alignment. Pam does things with her fingers to show us how her toes folded in one upon the other.

‘She used to buy the biggest shoes she could find and then wear them on the wrong feet,’ Pam tells us.

And I feel delighted and blessed to hear such a wonderful description and already I can imagine this woman, and I feel sorry for her. Even the Terror of Three Counties should have been able to walk comfortably in the wrong shoes she wore.

‘So tell us about you. Where are you from? I’m asked. Eyes turn towards me.

I stall.

I decide it is probably better that I don’t admit to being a Yorkshire Lass after what’s just been told.

It’s probably not a good idea to admit to being a School Teacher too.

I opt for the easier, “I’m from Northampton. I’m just staying here a week while I look after my friends’ dog.”

Disaster averted.

Phew!

The conversation moves on and I’m left behind.

I arrive back, and Witchy the Dog greets me at the door. She sniffs me carefully to ensure that I am indeed the same the person that left the cottage earlier.

She seems to think I am, and lets me pass.

She did not notice I was wearing my shoes on the wrong feet!