November 2012
Almost every morning she did the same things and in the same order. Sometimes she tried to do things differently but then she felt that little churn in her stomach starting and she went back to routine. Angel did not realise when it all began but as it was becoming stronger, she knew that it would have to change. She no longer had to conform to anybody else's wishes, orders or commands, unless, that was, she chose to. The question was why on earth was she being so robotic and conformist?
Her retirement from the animal research laboratory had not come soon enough and whilst it was called early retirement, it was not that early. Her pension was good and with the mix of redundancy and pension she was financially well off. Her cottage was placed in a quiet village that backed onto woods and thence to the river and finally to the Loch. She loved this part of Scotland, rural and remote with a touch of wildness nearby. She knew that today she would have to face her fear and go back down the tracks to where she had been only twice before. The need to return was compelling.
Each day her walk in the woods gave her space to think, she varied the route in as much as one day she walked clockwise and the next day anticlockwise. But as much as she hated change the thought that she was missing something was urging her forward. Angel always stopped on the bridge, leaning there for some time watching the water flowing past. She loved to play Pooh sticks and would dash from one side of the bridge to the other, to wait and watch for her stick.
As a child her mother had read her all the books and poems of A. A. Milne and even now at times she would put on the story tapes she had and listen to Pooh and Piglet going hunting for a Woozle, and all the other funny stories. It reminded her of a bygone age of innocence and fun. She wondered about the wood that she was in and if it in any way resembled the Hundred Acre Wood that Christopher Robin had played in. His was in Sussex and certainly not in Scotland. As she leaned over the bridge she noticed how slow the water was flowing and indeed it seemed so much lower today. She knew that the time had come and so she ventured forth.
Turning, Angel walked down the track following the source of the brook. The sun shone a dappled light on the ground and the water glistened as it flowed. There was no alteration in its speed as she followed its winding path, but the slowness of the flow was very strange. She took a deep breath and ventured out of the woods and over the stile; the new spring lambs were skittish and not roaming too far from their mothers. She could hear the soft bleating of the sheep underlying those soft country noises of birds bees and breezes. She fought the rising churning in her stomach and her pace quickened in response to the sense of rising panic. 'Nothing is going to happen. Nothing is going to happen,' and she kept the mantra running in her head.
Looking ahead she could see a huge hillock appearing through the trees, it looked almost the size of a double garage. She walked very close to the tress and crept quietly and silently along the edge. At least here she could hear the water flowing steadily. There was a rustling in the undergrowth and she froze, holding her breath for fear of detection. She waited and gradually the rustling stopped, Angel inched herself forward placing herself at the edge of the river bank but close to the trees.
Suddenly she heard a rustling and sensed the undergrowth moving, whatever or whoever it was appeared to be coming her way. Thank God for the sage green of her jacket, no bright colours for her. As she watched she saw a small sapling falling to the ground and start to move as if by magic through the vegetation. Quietly she followed; she little understood how she could be so afraid and so brave in consecutive moments. At last she could see the completed wonder before her eyes. The family of beavers had finished off their dam and the lodge was definitely a sight to behold. The young kits played and it appeared to be the male who kept a watchful eye on them whilst the female appeared to be undertaking some home repairs. She brought the branches to her family and they quietly stripped off the bark and ate. The female then took the branch and placed it carefully in place on the lodge.
She slowly looked around and saw that they had dammed the river so that they could build their lodge in the resulting pond. The various noises she had heard as she approached had been the felling of saplings with their powerful front teeth and the rustling had been the beaver pulling the trees through the undergrowth. She had been terrified for no reason.
Angel was entranced as the gaps were filled with a combination of weeds and mud; she clearly understood now why some people were called eager beavers. She watched as the mother's ears pricked up, the male beaver slapped his tail hard on the water and the youngsters dived and were gone. Both parents followed behind and the water gradually stilled. In the distance she could hear some chattering and a man whistling and then a group of walkers came into view on the track ahead and disappeared around the bend.
Angel sighed, what an ecstatic half an hour she had experienced. She gathered her thoughts and realised that her wood was so much better than Winnie the Pooh's and her obsession with routine definitely needed to be dispensed with. Life was far too short to miss out on experiences such as this morning; if she was going to be in prison it was certainly not going to be one of her own making. She set off back to the cottage. Today was definitely her day for change. Angel suddenly thought of an AA Milne quote:
'Pay attention to where you are going because without meaning you might get nowhere.'
Angel knew now that nowhere was not going to be what the rest of her life was about. She picked up her pace and headed home.