Ants?
12th May 2018
12th May
Ants?
“The Riyadh Bodkin and the Kuala Lumpur Mushroom are positive Meccas for all kinds of daredevils-of this much I'm sure. Decadent Saudi princes pilot microlights through huge holes in their facades, while Malaysian spider men scale them using giant suckers in lieu of crampons. All these activities serve to demonstrate is that modernist megaliths have completely suborned role of natural features in providing us with the essential and vertiginous perspective we require to comprehend accurately our ant-like status.”
― Will Self
The start of the silly season has begun. Like a swarm of ants, the roads and hills fill. Every lane bulging with competing peletons and each brightly coloured group is followed by a procession of over packed cars and frustrated motorists. On each briddleway a ‘crank’ of mountain bikers spin and whoop their way down the Fellsides, waving at the nylon clad walkers that adorn each summit. Everyone is taking selfies and munching on Kendal mint cake and Grasmere Ginger Bread.
It's the Brathay Marathon, the Fred Whitton, Lakeland 100, National 3 Peaks, The Bob Graham Round, Windermere Triathlon, The Great North Swim, a plethora of sportives in every discipline possible, and not forgetting those ‘doing’ the Cumbria Way, The Dales Way, The Westmoreland County Trail, the Wainwright's, Birketts or many other physically challenging pursuits.
Every illness, social problem or the fallout from a political decision has a charity ride, walk or swim to raise funds. Every sports brand has its own triathlon, mega mountain marathon that call the disciples to their knees. The hills are clambered over, the pathways gorged with a train of coloured, nylon pedestrians, every lake a swirling, tumbling washing machine full of swim caps and smeared goggles. Greenways disgorge petrol headed drivers who have smeared oil and rubber on every passing rock, leaving tank like tracks in the soft top soil.
It seems you pass the finish line of one event, to only realise you have crossed the start line of another.
And, somewhere under this activity the Swallows make their endless excursions over old barns and the Swifts, screaming, search high above the villages in pursuit of insects to feed their young. Peregrines in fighter pilot style streak in criss cross patterns above rocky buttresses. Each flight pattern designed to claim the skies as their territory. Ravens and Buzzards soar and rise over the summits and tarns, peering down on the circuit board human activity.
River banks fill with marigolds, sun dappled woods radiate with bluebells, embankments burst with celandine, while every untrampled space is dotted with anemones, sorrel, herb robert, cuckoo flower, and all encased in a heady miasma of wild garlic.
Lambs, fawns, fox cubs, otter kits wake to a new world, innocent, vulnerable and reliant on their parents. They wait, quiet, unknowing how finely balanced their fate is as the runners pass by. They only think of their parents return, and hope they have enough nourishment to sate their hunger. Meanwhile, Dippers and Yellow Wagtails head further upstream in search of tasty morsels, each exclaiming their distress as their territory is invaded.
Meanwhile, 4x4s roar, Lycra covered thighs bulge, lungs burst, rubber and calories are burned. Each hill and valley is covered in a swarm of our conceit, plastic energy drinks pacakages, poo bags, empty drinks bottles and deep, disfiguring ruts.
And somewhere, if you are lucky to hear it, above the tumult of human activity, the increasingly rare cuckoo calls. A song that echoes across valley, hill and lake. A simple, plaintive melody, that travels through time and now seemingly carrying a message, a portent.
Ants?
“The Riyadh Bodkin and the Kuala Lumpur Mushroom are positive Meccas for all kinds of daredevils-of this much I'm sure. Decadent Saudi princes pilot microlights through huge holes in their facades, while Malaysian spider men scale them using giant suckers in lieu of crampons. All these activities serve to demonstrate is that modernist megaliths have completely suborned role of natural features in providing us with the essential and vertiginous perspective we require to comprehend accurately our ant-like status.”
― Will Self
The start of the silly season has begun. Like a swarm of ants, the roads and hills fill. Every lane bulging with competing peletons and each brightly coloured group is followed by a procession of over packed cars and frustrated motorists. On each briddleway a ‘crank’ of mountain bikers spin and whoop their way down the Fellsides, waving at the nylon clad walkers that adorn each summit. Everyone is taking selfies and munching on Kendal mint cake and Grasmere Ginger Bread.
It's the Brathay Marathon, the Fred Whitton, Lakeland 100, National 3 Peaks, The Bob Graham Round, Windermere Triathlon, The Great North Swim, a plethora of sportives in every discipline possible, and not forgetting those ‘doing’ the Cumbria Way, The Dales Way, The Westmoreland County Trail, the Wainwright's, Birketts or many other physically challenging pursuits.
Every illness, social problem or the fallout from a political decision has a charity ride, walk or swim to raise funds. Every sports brand has its own triathlon, mega mountain marathon that call the disciples to their knees. The hills are clambered over, the pathways gorged with a train of coloured, nylon pedestrians, every lake a swirling, tumbling washing machine full of swim caps and smeared goggles. Greenways disgorge petrol headed drivers who have smeared oil and rubber on every passing rock, leaving tank like tracks in the soft top soil.
It seems you pass the finish line of one event, to only realise you have crossed the start line of another.
And, somewhere under this activity the Swallows make their endless excursions over old barns and the Swifts, screaming, search high above the villages in pursuit of insects to feed their young. Peregrines in fighter pilot style streak in criss cross patterns above rocky buttresses. Each flight pattern designed to claim the skies as their territory. Ravens and Buzzards soar and rise over the summits and tarns, peering down on the circuit board human activity.
River banks fill with marigolds, sun dappled woods radiate with bluebells, embankments burst with celandine, while every untrampled space is dotted with anemones, sorrel, herb robert, cuckoo flower, and all encased in a heady miasma of wild garlic.
Lambs, fawns, fox cubs, otter kits wake to a new world, innocent, vulnerable and reliant on their parents. They wait, quiet, unknowing how finely balanced their fate is as the runners pass by. They only think of their parents return, and hope they have enough nourishment to sate their hunger. Meanwhile, Dippers and Yellow Wagtails head further upstream in search of tasty morsels, each exclaiming their distress as their territory is invaded.
Meanwhile, 4x4s roar, Lycra covered thighs bulge, lungs burst, rubber and calories are burned. Each hill and valley is covered in a swarm of our conceit, plastic energy drinks pacakages, poo bags, empty drinks bottles and deep, disfiguring ruts.
And somewhere, if you are lucky to hear it, above the tumult of human activity, the increasingly rare cuckoo calls. A song that echoes across valley, hill and lake. A simple, plaintive melody, that travels through time and now seemingly carrying a message, a portent.