Open Writing

A kilometre from home, out in the wetland area, the footpath gets quite steep where it curves up the embankment next to the flood spillway. In fact, if you get to the top, and turn to walk along the grassy embankment, you find yourself among tree-tops. "If you get to the top" is a phrase with meaning. There are times when creaking knees prefer you not to make the attempt. Oh, but you have a go.

There was something strange and yellow lying on the footpath, about 100 metres ahead. It looked like a discarded shopping bag or a quaint cardboard cardigan. Curiosity can be a very good incentive to walk up that curving slope. Curiosity is increased when a teenage boy seems to be talking to the yellow... whatever it is.

He held a remote control gadget in his hand. The truth became evident. The thing on the footpath was a model aeroplane. He wasn't talking to it. He was trying to get it to fly. I paused to ask him about the problem. Although he was my height, he replied in a treble voice. I didn't understand a word he said. Hi-tech Swiss hearing aids don't always translate Australian English.

On another occasion, and on a flat stretch of the path, something very furry was sitting on the ground. If ever there was a demonstration of the term "floor-mop dog", this was it. It wasn't as much sitting as flopped in all directions, and very small. If you understand dog psychology, you know how to approach a strange dog in such a way that you can quickly work out whether or not it is going to bite you. Not in this case.
There was a problem. I couldn't tell which end was the front and which the rear. It was a fully furred Pekingese, you see. As I drew near, I stooped slightly and proffered the back of my hand — you never offer your fingers to a strange dog. Behold, one end of it wagged. It was only then that I knew which end to stroke, massage and gently scratch.

Today's dog encounter was with a large grey poodle. If you want to see energy incarnate, just greet a large grey poodle. The leaping began. Of the dog, not me. My knees do not permit me to leap nowadays. Nearby, a small girl was sitting on the grass beneath a tree, having an individual picnic. Her grandad was standing on the footpath, admiring the scene. With so many water-birds around, there's plenty to admire.
He was slender and wiry. Grey hair as dishevelled as mine seemed to indicate a kindred spirit. Plus wispy white whiskers. Blue eyes that told of worlds I've never experienced. A rich bass voice and a strong Russian accent. I could understand nearly everything he said, and relished his enunciation of Russian words and names. His English had more music in it than mine will ever have.

We did the usual preliminaries. You know — dogs, ducks, trees, plants and weather. Not football. That sort of thing is irrelevant. And then we somehow moved to the history of the Russian peoples and the languages of Europe. He was the first person I've ever met who used the term "Indo-European languages" before I got it into the conversation. He was indeed a kindred spirit.

It wasn't long before we discussed the fact that Finnish and Hungarian are related to each other but not to any other European language. We moved to Basque, which scholars tell us is not related to any other language at all. It's a philological mystery. However, he assured me that the language spoken by native Georgians has similarities to Basque. It also has its own written alphabet, dating from the 5th century. I began to understand a little more why Georgians are so fiercely independent.

The granddaughter had finished her apple, clambered over the rocks to the far side of the wetland area, returned, inspected the ducklings, and was fidgeting. The dog had fetched a tennis ball several times, romped around, and was fidgeting. After half an hour, it was time to adjourn, to go our separate ways.
How can you not be curious about the world when even a mere footpath has so much to show you?

© Copyright 2007 Brian Barratt