wheeled and kept time over the Kelmscott plain. I watched the blur of the props on their anti-clockwise loop, lying on the marina grass. We’d walked half a mile from the village and the boatman’s hut was the only building in sight, with birds I haven’t heard all winter in the petalled trees. That boozer we left behind had an inviting look, all warm stone and shade but still locked up for another week. I’ll wander back for lunch when the bolts are pulled free and then tramp the five mile loop along the jungle-green chug of the Thames. My bones have clicked back into place and I want to walk the lanes again. What else to crave but bridges to cross, wanderings and wonderings?