probing the boundaries of my soggy patch in this belt of England. The water’s been high here, even the raised paths are bogged. No sight of any vehicles, no shelter other than the birder huts, just a few lone wanderers under the sky. The birds flick among the hedgerows, don’t seem bothered by the crackle of rifle shots from the MOD grounds eastwards. Almost a month into the year and I’m dizzy with the pace of it. Plans and pathways fade to nothing under my fingertips, I try to reach but I can’t feel the universe reaching out to me. Out on the plain we miss a turn or the map is a fiction and we plod miles off our route, have to work to return to the village and the car. We buy a pack of game from a coolbox trader, ride home to feast. Rushing along, skimming over the hours, living to the tempo of every quiet heartbeat.