Here I have been and here I will no longer be

The golden light, the cormorants, the canal: a goodbye

I have been walking by the same canal before work for two years and now that work is ending and I will no longer walk beside the canal that has been my constant these past two years.

On Friday morning before work I took one last walk. The light was golden, the early light, and there was an ice cream boat (closed) and there were no other people, only me and the canal and the lake beside it.

I have been through this place in all seasons, seen it a hundred different ways. I have smelt the sickly burnt marshmallow of Himalayan Balsam blooming all along the banks. I have seen swans land skiddingly on the water, leavng a wake behind them. I have seen geese take of from it, I have seen geese overhead, a perfect V of them have heard their honking, have heard their wingbeats. I have seen a cormorant flip a fish up, vertical, and swallow it down its snake like neck. I have seen crows. I have seen the heron, hiding on the opposite bank, taking off and landing a few metres away, repeating the flit the next time I draw level. I have seen the heron high up in the branches of the tallest trees, head cocked. I have seen the moon as a hole punch in a pale blue sky and I have seen the sky in that moment just after dark, where suddenly it tips into day and all the birds are chattering. I have seen the clouds orange as the sun rises above the lake, painting the water pink, and I have seen the sun high in the sky, glittering gold in the water, sending shafts of shade back at me through the trees. I have seen catkins fatten, have seen their pollen fall. I have seen the Virginia creeper a violent red, then faded, then fallen.

I have seen the horse chestnut with its five finger leaves bigger than my face, have seen its wobbling confetti candles. I have seen muntjac deer and magpies and I have seen coots squeaking at each other and moorhens bursting from the banks. I have seen the water flat and black and oily and green. I have seen a discarded mattress and old coke cans and I have carried away what litter I could. I have walked in muddy boots and thin soled sandals and canvas trainers that soaked with dew from the long grass. I have seen daisies with their pink spots of new colour and buttercups and mole hills.

I have seen a punching bag hanging from the limb of a tree. I have seen cars parked suspiciously and I have seen fishermen and I have seen dog walkers - the woman with the two pitbulls, the old man with the small fluffy white dog who looks like a lamb. I have said good morning to the three retired men who whiz by on their bikes at 7.30. I have gone every day and I have been too tired and missed it and regretted it and I have slept in the car for ten minutes instead and I have forced myself out and have been late for work because I was watching the light filter across the water. I have picked blackberries for breakfast and I have recorded the names of canal boats, have seen tiny trees growing in lemonade cans and a mannequin head with vampire fangs left on the prow of a boat. I have seen cats running along the banks.

I have heard the hum of the power lines and I have seen a garden extension rise from nothing, only to be left roofless and fill with rain. I have seen bindweed push its white trumpets skyward and I have seen the branches bare of leaves and I have seen them disappear in green. I have seen cars try to make their slow way down the rutted, pot-hole filled road, and I have seen those same potholes filled with muddy water, filled with paper thin ice, white and sandy, and I have cracked those panes beneath my feet. I have lifted a single sheet of ice, thin, delicate, bubbles suspended within it, and I have let it drop and shatter. I have walked through spider webs and I have caused a whole flock of little egrets to take to the air from a pond hidden in the greenery away from the path. I have seen a willow, fallen, its roots half in water, half in air. I have seen fly tipping and discarded sweet wrappers.

I have seen dog poo and I have seen two women stopping to talk, smiling at the early day, and I have seen an empty bench with a black scarred hole in front of it, the remnants of a fire. I have sat on that bench and read one of the first pieces of work I ever had published. I have spent too long there and too little time and I have dipped the toe of my boot into the water and seen a plastic bag mired on the bank below. I have walked and I have hurried and I have stood still and I have listened.

And now I have left. These things will continue to be true but I will no longer be there to be a part of them. It is only a small stretch of canal, near a road, an industrial estate five minutes away, a pub the other. It is not pristine nor hugely cared for nor hugely wild. But over these past two years it has come to feel like mine and it has helped me make it through and I will miss it. It will continue without me and I will know it is there and I will find a new place, where there is greenery and birds and rubbish to pick up and dog walkers to say hello to, a sun to rise and a moon to fatten from a ghost thin slice into a perfect hole punch. And I will continue to list those things that bring me life, those noticings. I will continue to notice. That is my pledge to the canal that taught me how ten minutes make a difference, how even the messy, unruly, almost industrial parts of nature have magic in them if you pay attention.