Return to the Canal

Bees and Balsam | A tiny deer | Coots on the nest

This week I went back to the canal. It hasn’t changed and yet it has; it is not the same place it was when I left it in March, but it is a reminder of the place I first came, in early summer last year. The Himalayan balsam is back, big pink flowers that smell of burnt marshmallows. I walk away from the car park, past the boats, past the weir and its small cottage, and down to where the path widens. I hear a buzzing and turn to see one balsam blossom vibrating. I watch as a bee reverses out, then moves to another. The flowers are perfectly sized to swallow him, for him to feed, but not big enough to maneuver in. There is something appealing about the way he backs out of each blossom. I watch for a while as he moves from flower to flower, until he flies up and away, towards the empty sky and the high above trees. Further on, the lake to my left reflects the sky, streaky clouds fallen down, pylons buzzing, dissecting the space. Ahead on the path a tiny deer - muntjac, I think - wanders out of the undergrowth. It glances back at me and I stop, let it trot ahead a few paces, straining to see it. It looks back at me again, then bounds off into the brush.

Further up, the fly tipping is different too. Last time I was here there was a huge scrolled cabinet, white doors falling off their hinges. Now there is a pile of mattresses, covers floral, silky and stained. There is something about beds left out in the open that feels intimate - a thing that should be for rest, should be safe, laid bare to the elements, chewed at the corners, lying in the mud. I wonder at the stories behind them.

I turn back, toward the car, and hear a peep. On the other bank, I glimpse a coot nest between the boats. One bird sitting in the nest, the other in the water beside her. I watch, hoping for a glimpse of eggs, of chicks maybe, as she shifts, but she does not leave the nest. A heron planes by overhead and I tip back to watch it. This place has continued without me, has changed even while it repeats itself in the greening of the bushes, the unripe blackberries, the burnt sugar smell of invasive Himalayan balsam. It doesn’t care that I am back, but I am glad it is still here to welcome me.