Lemon Green

Merrily commited a series of minor misdeameanours this lunchtime. I disappeared in the direction of Offchurch. Parking in the valley, in a place supposedly reserved for staff of the Grand Union Canal Trust, I wandered up the hill, turning left towards the village centre. Here the tree lined route swung too and fro, shedding leaves and twigs onto the pathless road with every gust. To my left were the fields and open spaces of Offchurchbury, where I noticed a time saving absence of fencing. So I broke in, first crossing a thicket with a carpet of autumnal debris and a line of horse jumps, and then out into the sunlight. The space is vast and at first I clung to the edge, on higher ground, with views towards the Campion Hills and the fringes of Lillington. Here too are numerous mature, solitary trees.

I bounced over the long grass, dodging the mole hills, towards the closest tree and the nearby property, the vicarage I think. Into view came a metalled path, gently sweeping down in the direction of distant Leamington. This was the most delightful. The trees noisily swayed, the sun was bright, and like tiny boats in a choppy sea, birds struggled to manoevre in a turbulent sky of colliding, billowy clouds. Ambling along, I darted from one side of the path to the other, into the green to frame tree after tree.

The lane terminated at the foot of a cedar tree with extending arms, and a sign warning wanderers that venturing beyond would be to trespass. A yellow waymarker pointed left, and it was here I formed the opinion that with yet another left, I would find myself back at the car park. So along I went, the sun in my face, looking back frequently to where I had been and where the sun lit the trees at their best.

The narrow path descended further, and soon I caught a glimpse of water which I was convinced was the canal itself. Over a stile, someone here before had written 'canal' and two arrows in white on a rusty gate. I followed the arrows along the bank of a stretch of water shrounded in a spinney of willow and choked with a multitude of reed beds. Here the sun barely managed to percolate its way through. It all seemed quite unnavigable. Twenty yards later the stretch looped into open air and sunlight, to a footbridge adjacent a muddy bank where cattle gathered for refreshment. This wasn't the canal at all. It was the river.

Alarmed at this point, since it was 10 to 2, I tried to make sense of my bearings. I took the bridge. I followed the line of the river, I crossed over the cow field. None of these routes were any good. I watched my attempts worsen on my phone map, and so it dawned on me I would have to retrace my steps. Back then to the footbridge, over the stile, and up along the narrow path. Paying more attention to my map, I found myself at another metalled road, one I had been oblivious to earlier. The map indicated this would bring me out at the road immediately opposite the carpark. So off I went.

Either side of this path was the paraphernalia of horse jumping. Rising at first, the path descended in an 'S' to the canal. Ahead I could see the eaves of a building, a parked car, and two gates. I prayed to God that stiles were fitted. Alas, my prayers were not answered. The first gate was firmly padlocked. I was about 5 yards from a large window. A further, this time blatant trespass was upon me. I clambered over both and on completing the second, checked my keeness to be on my way at the earliest, and yielded to vehicles coming over the canal bridge.

There was no nasty notice on my windscreen. no voice yelling in my ear enquiring what the hell did I think I was doing, and no one paid attention as I sloped into the office at around 2:40.