Pootling

Today’s weather is loose blocks of summer heat. Cold wind blows through the gaps. Some people have a favourite season; I love best the play of seasons in flux.

We have a day off work. We think: a change of scene is a healthy act.

Fat Beagle can’t jump into the boot space of my car. We have to hoist. Dog leaps next to him with a minimal gloat. She prefers the back seat but it’s full of Girl, Baby and pram. Mr has the sandwich backpack in the front footwell, on top of a collection of stuff I always forget to put anywhere else: three newspapers, a butter knife, two bungee cords, an empty water bottle.

At the edge of the Bude canal we undertake the slow paced walk known as pootling. Except Dog, of course, who prefers swimming along side, in the waterway, in the thin deep mud of the neighbouring ditch. Consequently she changes colour many times. Fat Beagle takes an unintentional dip, miscalculating his centre of gravity. Dog slips into the water with comparative grace, sometimes needs a heft up a steep bank. She hurls herself in a spectacular belly flop at the sight of a passing duck. Baby says ‘duck,’ applies it to all floating birds. The geese don’t seem to mind.

In the play park, Baby kicks off her Wellington boots and finds out why one should not stand at the end of a slide. She cries and then she rides a wooden frog.

At home, I ponder the day, mull the change of scene: centre on the pootle pace.