Day began unwelcome but I was the one who had set the alarm. I made coffee and peace with myself, opened the door for Dog to slink out, let the birdsong in.
Looked up.
Grey sky - the marbled kind, like smoke frozen.
And the sun bled upwards, orange-gold, worshipped by field flowers.
Most preparations had been done the day before; clothes set out, bags packed with food, laptop, notebooks, comfort things like a wallet and more notebooks and spare pens. The dog walking bag which slings easily about the shoulders. Water bottle. The right keys.
The drive is good, with this sky to view and smooth moving queues, and Dog settles in the boot as she recognises the journey to Granma Grace's house. There is even a parking space near to the house, a rare treat. One with room to reverse in and still get the boot opened and let Dog leap out, tail at full whirr.
We sneak in to get the parking pass - hear a light snoring which is the noise of All's Well.
Put the pass in the car; I have the dog walking bag, my keys, a phone for taking pictures. The right shoes to negotiate mud and goose poop.
Dog gives me cause to fish out a poo-bag... Of which there are none. There is the empty packet, so I improvise.
Ten steps later Dog squats into position again. It is not a urination squat.
Children play here. People come walking. The willows sigh and the river runs and the swans are majestic and the moorhen is terribly cute. It is no place to abandon responsibility.
Back to an unwelcome experience. I will spare you, dear reader, too many details as long as you can understand that I was innovative and heroic in my construction of a miniature stretcher, and successful in reaching the bin to dispose of all unpleasantness.
Dog and I could then run the gamut of geese along the river path, and find her a place to swim.
We could admire the reflections, the bold graffiti that brightens up concrete inside the bridges, the nervous-aggressive edge of pigeons staring out from behind spikes (that, presumably, prevent their droppings from streaking the murals?)
Gull noise hammers at the sky till the grey flattened out. Traffic burbles over bridges.
A tidy man perched at the verge-side with a rucksack at his feet puts down his cider can to roll a cigarette. He watches Dog, smiling. He looks like he has stories but we have a job to do and coffee in a flask that is calling me, so Dog is dried off with a quick jaunt over grass, and we hustle back to Granma's, feeling adventured.
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