"Essential Work"

Monday's dawn heralds a welcome escape from a house bound weekend. In a topsy turvy world. The comfortable illusion, that mankind is in omnipotent control of the destiny of our planet, is shattered with sobering force. I drive to work along near deserted roads. The morning rush hour swept away, along with so many other familiar routines. I am grateful to be classed as an 'Essential Worker,' free to venture from the confines of my home daily. 

Bountiful morning sunshine back-lights luxuriant spring growth . Mother nature's rhythm unaffected by the virus which is so disrupting the complex constructs of the man made world - ruthlessly revealing their ephemeral vulnerability.

It is a time of transition in both natural and man-made realms. I turn into Pett Lane. Let the Land Rover pick its way slowly over the rutted and pitted surface .Threading our way between fresh green saplings and gnarled ancient boles. Between new and old.

Pheasants strut boldly across a meadow. The red masked cock scans the horizon, alert for danger. His demurely plumed mate forages, head down, amid the lush rippling grasses.

Bluebells dance daintily in the dappled sunlight - which filters through tangled and twined hedgerow boughs.

Neatly ordered rows of Bramley Apple trees, sheltering behind cropped conifer wind breaks, announce my arrival at the farm. 

The reassurance of a familiar routine is reinforced by the sight of clouds of  apple blossom beginning to grace the most sheltered orchards - as spring has been presaged through the ages . Spreading like cats-paws of sea breeze across a still morning sea.

The factory team are already in, processing fresh fruit fillings to grace the dinner tables (and lift the spirits) of locked down families across the land. Business continues, with adaptions to accommodate the ever evolving thinking on Social Distancing. A local curtain maker, short of work,  has run us up some face masks.

Warm Easter weather has clothed pink buds with delicate white apple blossom three or four weeks before usual. An eventuality bringing both the welcome prospect of an early harvest; and the threat of a frost, literally, nipping our crop in the bud. Yin and Yang. Nature will have her way - man will have no say.

 It has been a wet winter of mire. Tractors unable to tread the land. We take advantage, of the newly firm dry ground, to put the wooden apple boxes out between the rows. In autumn we will pick our, hoped for, harvest into them. Right now we need the crates off our yard, to release space for the first of the Kentish strawberry harvest . We plan to fill our summer making jam, whilst our orchards ripen.

A solitary worker bee begins the task of pollination, delicately picking her way across the Bramley blossom, in its roseate perfection. Pausing from her labour to bask in the morning sun. The first step towards an autumn crop. Soon she will be joined by others from her hive. Nature running her course, her inexorable rhythm unbroken. 

Simple Pleasures

China blue skies above deserted streets. Britain - the world - in lockdown. An Easter like no other. I count my blessings and take delight in life's simple pleasures. Birdsong through my open window. The kiss of the sun, and caress of the breeze, as I sit in the garden. My daily 'permitted exercise' walk round St Mary's Island:

Out of the house and along the boardwalk to Gillingham Docks. The Arco fleet are still operating - ships coming and going daily, in an endless variety. Crew isolated aboard their roving metal cocoons. Invisible below decks.

Up over the manicured grass, and neatly trimmed hedgerows, of The Bund - toward the comfortably sagging stonework of the old slipway. Sparrows and tits flit and trill among dense green foliage. Thrushes and blackbirds peck busily at the fresh mown sward. 

I take in the view downriver, beyond the point, to seaward. A faint mistiness hangs in the air, giving the scene a dreamlike quality. Warm spring breeze over winter chilled sea. The tide laps sonorously on the masonry of the slip. An evocative waft of seaweed, seashore, fills my nostrils - part sharp ozone, part rich ripe vegetation. A calm sense of endless possibility washes over me, like a balm .

The sun is hot and the air still as I walk back upriver, along the sea wall. I'm in the lee of the island now and pause to take off my fleece, draping it over my shoulders. Luxuriating in the warmth of the afternoon.

Trees are awakening. Bursting into verdant life, behind tethered boats.

I have arrived at the drydock, my walk almost over. Reflections shimmer on the sculpted granite work . Blocks hewn, exquisitely trimmed, and laid in 1875 - to service the ships of Queen Victoria's navy. To protect her Empire from its foes.

Now the basin is home to Chatham Marina. Its gates are barred - locked down, to protect from the deadly spread of the Coronavirus. Today's foe.

Ducks doze, oblivious, on deserted pontoons.

I glimpse Stargazer, waiting patiently on her berth. And return to the house. I'm counting my blessings, reflecting on the simple pleasures - and looking forward to a day when we may put to sea once more.