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‘If Dominic needs anyone to speak for him,’ Mr Codling-Bentham says, ‘to the authorities or whatever, then I’m happy to give a reference. Sterling chap. Top drawer.’
He shakes Dominic’s hand warmly and he beams at the fulsome praise.
‘Thanks.’ Who knows, I think, maybe that will come in handy when we make Dominic’s application for him to stay here.
With that, we thank them for the gifts and the loan of the book and head off before we lose the light for the day.
I hide the cake and port behind one of the Codling-Benthams’ thick yew hedges, thinking that we mustn’t forget to collect it on the way back, then Dominic and I stride out to the top of the village, through the woods and into the open fields that stretch behind it. Just five minutes out of the centre of Nashley, we come to the start point of a circular walk near the neighbouring village of Thornborough. It’s not a long loop, just a few miles, but I haven’t done it for years and certainly not since moving into the village, which is a crime. Perhaps if I had a dog rather than a lazy cat, I’d walk more.
It’s muddy underfoot and I’m glad to see that Dominic is wearing his trainers if not his coat. He takes up his stick and armed with our borrowed nature book, we set out across the fields and I’m no longer phased that Archie accompanies us wherever we go. And neither, it seems, is he.
The fields are dotted with sheep and as we pass by, I say, ‘I don’t need a book for those. They’re sheep.’
‘We do not have sheep at home. Not in the Mara,’ Dominic says. ‘Cattle. Goats. No sheep. This is nice for me.’
‘Birds are more difficult,’ I say.
‘And trees?’
‘Hmm.’ I gaze around the field as we walk. Apart from being able to pick out an oak or a copper beech, my knowledge of trees is completely rubbish. Must have missed that lesson at school if, indeed, we ever had one. ‘It’s trickier in the winter as most of the leaves are missing. We might have to wait until the summer for tree identification.’
‘You should be able to tell from the shape, the bark, Just Janie.’
‘I don’t really look at trees.’
‘You should.’
‘When do I have time?’
‘You come all the way to Africa to see the animals, the birds, but you do not see your own?’
‘That’s different.’
‘No. Your animals are as exotic to me as lions and cheetahs are to you.’
‘Sheep?’
Dominic laughs and takes my hand. ‘Perhaps not sheep.’
We crest the hill and then dip down into the valley. Using a small wooden bridge we cross the stream – Dominic lifts me easily over the stile at either end – and then follow the river as it twists and turns through the meadow.
‘There’s a heron,’ I say. The slender grey bird is walking in the shallows looking for dinner.
Archie, on Dominic’s shoulders, cackles his interest.
‘Sssh, cat,’ Dominic says. ‘Do not frighten him away.’
‘I always think they look out of place in England,’ I whisper. ‘They look as if they should be Chinese or something.’
As we’re watching the heron, there’s a dart of blue that speeds low along the water.
‘A kingfisher!’ I squeal. ‘I haven’t seen one of those in years. They’re gorgeous. Did you see it?’
‘Beautiful,’ my lover agrees.
We wait but aren’t rewarded with another glimpse, so we press on before it gets dark.
The route follows a disused arm of the canal. The brick walls and the lock gates are still in place, but the rest of it is dry now, overgrown. I explain to Dominic, badly, what little I know about our network of canals.
We pass by and the walk comes to an open stretch of water, a teardrop-shaped lake that’s maintained as a nature reserve. There’s a bench strategically placed by the edge of the water and we take a moment to sit. The sun is hanging low now, the shadows stretching. The water is busy with activity. Tiny blue tits flit backwards and forwards and some other little, brown jobs. I get out the nature book and flick through the pages.
‘Chaffinches,’ I tell Dominic as I point. ‘And they’re moorhens. Those are coots.’
How sad that I don’t know any of these things without having to consult a reference guide. If Dominic already knows any of these birds then he doesn’t tell me.
Overhead, a flock of starlings is massing, swooping back and forth, splitting and regrouping until there’s a huge synchronised group that fills the sky above us. It moves back and forth, drawing patterns in the sky, shape-shifting. One minute it’s a whale, the next a bird with its wings outspread. Then, the next minute, the thousands of birds form a heart-shape.
