It was quiet on Saturday morning at seven o’clock. Though the usual cacophony of bird communication prevailed. The sun was up, resting above a blanket of grey cloud, giving the dew soaked lawn longer to bathe and a subdued light to the scene. Scent of jasmine flowers, lavender heads and rosemary stalks blended into a heady spring perfume. It was quiet.
I walked down the driveway and turned right into the street. The gravel crunched under my soles like breakfast cereal being consumed. Each step the potential sequester of a pebble or small twig within the grooves of the tread. There is no footpath, only the shoulder of the road bearing the weight of cars parked there most days; the owners wordlessly protesting against the fees demanded of the gated public park opposite.
The lone white sedan ticked and tocked as I passed, exhausted after its journey, the metal cooling in the shade of the acacia and gum trees lining the roadside. It was old; the dings and dents wrinkled and shadowed the once smooth body. Miles, hours, roads, people; what stories it would have. Only the car’s mirrors can reflect on its past. The car was empty of anything living. I notice these things.
The shoulder widens slightly before shrinking to a single file walking space: bushes and trees on the right, the road on the left. The footpath begins, forty metres or so from the driveway end. It starts opposite a traffic island with a gap suggesting a road crossing for pedestrians. The lane space for vehicles decreases due to the island. I consider this to be the most dangerous section of my morning walks. Though on this Saturday, it was quiet.
I walked past the sleeping caravan snuggled in its doona cover, and reached up to feel the overhanging leaves wondering if the tree can feel my touch. Is a tree like a cat, each leaf a whisker or strand of fur responding to contact? Surely if a tree is a living thing … A noise breaks my reverie and I stop.
A rabble of cyclists caterwauled past, their blather bouncing against the quiet like a rambunctious child on it’s sleeping parents’ bed. While most were unintelligible, some words echoed clearly around the peaceful acres: ‘faster cadence’, ‘pushing watts’, ‘bigger climb’. The terms made no sense to me and I pondered on the choice: ride with a group of sweaty, chatterboxes ignorant of everything bar the inane conversation and road, or walk solo. I continued walking, choosing to ponder on anything but cyclists.
Stopping, I walked back. Something on the side of the footpath did not belong. A pattern stood out amongst the grass and debris of leaves. Criss-cross, black on beige. I searched. I found. Upside-down, a pet turtle carcass. I turned it over with my foot, in case, and with slight hope, the stillness was not death. The shell had been crushed. The turtle was dead and had been for some time.
Amazed at the unconsciousness of observing and backtracking: I had no thought or memory of processing what I had seen and the responding action to the anomaly, only of searching for it. What a wondrous thing the brain is. I tucked this nugget of knowledge into my ‘thought, emotion, action’ file for future contemplation and continued walking.
My thoughts turned to the owner of the pet turtle. Was it a child? Had they had the turtle for a long time? Was it a birthday or Christmas present? What would be worse: the turtle wandering off and lost forever or the finding of the turtle carcass and burial? Poor pet turtle owner, I empathised the loss of a pet as I ambulated past the church.
A man appeared from around the corner. Tall and slim, and dressed all in black. Even his headphones were black. His gait was unusual; it caught my attention quicker than Mark Waugh can catch a cricket ball. His hips did all the work. Each hip pushed each thigh forward, each foot carried forward by the momentum from each knee. Where had I seen that movement before? A marionette! He ‘Thunderbirds’ past me with a nod. The path turned right and I followed it, smiling, unlike Lady Penelope.
The path and I meander past a paddock, population: one donkey dubbed Eeyore, across a road and down a slight hill on which sits the local primary school. From the hilltop, the thick line of the footpath doodles away, losing girth along its length, and disappears under the trees nestled at the base of the slope. A slight breeze brought a pine, jasmine, mown grass mixed fragrance to my nostrils and I breathed in deeply, savouring the freshness.
Deep rumblings broke the ambience, cracked the peace and smacked at my attention. A group of four men walked towards me, talking to each other as though they were lined up against a bar, beers in hand, watching a pub band smash out heavy metal from a corner stage. Ah, solitude, where for art thou? Will thou ever reveal thy self when unwanted audience threatens thou? It could have been worse: the high pitched cackling of four females talking over the top of each other, usually about other females, is unarguably less appealing.
Though as I walked past the men, greeting them with my usual look-them-in-the-eye-and-smile ‘morning’, as though I hadn’t found their presence as noisy and disturbing as a plane crash, this question popped into my head:
‘Would you feel safer, as a woman, in a room full of men like these guys for two days or a room full of people from a foreign country speaking a language you couldn’t understand.’
My answer was instantaneous: the latter. But then, of course, I questioned why. Do I feel threatened, in danger, scared by unfamiliar men? In a group, in a room, being the only female; probably, yes. Then why wouldn’t I feel the same with a group of people from a foreign country with no shared language? Perhaps the challenge would be more mental with the group of people? Perhaps I assume that the group of men would want something from me? Interesting question. To which I still question my answer, particularly when out walking.