I love shopping, a disturbing admission for a man. Let me clarify, I’m not talking about clothes. That I abhor. I’m happy with what I’ve got until my wife points out they’ve largely disintegrated. Then it’s a brief foray out and then home.
No, I’m talking about food-shopping, the last residual shadow of man, the primitive hunter – or in my case, man with an appetite. What adds piquancy to the twice weekly event is the nearly two mile walk into Monmouth – the same walk but one that changes with the seasons.
Summer, a view from Osbaston Road
Autumn. Vauxhall Field and a glimpse of the River Monnow
Autumn, the Monnow and a glimpse of Vauxhall field.
Winter, Vauxhall Field and St Mary's Church
Winter, Vauxhall Field and St Mary's Church touched by God.
Uh, uh. Something's brewing. (My Turner moment)
Snow, however, is the big event, and its effect on people is weird. People walk for starters, they have to, and greet each other like comrades in arms, as though we’ve just weathered another night of the blitz. Earnest conversations ensue as to whether there is still milk in Waitrose. If only Napoleon’s soldiers had it so good on their retreat from Moscow. And yes there was milk in Waitrose. There’s always milk in Waitrose. Waitrose will have milk come the Apocalypse. Tesco, I’m not so sure about.
Osbaston Road. The trudge into town
A cold looking River Monnow
Crossing the Monnow.
Vauxhall Field and St Mary's
But then comes the thaw and the ‘walkers’ vanish, and a new season begins.
Soon be spring.