In the countryside the sky comes down lower, or it starts closer. The horizon is further away, and it tickles the light blue seedlings that grow into the steep azure dome sitting above us. This is quite a different feeling to the low ashen ceiling of a city-scape. There is freedom and wonder in the span of the celestial sphere that throbs gently about you.
In the centre of a town, you can still feel the loose whispering breeze on your neck that reminds you, two or three roads from here, the wild animals roam free, and you can too. On unassuming residential streets you will stumble across the wide arrows, proud short wooden posts, calling you from behind a secretive hand, “this way”. Squeeze between the houses, open your eyes and before you the endless expanse of this England. Twiggy brown paths carry you away. Don’t fight the urge to roar, when that feral ecstasy explodes somewhere within.
Soon you’ll be in a place that has no name and needs no owner. It has lasted forever in nature’s care. Everything seems unimportant now. Were you even awake, back there, in the urban prison of our collective pretense? The trees pass with a blur now; it comes to your attention that you are running. It is not an effort or a chore. You might joke that it feels ‘natural’. You would feel a breeze in your hair were you not numb with delight.
What is it that ignites the energy of life in the green outdoors, the places between places. Who switched it off. How does the flickering haze of civilisation kindly smother our vitality.