Sunday walks and quiet talks

I don’t think I realised just how much I’ve taken the great things in my life for granted until now. Having a small person about just learning the ropes and getting excited about pine cones and beetles really swings you right back into focus. It’s like walking in gently rolling hills - you can only see the hill right in front of you so you give it your full attention, and see things you would miss otherwise.

An example of this is going for a Sunday walk. Back in the day we’d have jumped in the car, zipped to the forest, ambled round arguing about something and then back to the car, job done. If people asked what we had done that day it would be “Oh well, we took a walk out at Dunnet,” and that would be it. Unless we found a crashed space-ship or the Green Man smoking weed and getting down with his Dryads of course, which are not as common occurrences as they really should be.

Now the poor unfortunate soul who was foolish enough to ask that question would get far more. I’ll illustrate using this Sunday's walk.

Getting to the car. Not as simple as you might imagine, because The Boy wants to bring the peg basket with him. Also he wants to jump off the picnic table in the front garden a set number of times, a number defined only by caprice and the limited patience of his parents. We get to the car (with the peg basket but no pegs, I’ll worry about their current location later) and he’s not for sitting in his seat. No reason given, just “I not do it! Waaaaa!”

Ten deep breaths and several (forced) calm questions later we have established that he really does want to go to the forest, and he gets in the seat with the peg basket on his head, as he initially wanted.

We drive to the forest car park with the following questions cycling round and round:

“Rogue leader, this is Rogue 2. Rogue 2. Do you copy?”

“Yes I copy, Rogue 2, this is Rogue Leader.”

“Do you copy? This is Rogue 2.”

“It’s Echo Base.”

“You shoosh, Daddy! This is Rogue 2. Do you copy?”

“Yes I copy, Rogue 2.”

"Echo Base.”

“You not say that!! Rogue 2! Copy?”

And so on.

Getting out of the car is no problem, it’s what he wants to take with him. We get the peg basket back (Rogue 2 doesn’t wear his helmet on walks) but it is substituted for a 1m extendable lightsaber, in green, and he will not take his coat, even if it is re-labelled as a “Jedi cloak”. In the interests of actually going for a walk this century we capitulate on the lightsaber and carry the coat. All is peaceful and calm for about 2 minutes, Jedi Boy races off into the trees and we amble along, arm in arm like the old days (well, without the argument: there is no energy left for debating). The bird sing in the trees, we admire the lovely way the sunlight slants in golden rays through the trees and dapples the moss. We hear the soft rushing of the stream as we cross the small bridge and turn the corner to -

“FREEZE SUCKA!”

- be accosted by a wild-haired yob wielding his toy like a gun. He then belts off into the trees again, leaving two stunned parents to discuss how our son has become possessed by the spirit (and more importantly, vocabulary) of BA Baracus. The mystery is deeper given that we don’t have Sky or even a TV. Either it is catching in some way, like some crazed meme or psychological retrovirus, or he is copying older children who have seen the A-team. It is pointed out to me it could be genetic, and the raised eyebrows make the insinuation clear.

Anyway we get halfway round the forest in the same time it would take an octogenarian with a Zimmer frame as we have to stop wherever there is a seat, wait till he gets bored and then carry on. It becomes evident that there are either forces at work or people can hear us coming as the forest is pretty small, there were lots of cars in the car park and we’ve only seen people hurrying in the opposite direction.

When we finally do meet a small family with 16 trillion collie dogs the woman is very friendly and nice, explaining which of the multitude of dogs like children and so forth. Jedi Boy looks up and with feeling says “I’ll cut your arm off…” and brandishes his fully extended lightsaber. She leaves hurriedly while he looks up at us, grins wildly and says insistently “You run now! Go! Go!”

So we run. All the way back to the car. And he chases. Occasionally the shouts of “I cut your arm off sucka!” and “Run! Run! I get you!” punctuate the serene sounds of the forest.

And that is why you should never ask the parent of a toddler what they did at the weekend.

Don’t say you weren’t warned.