This is a busy time of year for a footpath warden. Summer ramblers congregate in large numbers, heady with their freedom to enjoy the countryside in peace before schools break for the holidays. Drinkers look at the map and choose to stroll to a rural pub for an evening pint. Soon, families will be looking for cheap ways to fill the days, the promise of a picnic softening any resistance to a long walk.
But the hedges and verges are also filled with life, crowded with vegetation, each plant desperate for its own space. There has been a welcome spell of damp weather in West Oxfordshire recently. Probably not sufficient rain to counter long-term drought conditions, but enough to push green things into hyperdrive. Bramble spurs as thick as biceps reach out along the lanes, yearning to hold you safe. Nettles tower overhead, their pretty tendrils of tiny yellow flowers disowning the angry leaves and stems below. Wound in amongst them are catchweed and bindweed, and thistles embedded deeper in the undergrowth.
All this can make the walker’s life a little uncomfortable. In some cases, particularly virulent growth makes walking almost impossible. The 15-mile circular route I enjoyed with an old friend at the weekend almost came to a sticky end in the final section, when a remote path across fields disappeared into a thicket of natural things designed to deter. Scratched, stung, and bitten, we had to retrace our steps and headed home on the road.
I’ve had a hectic week, not just cutting back overgrown footpaths but taking on extra work and developing projects. I’ve felt a little like I’m heading towards territory that is tangled and full of prickly hazards. My daily writing on the novel has slowed, sometimes stopped completely, and I’m nervous that a profusion of productivity in some parts of my life, however exciting, may be stifling my creativity.
Feeling the panic of being smothered by weeds, I’ve stepped back this morning to think about the potential positives of becoming overgrown…
Weeds are just plants growing where humans think they shouldn’t, of course: they have myriad benefits and a beauty of their own. I might spend a bit of time getting over my fury at July’s enormous stinging nettles by writing an ode to them. I might also reflect on the wider wisdom that apparent obstacles are usually spurs to problem solving and greater creativity.
Feeling overwhelmed isn’t helpful, so I’m reverting to my faithful old tools of to-do lists, spreadsheets, planners, and highlighter pens to plot out the next three months and make sure I schedule in times to work on my novel. If this means I need to buy new stationary, then so be it and thank you to the thicket.
I also realise that turning back from an overgrown path is sometimes necessary. Pausing, listening to the voice telling you that’s not the way, giving yourself some time to stop and look around, rather than forging ahead relentlessly: these are all creative acts. So I’m telling myself it’s ok not to sit down and write every day at the moment, especially as grasping other opportunities may also bring a whole new handful of ideas.
Lovely. The image of the bramble often occurs in my work, attempting to clutch at the passer-by like a drowning person or a desperate lover.