In a wild and scrubby public park just above Haworth, after a circular walk through Brontë Country, I was gladdened by the sight of a hawk on a treetop. I thought of Barry Hines’ A Kestrel for a Knave and the magnificent film adaptation, Kes. “It's fierce, an’ it’s wild, an’ it’s not bothered about anybody, not even about me right. And that’s why it’s great.”
And it was a kestrel, golden and fawn, with a splash of grey, small but sharp-eyed, king of the air currents. I watched it. It eyed me back. Time hung in the balance, rather like the hawk in the rain in Ted Hughes’ famous poem.
Then, from out of the bracken, a young cocker spaniel, pulling on its long lead, reared up, yapping and whining. Its sibling, another pup, joined in, though in the opposite direction as if they were trying to quarter their bumbling, fumbling, and now loudly protesting owner.
“Bugsy, stop it! Stop it now or I’m taking you back to the car! Kanye, get down!”
The raptor found a thermal to take it away from this place of noisy humans and nasty mutts. I did the same, though furiously plodding rather than smoothly floating.
The scene was a fitting, if depressing, conclusion to a subplot of my morning hike. For passing through the semi-wilderness of Penistone Hill Country Park, I had noticed a proliferation of doggy walnut whips, coils, sausages and pellets: turds of every shape, size and hue, some free to contaminate the grassland and spoil an unsuspecting walker’s boot, others in their jettisoned little plastic bags.(Chris Moss)
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