Who Cares? The simple daily nod on lockdown walk in Ross-shire that can mean so much
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I have become a member of a new community.
I see them every morning, but I don’t know any of their names or much about their lives.
And they know little of me.
I head up the hill past the academy and the first person I see is usually a beautiful young smartly dressed woman who strides down towards me with great purpose and athleticism, while I do my best to drag my recently sleeping carcass up the steep road failing to hide the effort expended. She’s across the road, and it took a few months before we started catching each other’s eye and smiling, which has now progressed to a “Hi” or “Morning”.
I usually manage to gasp my way to the top of the hill before the next regular passes.
He used to wear a high-visibility vest, but not now. I thought it was part of his work clothes, but maybe he was wearing it in the darker mornings so he could be seen more easily. We say “Morning” but don’t really pause. I have usually caught my second wind by then.
Next is a woman similar in age to myself who I got used to seeing twice a day – up near the sawmill on the way out, and down by the County Buildings on the way back.
But in October, she disappeared.
I worried that something had happened, dreading that the virus had made her ill or worse. I was delighted earlier this month to round the corner at the top of Firth View and nearly bump into her. I learnt that she had been staying with her mum caring for her during her last months.
We chatted for a while about our experiences of caring and what our mums were like and parted as slightly more than just acquaintances.
There’s a chap with two spaniels in Woodlands Road who is my weather check, then I am usually alone on the next stretch until I get to the path along the canal where the dog walkers and joggers pass with nods and smiles.
The last of my “crew”, though not out every
day, are a couple near the station with another spaniel. We got chatting early in my months of walking, drawn in by their lovely dog. She was very standoffish at first, and did that thing of walking towards me and then carrying on past without a look leaving me feeling foolish.
That’s what got me talking to her humans, sharing a laugh at her aloofness.
Now, she recognises me and will trot up happily squirming and smiling and looking for a scratch on the back. Her humans and I have exchanged details about our lives, and they punctuate a least one walk a week with a connection to people other than my family – something we are all missing just now.
So, by the time I get home, I have woken up, got some exercise, and renewed my faith that there is a community of people in my area who are all in it with me, and are doing their best to stay well and active. Perhaps they look forward to seeing me as much as I do them.
If you recognise yourself in my description and you’re used to seeing a dishevelled woman in a red puffy coat in the morning, then rest assured that those “Morning” nods make a difference.
Karen is mum to an autistic teenager and campaigns for the rights of unpaid carers to be supported in their caring role and involved in the decisions that affect their lives and the lives of the people they care for. You can find her on Twitter @Karen4Carers
Holidays on hold as lockdown forces a fresh look at the world
