One of the walks Nell and I often take involves a two minute drive up the road from home to the nearest village where we park in the village hall car park. We walk through the village and onto a lane, at the end of which is Bridge 72 on the Shropshire Union Canal, also known as the Hawksmoor Bridge. This is it this morning:
Lovely pink cherry tree in full blossom which reminds of the cherry trees at my old primary school. The bank from the bridge to canal is on the steep side and I plan to take a tea tray with me when I am very old so I can slide down the bank which will likely be safer than trying to walk down it with my elder lady legs and risk falling over and breaking myself. But that consideration is for the distant future. At the moment, I can descend the bank quite happily and Nell pulls me up on our return.
As I walked this morning, there were cows to the left of me…
Calves to the right…
And here I am, stuck in the middle with Nelli-Poo…
The towpath travels several miles and we generally head towards the next village along, going beneath two more bridges and onto a wider path where the trees take over from the fields…
It’s all very peaceful. Lots of greenery, lots of wild flowers, lots of bird life. Cows and sheep, the occasional horse. Canal boats, of course. A rarity in the Winter months, more in the Spring and Summer as holiday makers take to the waters.
And rarely do we see another soul as we walk. It is, I suppose, an isolated area, which is part of its charm for me. But in its isolation lies a potential problem.
Late last Summer, a strange man began to frequent this stretch of canal path. Tall and lanky. Late twenties/ early thirties. Scruffy looking. A baseball cap, T-shirt and jogging bottoms. Always carrying a plastic bag. He was shifty. Head down, no eye contact, occasionally hanging around beneath the bridges, rocking back and forth as if he didn’t quite know which way he was going.
And when you passed him, he would either mutter at you or shout at you:
‘Whore! Prostitute! Shame on you. Go to church and seek forgiveness, whore.’
I am guessing he has a mental health illness.
Whenever us lady dog walkers from the village met, either in the village, on the lane or approaching the towpath we would share information - ‘He’s not there today.’ Or, ‘Yes, he’s under Bridge 74. I spotted him and turned around.’ And we would talk about what we would do if this strange man appeared suddenly and approached us in a menacing manner. Push him into the water? Jump in ourselves to escape? Run? Should we carry a sturdy walking stick with us? Keep our car keys firmly in our hands to use as a sharp instrument? Would our dogs defend us from attack? Would there be any point in shouting, given the solitary nature of the area?
It was all a bit light hearted as we looked out for each other BUT at the same time there was an undercurrent of nervousness, a genuine concern for our personal safety. As Autumn approached, most of us chose to walk the opposite stretch of the towpath, heading southwards instead of north, because the strange man was never seen along that part of the path.
By Winter, sightings of him had petered out, and we felt safe to walk whatever stretch of the canal we liked.
A couple of weeks ago, though, he was spotted again. Same area, same hat, same plastic bag, same mutterings and rantings. Word spread amongst the lady dog walkers in the village. Take care of yourselves. Be watchful, ladies. One morning, I spotted him from the top of the Hawksmoor Bridge. I hesitated, sighed, turned around and retraced my steps back up the lane.
Nell and I walked around the village instead.
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KJ