This article was first published in the UEA student newspaper, Concrete.
No sleep. Bus. Club, another club. Plane. Next place.
The activities of Lady Gaga’s now oft-quoted On the Record interview seem like a hazy utopia. Restless days of constant partying are over, for now, with PCRs replacing the LCR. Sleep is in excess, and clubbing is replaced with walking. The peak of entertainment? The local pond.
Sleep. Wake. Walk, another walk. Pond. Next sleep.
For the past year, I have, with increasing fervour, looked forward to my daily walk to the pond near my house. There, I can spend anywhere between ten minutes to an hour, and sometimes more, staring into those varyingly murky depths, trying to identify the life that thrives beneath the water.
Nestled calmly between a large field, where children come to play in the summer, and an expansive forest, the pond sits quietly, watching as people come and go. It is large enough to have a small island floating in the middle, but not so large that the island could be home to anything more substantial than a breeding pair of ducks.
Coming across the field, the sight of pond water is guarded by a shifting fence of reeds interspersed with yellow flag irises (or, at least, that’s how I overheard them being identified by a man to his partner as they walked by). Rounding the reeds, a shallow bank tapering off into the water becomes clear – this is a place that makes for easy and up-close viewing of the tadpoles, which dot the water in February. A valuable asset. In order to see the rest of the pond in detail, however, one must either climb over the knotted trunk of a willow tree or duck under a thicket of holly.
Clambering over the willow’s trunk, trying not to slip into the water (it has happened), one reaches a well-trodden path which closely traces the border of the pond. Here, careful steps are needed as centimetre-long frogs dart underfoot and are narrowly avoided. Access to this path gives a new view of the pond, where the rich wildlife of the greater depths can be easily spotted and safely watched. Throughout the year, lamppost-like people can be spotted standing and peering down into the water’s depths. These weird sentinels stand guard over this peculiar space, monitoring the pond’s vital signs. An important job for curious people.
Looking up, one gains a clearer view of the island. Squinting, the shifting patterns of a wild throng of vegetation dissolves into individual species. Once, I spotted a slow worm amongst the long and sagging blades of grass. I have no idea how it got there, nor how it left. All I know is that, for one achingly hot hour, I sat with a group of strangers under the summer sun, willing the slow worm to move or show some signs of life. The reward? A single lash of its tail about 20 minutes in, not to be repeated again, and a badly sunburnt face and neck. Entirely worth it.
Scrambling under the holly, one returns to the world feeling changed and renewed. The pond offers a much-needed constant in the tumultuous world of the last 18 months. Seasons come and go, the water level dips and rises. This unsuspecting local space becomes a microcosm for the world around, distilling the ebb and flow of seasons into endlessly rich and murky water that makes for a perfect pandemic getaway.
BioSphere 