Ode to Bob

Whilst desperately trying to work out how to unlock the window of my oven-like B & B bedroom, I spot a Red Kite floating between the almost turning trees that tower above the immense garden below. Red Kites have, thankfully, been re-introduced to this part of Oxfordshire and a jolly good thing too: they are stunning. Readers who have followed this blog since those long past Jordanian days will know that, despite continuous suggestions, I am not a twitcher. I know about Red Kites because I met a man who wears binoculars around his neck and can imitate a cuckoo. Pretty good credentials, all things told; and all things are told on this, my journey back into childhood.

I stand propped against a wall waiting for Bob. I have, of course, forgotten all good intentions of meeting this person who I haven’t seen for half a century in a public place and duly get into the first car that comes round the corner. And it’s the start of my perfect day. First stop…the town’s museum located opposite the building my dad used to work in. The language barrier I’d feared is non-existent. To an extent, this is initially helped by the elderly lady on reception who has travelled all the way from Brightwell to relieve me of my handbag ( in case I’m a terrorist from the southern counties). It’s the icebreaker we would’ve needed if my guide was not so personable. There seems to be no logic in the distribution of the exhibits but it doesn’t matter: I like the tapestries that the ladies of the town have made to celebrate some centenary or bi-centenary and both of us like the randomly spread photographs.

One of the things that distinguishes me from the crowd is that I genuinely like looking at other people’s photos; a stroke of luck as I will subsequently be asked to view Bob’s album, scrap book, assorted cards and internet pictures. All of this I do willingly but before that comes the empirical. Here is my next door neighbour who is a rather portly fifty something. The last time I saw him he was a tiny five year old on the other side of the fence when I played ‘two-ball’ against the kitchen wall with his sister. And now we are down by the river, having traversed the lane which was inhabited by folk who stayed in the adjacent psychiatric hospital. I remember this place replete with Water Irises, Marsh Marigolds and Lords and Ladies. Today, it’s a nature reserve which means it’s overgrown and a little disappointing.

We stroll around the playing fields behind our old school where Mr. Campbell used to take us on treasured nature walks. When this liaison began, I could remember barely anything: sadly, I couldn’t remember Bob. Now, every turn brings back something. We collect unwanted conkers in order that I can try out the latest theory and relieve myself of some of the many spiders that currently inhabit my house. After a trip up the hill to the church, we go to visit Bob’s mum who has just returned from holiday. I am not so green to believe I am being shown off: I know that Bob is showing off his mum to me as would I were it the other way round. Bob’s dad has an intriguingly large collection of bird feeders. I would like to talk to him about this but now is not the right time.

And on it goes. Everything resonates with careful thought and planning and is interspersed with this delightful man frequently breaking into song. He writes songs for everyone and, dear readers, because I don’t, I make no apologies for writing this for my friend.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kXgbN81zNG8&feature=related