By Dr E.W. Gordon

Have you ever walked through the roughest, most run down part of your town? Have you purposely sought out the darkest alleyways and the grubbiest back streets to see what you can find? I have and I’ll tell you why.

They say violence breeds violence. I’m not sure of that but my story does little to dispel the idea. My job at the time, like most school leavers’ jobs, was awful. It paid pittance and left me with no free time, but most of all it left me frustrated; frustrated with my situation and also stressed out by the fact that I was constantly on the front line of a never ending battle with people who just didn’t understand. On the street they would be called psychos or thugs and many other appropriate titles, but to me in their environment they were Dave, Frank, Joey, Sylvia and so on; allegedly normal folk just like you and I, except if somebody punched you in the street, quite rightly you would punch them back. Not an option I had. This frustration bubbled within me, constantly on the boil, ready to explode. I kept myself psyched at work; it sharpened my senses and on more than one occasion kept me alive. The problem was I couldn’t unwind the tension; a knot in my stomach sat constantly begging for a knife to slice through, release the pressure and let me sleep. Oh glorious sleep, how I missed your sweet caress.

It was a seemingly dull night sitting in the pub which changed everything. It was hard to get drunk back then but lord knows I tried. The answers may not have been at the bottom of the glass but I never lost hope and kept looking. Trouble walked through the door. You know the sort, you’re picturing him now: all mouth and beer fumes. Immediately he was hassling the barmaid. I hate that. Just order your drink and fuck off; do you think they’re paid enough to put up with your drunken bullshit? It was quickly apparent he wouldn’t be playing the game, nor getting served, and he was asked to leave. Along with a couple of the other regulars we ejected him out of the door. I was good at this, I did it all day every day; the deft flick of a wrist which rendered the biggest foe helpless and subservient to your commands. I knew he didn’t like it but what did I care? It was just an arsehole getting his dues.

When I stepped out hours later there he was, patiently waiting to despatch his vengeance. I knew I had to be swift, five six isn’t big. As he stepped up I turned into him elbow first, directed at the rib cage. The wind was truly taken from his sails as he deftly came over my shoulder and gazed up confused from the flat of his back. One swift punch to the face finished a nice neat job. In a matter of seconds my foe was a bloodied, gasping heap of incapacitated pulp. Fighting back felt good!

From there on my decent spiralled. I’d started with the defence of my honour but after that first twist of the valve the tension of my existence ebbed away. In the beginning I could control it; when I felt I needed that fix (for it was rapidly becoming an addiction) I would change my watering hole, seeking out the rougher pubs hoping for the fight. Over the ensuing months many an old school yard debt was repaid; it’s funny how the school bully looks just like every other sorry bastard in the world as they lay prostrate, limbs useless and bloodied. To this day I can justify my actions back then. I was intelligent enough to know that as the sands of time slip through the grate things change and as the ugly duckling becomes the mighty swan I, the school coward, had become a desensitised machine fuelled by anger and blood lust. Soon my town was too small; the police knew of me but I had always evaded court. My victims were known criminals and I had simply got caught up in their sport and had to fight my way out. After all, outwardly I was a good kid, never late, always smart and someone who worked hard to get a start in life; perceptions, as I can attest, can sometimes be wrong. I needed a bigger rush and with it I needed a plan.

I always had free time as I worked shifts and my girlfriend was at University; this last point also allowed me a legitimate reason to cover a large territory, the odd beating here or there would fly under the radar. But I needed something else. Cruising bars was too public. I needed to incite the riot all on my own; I wanted guarantees and I wanted them fast. That was where the suit came in. Initially it was a facilitator; if you walk through the wrong end of town in a suit you attract attention. Hold your head high and look people in the eye you’re asking for trouble and I was there begging for it. I’d walk along dressed impeccably, loiter where I suspected there might be a little sport. Alleyways and snickets were good but I got my biggest thrill simply from inciting people, saying hello and then reacting badly to their comments. It’s amazing how quickly fools rush in. Obviously they were too smart to fight in plain view; what they would do was follow me and then attack me behind the off licence or in an abandoned building without considering why I would be down there anyway. Very smart. I wasn’t interested in theatrics, I’m no martial artist; what I wanted was to feel the heat in my knuckles as my fists connected, to hear the snap as my elbow cracked ribs and to see the exasperated expression of these so called hard men glaring up from their knees as the final blow rained down. I liked them on their knees. It took into account me losing composure. Never punch a nose upwards, brains are fragile. Like I said, the suit was a facilitator to begin with but like all sociopaths (for that is what I was becoming) it quickly became part of the show. A nice close shave, hot shower, immaculate hair and then on to dressing. I laid everything out: crisp white shirt, then trousers, then shoes (always gleaming, always laced). Tie knotted perfectly even if that took eleven attempts, the jacket a close fit but with a little extra room across the back to keep me mobile. Finally came the gloves, black leather like an assassin’s, and depending on the season either a tan trench coat or a thick cashmere overcoat. I liked the look. To this day I think I look good in a suit, great even, and like I said: nobody ever suspects a suit.

I may not have been a theatrical fighter. Efficient, brutal perhaps; but I always liked to add a bit of style to my opening shot. Memorably once in a dingy stairwell of an apartment block I was cornered by three unsavouries; I could see my sands running out, now was my time to go down. I’d been close before but this was a different story. I needed an edge. Slowly I slipped my hand in to my trench coat. There was a tension in the air, all you could hear was the heightened breathing of four alphas spurning for a fight, and as one pulled a knife the adrenalin coursed through my veins; but I had to see this through. I kept reaching behind me purposefully, holding each one’s gaze, searching for any weakness, and there he was to my left: the glimmer of fear. He thinks I’m pulling a gun. Bingo, target acquired! When my hand is completely behind me I pause take a sharp intake of breath, steady my spiking nerves before I strike out. I lunge forth with vengeance; a full heel strike to Knifey’s knee equalises the field a little as he goes down wailing; the satisfying crack of shattering bone tells me he won’t be running anywhere. I move swiftly without delay seizing Fear Boy by his arm. I roll into the void bringing my elbow straight in to his ribs below the armpit (my signature move). I’m aiming for a point behind him so I know it hits hard and hurts. I can feel the euphoria, the massive blast of adrenaline boosting my senses taking me to a higher plain as I bring my foot up high to reach the third unsavoury’s face and there it is: the sweet release as his nose explodes under the soul of my shoe. But I’m not done. If I leave now it would seem like I was running and I never ran. I needed time to adjust my tie and cuffs before I left. Knifey was already down when my foot came up into his stomach sending him clattering down the stairwell. Fists were now flying like in all good fights; once the advantage has been played things even out and it boils down to who wants it more. They were fighting for honour and pride, they didn’t necessarily want to be there; I, however, knew exactly where I wanted to be: right there in that moment locked in unnecessary combat, feeling the sweet relief like a junky with a needle. But like that junky soon the fix has stopped and with one last sickening crunch I’m in the middle of a tangled bloody mess down on one knee my arm still raised bent at the elbow which had delivered the deciding blow down through the cheek bone of my final opponent, gasping for breath and enjoying the calm wash over me as I know that once more I had had my cake and eaten it.

I could go on, in fact I did for nearly a year after that, but I knew my days were numbered. I changed my job and lost my edge, the fights got closer and I suspect If I’d carried on I would have been the bloodied pulp gazing up or at least gazing at the four walls of a cell as I wasted hard time. No doubt my girlfriend coming home from university slowed me down until eventually that part of my life disappeared, but not entirely.

To this day when I pull my suit jacket on and feel that familiar snugness of a fitted garment my heart rate increases and I start to tremble slightly as my muscles load up with adrenaline. Just in case.

To this day some may suspect but none know the truth and when I buy shoes, even now nearly a decade later, they have to be lace ups. That way I know they won’t fly off if I kick someone or have to run. Just in case.

By:  Dr E.W. Gordon

The padding was thick
As he pulled his arms through, the straps were reassuringly snug
Rippling his fingers, he felt the armour as it hugged every sinew
He had a great sense of occasion, everything matched as piece by piece he was suited
With each click he was fastened in
Little by little he prepared to advance
Boots followed legs
Gloves followed boots
Until only the helmet remained
Ornately decorated it slipped on and effortlessly fastened
Pulling down his visor
He looks back at is squire, tilting his head
Steps up to his steed
Swings his leg over and

Thumbs the starter

By: Dr E.W. Gordon

I was walking along, thinking of nothing in particular. It was an odd day but I couldn’t pinpoint why, things just seemed somehow out of balance. The sun was high yet the temperature was unseasonably chilly. I was flanked by a vicious pincer movement of arable boredom. Even the hedges seemed fed up as they leaned with the prevailing wind, as if they’d given up the will to stand tall against such a constant onslaught. The path was leading me towards a mysterious looking woodland. It sat in a hollow at the far side of the field, I could see none but the tops of the tallest trees in the canopy, it looked intriguing, old, ancient. In fact some of those broad oaks must be three hundred years old, I pondered to myself. Across the field there was a big scarecrow, his silhouette black as coal against the panoramic sky. I was watching him casually as I walked for twenty minutes or so. He looked big and strong as he stood stock still bracing hard against the wind, not even his jacket fluttered in the steadily rising breeze. As I watched and walked I considered the strange climatic conditions. The sun, as I mentioned, was high and bright, yet there were insipid tendrils of cold piercing my bones. There were clouds in the sky swirling round and scattering across the expansive sky. Clouds aren’t unusual, however the shadows they cast were so dark, almost like the lights had been turned off. I’ve been out in all sorts of weather, brocken spectres and rain that drives almost vertically upwards, defying gravity to name but two. When you’re outdoors you become the weather, it’s easier to accept your getting wet that way, so I marvelled at the oddities. They didn’t worry me, they just added to an already strange day.

As one of the swirling, inky black shadows sailed over the scarecrow I swear it moved; not just a twitch, but a very deliberate raising of the arms. I instinctively crouched on one knee – an old military habit – not that it mattered, I was a sitting target and the only thing taller than six inches for a hundred acres in every direction. My heart was pounding; my eyes throbbed, as I watched not daring to blink. Did it move? Was I imagining things? Was it a shifting of the shadows, an optical trick? I just didn’t know, but as I watched in perfect stillness nothing happened for as long as I stared, nothing happened. I shook off my doubts “you’re a combat veteran for Christ sake” I chastised. I’d not long come back from a dicey black bag mission that had FUBARed cataclysmically. In fact I was on medical leave right now, as I couldn’t separate the living nightmare I’d experienced from my sleeping ones. But this, this was different. I just couldn’t shake the fact that something wasn’t right and that scarecrow had definitely moved! I had to do something; I couldn’t just crouch there paralysed with an irrational fear. I made my move. I raised up slowly battling with myself and decided to push on. My first thought was bug out, run like hell and get back to my car, but how would that help? I was once pride of the regiment and here I am spooked by what was clearly a trick of the mind… wasn’t it?

I pushed on, determined to conquer my demons. I wasn’t sure what they were but I figured any progress was positive. I kept walking. Sometimes I’d break into a steady jog but I slowed myself up, acutely conscious of the fact I must look a complete idiot to anyone watching, not that anything was, the whole area was devoid of life. Not a bird, a mouse or even a breath of air, this odd day was rapidly getting out of hand. My palms sweated cold, sticky, perspiration. Looking down my hands were deathly pale and shaking. I clenched my fists and started to run. I didn’t really have a direction or an objective, I just needed to get away from that field.  Straight as an arrow I charged, across the crops. I just didn’t care, I needed to escape the oppression, to shake off the numbing fear which gripped my throat. As I approached the hedgerow I had to slow and turn towards the devil, my nemesis, the scarecrow. I’m not one for looking back. Until this day I’ve always advanced forth, the enemy within my sights, but today I was nervous. I didn’t want to look up, if I could have done I would have turned the other way but with Christ knows how many clicks of open scarecrow riddled country before I reached a road it wasn’t an option. I looked up briefly and saw him. Shit, shit, shit! He was watching me! He wasn’t looking that way before, I swear, and oh my god he’s so close, almost like he’s standing sentry over the very path I need to take. My heart was trying to rip itself through my chest, my breathing was shallow and rapid, my mind cloudy and I was no longer thinking straight. My only plan was to run, beat my foe to the gate and then just keep running without looking back.

My legs ached, being out of condition. The veins in my neck strained, trying to force some oxygen to my brain. My shoulders ached, my day sack weighed heavy. I just keep striding out with all my might. I could barely see, I was looking down a dark tunnel.

I’d been there before. I remembered the scene well. There was gunfire all around us, my team was seemingly exploding with blood and viscera as we ran, there was no option: we had to cross that bloody killing field as lead spat from hidden emplacements. We just kept running, at that point all our training stood for nothing; we were next year’s fertiliser. As body parts scattered the ground all I could see was this dark tunnel. I was distantly aware of bodies moving with me. Though at that point there was no team, not a man alive would have helped you. If you went down it was tough and you were on your own. It was a living nightmare, a proper and very real incarnation of hell and this was just the beginning. With every spit of fire I was starting to realise that there may not be enough men to execute the Op. This turned out to be true and I found myself stuck is a stinking drain (could it be the river Styx?) with four other men. I pressed myself into the festering sludge praying I wouldn’t be found and that if I was I would be mistaken for one of the many dead. There was no way of knowing how many had fallen, but then there was no way of making our way out. Assuming our mission was successful the threat would be neutralized and we could all have a nice heli ride out but as it was we had no men, some ammunition, no explosives and no chance. Getting out meant running back across the field and it would soon be dawn.

So I escaped, but it seemed the nightmare wasn’t over. Back in the present, I ran until I was on my knees, I lay gasping for breath staring at the sky as it span rapidly around the trees in my oxygen depleted state. It took a while to calm down physically, and although my nerves were still jangling they did steady with my breath. Where was I? How far had I ran? I stood up to take in my surroundings. I wasn’t at all looking for the scarecrow. I was stood in the ancient woodland, I must have run three clicks to get here and it really was an old place.

You could feel the history dripping from every branch, everywhere I looked there was thick undergrowth. I could see that this place had seen men before but not brutally; this place had been delicately caressed by a gifted woodsman. Within the tangles you could still make out where the trees had been coppiced. It was as I looked around that it occurred to me that I had no idea where I was, my heart rate started to creep up as I realised quite how closed in everything felt. I’d totally disorientated myself and couldn’t even see where I’d entered; yet another military technique, I’d disturbed very little ground. If I looked hard enough I’d be able to find my trail but I just wasn’t thinking clearly. I was starting to panic again, A mist was rolling in as if this place wasn’t already a heavyweight contender for oppression, It was as if the life was been sucked out of me and I was being pinned down. A twig snapped behind me. I let out a distinctly feminine squeak, what the hell was wrong with me? I don’t squeak. I wanted to run, I wanted to hide, I wanted to do anything but wade slowly through the scrub, how I got in there so fast was beyond me as I was damn near stuck. I struggled on. I had to get out of the woodland, the mist seemed thicker still, or was it smoke? I just couldn’t tell, my senses were been overloaded. Eventually I burst into a small clearing. I dashed across it, relishing the freedom, I was aiming for the fallen tree. I leapt over it and buried myself into the massive root ball, waiting to see what was seemingly chasing me. There were more breaking twigs and a snuffling, shuffling sound. Every single hair on my body was stood on end, and electricity was seemingly coursing through my veins. I was watching for ages, the tension was unbearable, until finally at long last and to my sweet relief a wild boar blundered out from the undergrowth.

Despite the long day I couldn’t help but chuckle, a pig had made me squeal like a girl. I was just calming, rationally thinking through where I was and planning a more relaxed exit (the old pollarded trees suggested I was possibly near the old extent of the forest and near open land), when there was a sharp bony tap on my shoulder. I swung round just in time to see the pitchfork drive deep into my abdomen. It quivered powerfully from the force as I looked up and saw the big, black, looming mass of a cape sheathing a stoat oak frame, almost human except for the smouldering mass of an indescribably evil head. Its eye sockets deep and empty, yet so full of malice.

In my dying moments a calm, which had been missing all day, washed over me. At least I hadn’t imagined things.

By: Dr E.W. Gordon

It’s Saturday afternoon, which is unfortunate since this place is a favourite with dog walkers and I really want the place to myself. I get my biggest buzz from immersing myself in solitude. I love to be the only person on a desolate moor or be the thing that disturbs the rooks on a summer’s dawn. I want mine to be the only eyes that gaze upon a scene to know that I’m the view’s only witness. But more importantly it’s the lack of disturbance I crave. Usually I’ll be out at dawn but alas you seize your opportunities when they arise.

When I’m out walking in this way (or as I’ve termed it generally ‘wildernessing’ for that is what I always endeavour to do. Escape to the wilderness. No matter how penned in a place may feel it’s still more wild than you can ever imagine), it’s just a case of tuning in. Sometimes it can take an age to engage your senses, other times you can shut your eyes for a second and bang! a distant shriek has the hairs on your neck stood like sentries. Today there was so much interference but even so it wasn’t long before I had picked out five or six prominent runs through the hedges and fences, there were no hairs or tracks but clear signs of activity. Looking across the valley to the eastern slope I can see lines almost like the lines on a page. My first thought are rabbits, the entire slope is pock marked with a vast network of rabbit holes. Gut instincts are usually not far off but as I gaze deeply in to the scene I notice that right at the top, over the fence, the first foot of the field’s contents is significantly (and neatly) cropped shorter than the rest, could this be the tell tale sign of the deer I know to be present? Back on the bridleway where I’m stood, the whole scene is bristling with life though. Pheasant feathers are strewn across the path, sure signs our old friend Mr Fox is prevalent in these parts. I’m flanked to the left by a distinctly man made copse of pine trees with a few beech trees scattered amongst them, the young pretenders muscling for light. Nothing seems to be happening. I can see the nests of several large birds most likely rooks. But other than that the place is oddly inactive. In stark contrast the hedgerow which flanks my right is simply teeming with song birds: blue tits, chaffinches, great tits, the occasional robin, flocks of starlings, blackbirds and what I suspect, though I only got fleeting glimpses in the deepest undergrowth, were wrens. The little wren always makes me smile. In latin it is called troglodytes troglodytes, or cave dweller. Whenever I see one I always wonder, are there some caves nearby? I continue onwards, moving further away from what you would define as the main route through. I walk slowly, steadily and silent, my eyes are everywhere at once. I’m not concerning myself with any one tangible thing. I’m simply scanning for movement. There is a natural rhythm in our world and once you zone in it’s amazing how much you can see. You don’t just look with your eyes, it’s a full body, holistic experience. Branches move at a pace inline with the breeze, the direction of which I can feel on my cheeks, my straggly hair also gives an indication of its strength. Once you are in tune with the air movements it’s easier to remove dead information, and start seeing the patterns. I’m no chameleon, however I can see more than just in front. With my ears I can see almost 360 degrees instantly. A shuffle in the leaves behind me turns my head, the breeze was down, but my hairs were up, something is watching me, but what? I’m scanning systematically. I view like I read in long, sweeping strokes across the page picking out the details but there is nothing, there are a few oddly stationary question marks which transpire to be really rather dull tree stumps. But I know it’s there, I just have to play the game. I try not looking directly; purposely engaging my periphery but still no light is shed. I take a big obvious step forwards lifting my arms to see what I spook and there it is, a small white tailed bunny rabbit goes dashing down the track. The hobbit in me thinks “supper” but it’s only a brief notion, I’m in his world now and I have my supply of pesky rabbits from a local allotment if I want to fill my pot. Throughout my little meander (it’s hardly a walk. I travel often no faster than a snail and trace such a winding and circuitous path along a seemingly straight route), I’ve been hoping to see a deer or two. I know they’re there, I’ve seen the hoof marks, the hollow hairs, I know they’re there, patience is a virtue or so they say. I continue onwards, soon the path veers steeply through a couple of fields planted with next years harvest, you can see acre after acre of bland arable farmland. I’ll be heading back in to dog walker world soon and I’ve resigned myself to a nice walk home, after all there is always the clouds, clouds don’t get spooked by dogs. I hear a shout in the distance, someone behind me in the dell I’d been occupying for the last couple of hours has lost their dog. “Chester… Chester…” came the shout. I stopped to look around, always a little paranoid some rabid beast is going to seize my throat and devour my bones. Something had clearly excited him as he burst forth across the fields towards the hedgerows and the small copse. I’m torn between my usual disdain for man’s inability to keep a dog on a lead, and curiosity: what’s got him so excited? As I watch him course down the track there they are. With huge springing leaps and bounds and a pace which can only be described as “panic stricken run for your life”, out of the bushes, up the hill, desperately aiming for the sweet relief the cover of the undergrowth offers, were five roe deer. They had been hiding perfectly seemingly mere metres away from me! Maybe being a dog walker isn’t such a bad thing after all?

By: Dr E.W. Gordon

There’s a place I go sometimes, I’ve been there in many guises. Some days I’m a runner flashing through, nothing but the rhythm of my breathing and the steady beat of my feet as they briefly touch down on the uneven surface. Other days I’m father and husband with my child safely stowed on my back as she casts a regal and inquisitive eye over the landscape; some day soon I’ll become her teacher but not on a subject she’ll find on any curriculum. These lazy hours with wife and child are perfect recreation for the soul. If it breathes there’s a good chance my little backpack monkey has scared it away long before we’re anywhere near with her cute yet annoying, quiet but oh so loud blah blahs and gurgles. These journeys are still important to me; they affirm my position in life, as patriarch of my little homestead: even on these clear-cut paths Mrs Doc could soon become uncomfortably lost, not that she needs to panic of course, I’m here. More than that though once you remove creatures and critters you are left free to explore the things that move at a gentler pace; patinas on logs, the clouds and how they affect the dappled light upon the land. There will always be a bird but invariably it’s a weather beaten Crow or the ever present Pigeon – brave enough to let you pass so close but somehow the first to disappear when spooked. Or maybe they flee with such commotion they’re the only ones we notice?

Today was different though. I wasn’t running, I wasn’t being father, husband or any of the other titles I have pinned to my chest, today I was just being me. I was alone and dressed in earthy tones, with hair which stopped ‘needing a trim’ months ago and has long since passed into hobo chic. I looked every bit the hobbit, though I’ll defend to the very end that I was simply blending in. It serves another novel purpose too: the public at large don’t tend to engage me in conversation. My shoulder doesn’t have Gore-Tex emblazoned across it; I’m not a walker. Though my jacket is cotton it’s not waxed, I’m no farmer. I may have camouflage trousers but I carry no gun, I’m no soldier. I’m no hippy, nor am I a Ray Mears wannabe. I sit squarely in the middle of everyone and no one just where I like to be.

I am Freedom. Who are you?

By: Dr E.W. Gordon

I once stood upon a hill all, around me nature watched on calmly. I wonder what it thinks of me? Really I’m plotting the next journey. I wish I was an eagle soaring high. I want to fly, I wish I could, I’d fly up to the clouds, do loops and swirls: after all, it is what I’d be designed for. I’d sail in the breeze, swoop and chase the thermals, master and commander of the world. Or maybe I’d be a stoat, drop in to burrows and explore the anchor points of trees, try and discover where the secret treasure is really buried. I’d travel forever mile after mile and see the world only when I see fit. If I were the magnificent stag, and the land mine to rule, I’d view things like a wise king. If the need arose I could defend my world, but mostly I’d be quietly alert as my flock grazes contentedly. You know it can only be the squirrel for steadily planting next year’s new crop, filling breaks in the hedge by happy coincidence over and under, darting back and forth. The little character was once hunted with bows but mercifully now he’s allowed reign of the branches listening for danger. It’s a funny thing how keeping a keen weather eye is so innate that a beaten creature is as rare as a yacht in the free classifieds. All this and many wonders make up the wilderness experience, the natural world has more than the eye can see: and that’s the wonder of the promised lands we inherited.

*Get reading and counting. SW

By: Dr E.W. Gordon

It’s November and the earliest snowfall for twenty years lays heavily on the ground. I’m busying myself with humdrum. I hate humdrum, digging the car out knowing full well it will be stuck within ten minutes, and as for defrosting cars…

I take a moment, lean on the shovel, and look around. The sky is crystal clear save for the odd gull braving the bite of the sub zero temperatures. I love it when the thermometer reading is prefixed with a minus sign, the whole world seems to fall into a beautiful silence as if even time itself has a freezing point. Looking around, I take in the scene as I slowly draw the cold crisp air into my lungs. There are some tracks darting across the garden, two lines of holes in the snow; at a glance you’d think nothing of them but my curiosity is roused. What could have made them? Some sort of biped, surely, but what?

I follow them a little, the snow is much shallower near the shelter of the house. Looking closely I can see a footprint similar to a dog. I’ve given up any pretence of humdrum, now I’m on the hunt. Nearing the wall there is an interesting indentation behind another clear icy print, I suspect this is the hind leg as it coiled down to propel my quarry onto the wall. Atop the wall there is one blurred print, perhaps it slipped, but more telling is the almost brush like sweep accompanying it. Is this where a bushy tail touched?  Fresh snow is awesome; without moving I can follow the trail as it winds across the front of my neighbours house and down to the gate. Back in the public domain I can pick up my trail. There is more interference here, people have walked, cars have rolled, but worse than anything there have been dogs! As I stand, trying to make sense of it all, I can count al least six conflicting prints flowing in all directions. One set is clearly a dog as I can see the urine stains at every vertical object. Two others are far too big for my friend but that leaves at least three possibilities, I’ve not been tracking long and I’m by no means an expert – I am, however, persistent and observant, did I mention lucky too? I’m stood at the last known track, my eyes seemingly spinning round, as I scan, more in hope than expectation. Besides, town folk look at you funny if you stand around too long. I’m contemplating a brew when I spot a hopeful sign in the garden across the road. Virgin snow has exposed the much needed direction. Following these boreholes I begin to piece together an idea of the creature’s movements, it seems there is a definite route through the urban sprawl, using low walls for access, egress and cover. My own garden being the only exception to this fastidious need to always skirt the edges, perhaps I spooked it as I opened the door. Was this why it slipped? After all, the wall is only a foot high. I’ll never know the answer, but with each slip of data the chase is accelerated.

I set off down the lane. I have a hunch as to the destination now and it’s hard resisting the urge to charge off; after all, the thrill of this really is in the chase. Footprint here, a dusting of snow there, and of course that unerring need to skirt the edge of everything. The irony of a country being skirting not just walls and paths but of civilisation is not lost on me as I tread a very angular and circuitous route towards some land long abandoned and reclaimed by nature. At the lane end, clinging to a battered telegraph pole, two or three distinct hairs are snagged in a splinter, fuelling the suspicion that I’m tracking a wily foe.

This is trail end. The slushy mess is incomprehensible, there is nothing but puddles and murky ice. I’m disappointed. I really wanted a climax, not just a conclusion, but never the less it’s a nice day to be out and every hunt, no matter how stunted, helps hone my skill. The beach is only a short walk away so I meander towards it. The ground is crisp under foot as I wonder what the state of the tide is. Normally if it’s out you can smell seaweed on the air but today all aroma seems stunted in the face of the cold.

As I stroll along there’s a movement in the shadows, then from the alley like a dart my friend appears. He charges straight out, I don’t know who startled who. However I do know who was much more delicate on his toes. In my haste to turn around I’m scrabbling for grip as he sits on the pavement opposite and I swear he grins, goading me, baying me to play ‘catch me if you can’. It’s tricky moving slowly on ice and my progress towards him is laboured. I can get to within five feet of him but no closer, for every step I take he mirrors me to maintain the gap. Never once taking his eyes from me he dances upon the glacial surface with shifty, deliberate, bouncy steps, with such adroit movement I can’t help but smile as I struggle to stay up right. His front and back feet land cleanly in to the same tread hole which accounts for the distinctly biped tracks in my garden.

We stand looking at each other. In our own ways we both marvel at each other; he views me with suspicion, I simply with awe, for those few moments I lost all track of time, and only his heightened senses stopped our little foxtrot. A movement behind me has his ears pricked then three effortless bounds and he’s once more hidden in the shadows. I stand still just on the off chance and I’m rewarded, mere seconds later an inquisitive little head is peeping round the corner. It’s a fleeting glance and he’s gone again. He’s not the only wily fox on this sleepy lane though.  I shuffle my feet, and deliberately brush across a hedge as I move back a distance. Next to the hedge a clean, un-snow-kissed snippet of tarmac affords me some silence as I press into the bushes. Willing my body to take on the shape of the hedge, I wait in silence. The clocks have stopped, my breathing slows and I gently direct my steamy breath into my jacket. I need total concealment. I wait until my limbs are aching in the cold, without movement and a steady flow of condensation down my front this takes scant minutes but this small discomfort is rewarded. With his head down on some scent or another foxy comes springing by. With the wind on his bushy tail he’s on me before he realises and has to adjust his footing past my boots, I even feel the delicate breeze in his wake across my cold nipped legs. He only just passes before he stops, eagerly nosing the air he looks around – his face full of surprise as he spots me, his coat flickers as he winces with the shock – but all too soon his senses are recovered and, as he charges up the lane, I like to think that on some level he for once was admiring me.

By: Dr E.W. Gordon

1.  I want to be the person who, seeing a dusty piano in the corner of a bar, can comfortably take the stool and tinkle those ivories with a choice tune for any occasion.
2.  Join the Scouts. I was never allowed to as a child, but what’s stopping me now?
3.  I love to be outside, climbing mountains and generally exploring those remote high places: so why am I not out there more?
4.  Dust off the skills so important to survival in the wilds. If you’re out there you should know how to look after yourself. Once you can do that it’s far easier to enjoy yourself; after all, getting lost is a serious pain in the arse
5.  With a career so hilariously pathetic, and with a growing feeling it’s all too late, it would be nice to rescue something phoenix-like from the ashes. I am making progress though; I’m no longer in a dead end job, I’m just waiting to be published. (See points 6 and 12.)
6.  I have material for three rip-snorting yarns in varying percentages: one at 100%, one at 40% (and literally growing everyday), and one which is more of an all-consuming idea which will eventually hit paper as soon as it makes some semblance of sense in my head. Whilst I’m pondering writing, one day soon and other than this list and all associated pieces, I will contribute something that does not invariably end up with me ambling through nature. But that said, it is the best place to put your head.
7.  Make a point of being a better friend to people. What the hell did we do with time before Little Legs was born?
8.  Stop swearing.
9.  Bring my fitness back up to a level I’m comfortable with. There are many and varied goals for this one, which will no doubt be the heart of a separate article, so I’ll leave it at that for now.
10. Be a better family man. I suspect my expectations are too high, but is that actually possible?
11. Continue my education, the lords of academia need me, I must answer their call. Otherwise I’ll never be allowed leather arm patches on tweed!
12. Set up my own business, no matter how small scale. I have some niche ideas and one very big feasible one, but I know that in my heart it would only ever be a cash facilitation machine for things I’d actually care about.
13. Use my hands more and develop the skills that firstly excite me and secondly make interesting conversation pieces.
“Doc what a beautiful cabin; where ever did you buy it?”
“ I didn’t; I made it with my own fair hands.”
14. Become the quintessential modern gentleman. It’s not about laying your coat in puddles anymore (they’re expensive, don’t you know) but true gents should have, amongst other things, good manners, a dash of timeless fashion savvy and a cocktail to drag any party out of the dead horse latitudes.
15. I want, probably more than anything, to like myself. I have an un-matched ability for self-loathing, which probably stems from some childhood trauma (or so the books will say). It would be nice to view this list as instructions in a positive light, not a revelation as to my shocking waste of life. It’s funny how arrogance, bravado, sarcasm, piss and vinegar – call it what you will – can hide so much guilt, pain, anxiety and fear. I sometimes think I’m being too hard on myself but then fundamentally I am a horrible person… and so the cycle repeats!
16. I really ought to learn to cook more. If I had to create a month’s menu for people, they’d be eating a lot of rice and something.
17. Travelling seems such a nice idea. I’ve not been out and about much except in my head and via a mountain of literature, which is a shame. The reality is, presently, I’ve not got the means (hence point 12) but I am determined that Little Legs will be well travelled by the time she decides to become Doc Little Legs. Machu Picchu and the Himalaya are must sees; after that, let’s just get out and see the world.
18. They say travel broadens the mind and it would be nice to find some kind of enlightenment. I feel I have some wayward lost and wandering spiritual side (it came as a shock to me, too) and that I’m wrestling to find some kind of peace. Perhaps a bathe in the Ganges will give me something more than epic diarrhoea. Or could Uluru be my salvation? If nothing else, I’d get some nice nik-naks for the mantelpiece along the way.
19. Travelling would be so much nicer by yacht, although I obviously need to learn to sail… acquire a boat… (see point 12)… etc.
20. Design and build (within certain preset safety parameters) my own dream house. I have many building related projects, probably too many to list but to name two, aside from the dream home, I’d quite like to build a log cabin (see point 13) and renovate a wee cottage in a remote little bay somewhere in Scotland.
21. Speaking of point 19 and acquiring a boat, it would be quite nice to build a boat. I fear that a blue water yacht for dueling on the seven seas Sinbad-style may be a little out of my depth (boom boom). Mrs Doc may have something to say about it too, but the rowing boat for getting in and out of the harbour is within my grasp.

I feel this list should be a guiding light. I intend to remove each item from this list as I attain my level and replace it with a new challenge, and I urge my fellow SW contributors to do likewise. When my dusty age-addled body parts company with my soul way down the road let the whole world know I still had 21 things to go!