It was a glorioriorious spring morning; the sun was playing in and out of fluffy clouds, the air was full of tweets (though there wasn’t a smartphone for miles) and all around, in the earth under one’s feet, at the tips of branches and in the stems of green plants, sap was rising. New leaves, in freshly minted green, were unfurling. Bulbs were pushing the earth aside and thrusting upwards. Buds and other loosely connected things were starting to swell.
Dymphna loved the spring, for all the beguiling reasons listed above as well as others, and seized the opportunity for a ramble in the woods.
Her nearest woods lay on the edge of the village, quite still, so they could be reliably found time and time again. In April the paths would still be muddy so she pulled on her trusty wellies. Everyone should be able to trust wellies; they have a simple mission – to be waterproof. Should they fail in this their reason for existence is negated (unless they happen to belong to an artistic type who works with the mundane) The word “trusty” is therefore redundant and I apologise for its inclusion, except that it was how Dymphna thought of them.
Feeling secure in dryness of foot she set forth, along the wooded path, edged here and there with a sprinkling of primroses. Birds, as mentioned earlier, were singing. She was lucky a few minutes late to see a cock pheasant strutting across her path, his plumage magnificent in the dappled sun.
She had been admiring him for a while when in the distance she saw a dark figure approaching. She had been keeping very still so as not to disturb the bird, but the intruder’s foot cracked a twig and the pheasant darted into the hedge row and disappeared. Dymphna was a little indymphnant.
The figure drew closer, revealing itself to be a man, but only insofar as could be determined by his tall, broad-shouldered figure.
“You seen something interesting?” He asked as he got close. Dymphna realised she had been standing still for some time
She had at first been irritated, but the sight of him, all tall and definitely masculine, with a head of blonde curls, melted her heart like a Mr Whippy in the sun. He smiled, revealing dazzling white teeth which were, if anything, out-dazzled by his eyes and set off brilliantly by his testosterised jawline. Dymphna felt her cornet becoming damp.
She nodded. “A pheasant. Just over there” she pointed.
“Ah yes” he replied, smiling even more broadly. “There’s a big cock round here quite often I believe. Very impressive”
Dymphna nodded. She was ready, indeed quite keen, to be impressed by that.
She was becoming conscious of the fact that she was wearing a rather old pair of jeans; completely suitable for a walk in the woods, but, she felt, not her first choice of garment in which to be meeting a very handsome young man. She hoped that the man in question was rather drawn to women in jeans and wellingtons. She was right; he liked the outdoorsy type, and this woman epitomized it, with her wind-ruffled hair and the slight flush to her cheeks from the fresh air. He did not realise that any cheek-flushing was not due to spring air but to the rising of sap.
Dymphna was keen to build on her strengths. She WAS an outdoorsy type. She could rock tweed, and he was about to find out.
“So you’re interested in the wild life?” She asked
He laughed, a rich, fruity laugh like an all-butter Shrewsbury biscuit.
“I’m not exactly David Attenborough, but yes” he answered.
Dymphna almost purred. “No. You’re a lot younger for a start”
“Gosh it’s warm!” She continued, slipping her jacket off. Beneath it, or more accurately, inside, she wore a soft, close-fitting sweater which wrapped around her feminine curves as though it was enjoying itself.
“I saw a pair of Great Tits here the other day” she said, looking at him from beneath fluttering lashes.
The man made a little sort of choking noise before recovering himself.
“is that so?” he replied cautiously “I’d like to see those”
Dymphna smiled, and her body gave a little unconscious wriggle, of which the man was wholly conscious.
They stood still and silent for a moment, then he kicked idly at the leaf mould with his trustily-wellied foot. “Shall we take a walk then? See what we can see? Enjoy the woods?”
She nodded, slinging her jacket over one arm and striding out in a confident, outdoorsy way which made the man’s corduroys ripple.
“Do you know your way around?” she asked him.
“Not really…I was just following the path”
“Oh the PATH!” she exclaimed “You’ll see much more if you step off the path. Don’t worry I know these woods – you’ll be safe with me!”
He was hoping that was not so, but followed her anyway as she turned off the muddy path and into the sun-dappled woods, a carpet of bluebell plants (not yet in flower) and primroses surrounding her. Last autumn’s dead leaves crunched softly underfoot like spilt crisps, but the ground was dry. They walked together for some time, pausing here and there to admire a mossy log, or a bright shaft of sunlight in the undergrowth.
Dymphna was very at home with large logs, mossy or otherwise, and powerful shafts.
After a while she observed that “Once you get off the paths it’s not muddy. You don’t really need wellies here.”
The man nodded, “Can’t really take them off though!” he laughed.
“You could, you know” Dymphna responded, turning to face him. Her eyes were sparkling like a picturesque little brook in the sunshine, though with less babbling.
“It can get hot in wellies”
There was a long pause, then she added “I’m rather warm in this jumper actually”
“Is that so?” the man asked, breathing somewhat heavily.
He glanced around him. The woods stretched out in every direction, like a large piece of lycra. They hadn’t seen anyone else at all. There were no sounds apart from birdsong and the odd rustle in the distance from an animal stirring.
He looked at her, and in the quiet it might have been possible to hear something else stirring, were it not that corduroy provides good sound insulation.
Dymphna sat down on a fallen log. She patted its mossy top. “It’s quite dry if you’d like to sit down”
He would. He wood.
They sat together on the log for a moment, and then he asked “Where was it you saw those great tits?”
“Just here” she answered, lifting the jumper slowly, watching his twitcher’s eyes fixed on her.
Soon she was beside him bereft of jumper, savouring the feel of spring sunshine on her skin. He was savouring it too, and it made him hungry. He wriggled out of his corduroys, assuring Dymphna that wherever one found a pair of great tits, there was bound to be a splendid cock – pheasanty or otherwise.
They plighted their tryst on the moss-speckled leafmould, though exactly who plighted and who trothed is unclear.
In the field of ornithology it may have been the first time a cock pheasant came upon a pair of great tits.
Yes, to his delight she really was a dymphnomaniac