Guardians of Peace: A Man and His Dogs

Sunday, 11^th and Tuesday, 13^th August 2024

As dawn unfurls its crimson hues, the chill of the early morn whispers of the night’s retreat. The sun, a fiery charioteer, ascends, banishing the remnants of nocturnal whispers with its relentless advance. The warmth, once a timid suggestion, grows bold, an unyielding cascade that bathes the world in its golden embrace. The earth responds in kind, unfurling its myriad shades of green, as life stirs in the light’s insistent call. And thus, the cycle renews, an eternal dance of chill and warmth, darkness and light, a testament to the enduring rhythm of existence.

Embarking on the path of a womble, one might envision a Sisyphean task, an endless cycle of cleansing the earth of its synthetic blemishes. Yet, as I meandered through the village, the role transformed into a meditative journey. The act of picking litter, initially perceived as a mere civic duty, evolved into a profound practice of mindfulness. Each discarded wrapper, every forsaken bottle, became a reminder of the impermanence of material possessions and the enduring impact of our actions on the natural world. The village’s official litter picker may have his designated rounds, but my self-assigned pilgrimage through the greenery and the grime allowed for an unscripted exploration of both the environment and the self. In this unbounded endeavour, I found not only refuse but also reflections on consumption, stewardship, and the interconnectedness of all beings. The early days, replete with detritus in every nook, have given way to a deeper understanding that to womble is to wander with purpose, to restore not just the physical space, but also to cultivate an inner sanctum of awareness and respect for the delicate balance of our ecosystem.

In the inevitability of time, it is a peculiar realisation that the corners once cloaked in cobwebs, untouched by the bustle of life, have now become familiar under my gaze. The initial foray was an excavation, a delicate dance with the dust of yesteryears, unearthing relics of forgotten moments. Yet, as the suns rose and set, what was once an odyssey into the unknown has settled into the rhythm of the expected. The novelty of discovery has given way to the comfort of routine, and in this transition, I find a quietude akin to the ancient sages who found enlightenment not in the extraordinary, but in the profound simplicity of the mundane. In this, there is a subtle beauty, a testament to the cyclical nature of existence where even the act of seeking can become a sanctuary of solace.

In the grace of my village, where the parks whisper with the laughter of children, I observe the subtle dance of litter that marks the passage of time and youth. The parks, like small universes, are dotted with remnants of the day’s play, a testament to the vibrancy of life that pulses through these green spaces. It is a gentle disorder, a natural ebb and flow that speaks to the innocence of childhood, where the concept of littering is as foreign as the distant stars. Yet, in the urban sprawl of Hillingdon, where Chilli (www.youtube.com/@chilli_pips) wades through a sea of refuse, the contrast is stark. Here, the litter tells a different tale, one of neglect and a disconnection from the environment that cradles our existence. It is a canvas upon which the disregard for Mother Earth is painted in broad, careless strokes. As I ponder this dichotomy, I am struck by the philosophy of karma, the cosmic principle of cause and effect. Each piece of litter, a choice; each act of cleaning, a step towards balance. It is a cycle, a moral imperative woven into the fabric of existence, urging us towards harmony with the land that sustains us. In this light, the role of the police seems not as enforcers, but as potential guides on the path to environmental consciousness, a role that demands subtlety and understanding rather than the heavy hand of draconian measures. For in the end, it is not just about the litter, but about the legacy we choose to leave on the tapestry of this world.

In the heart of Nottinghamshire, Bilsthorpe is not as a mere intersection of pathways but as a demonstration to the human yearning for order amidst the chaos of existence. The village, with its geometric precision reminiscent of a tic-tac-toe grid, is a microcosm of life’s intricate dance. Church Street and Mickledale Lane rise as the vertical lifelines, while Crompton Road and Savile Road stretch out like the silent horizontals of destiny. These are not just roads; they are the threads that weave the fabric of this community, binding the residents in a tapestry of shared experiences and histories. To transpose Bilsthorpe onto the vast canvas of Hillingdon would be to dissolve its essence, for it is the unique alchemy of its avenues and the collective spirit of its people that give it a distinct presence, an identity that cannot be replicated or submerged within another’s narrative. It stands, a proud entity, a whisper of the ancient philosophy that every place holds a dharma, a purpose, and a place in the grand cosmic design.

Embarking on a new project, one often harbours visions of its trajectory, yet these visions are merely strands that contribute to the intricacies of progress. They must be anchored in the loom of reality, lest they float away into the realm of fancy. When the anticipated fruits do not blossom, it is not a signal to abandon the garden, but rather to tend to it with renewed wisdom and altered strategies. Each small act, like the picking of litter, is akin to the gentle touch of the potter, shaping the clay of our world with care and intent. The solitary bag of refuse, collected and placed into the waste management stream, is a triumph, a celebration of the indomitable spirit that resides within each of us. It is a clarion call that echoes, ‘Even the smallest step forward is a stride towards a grander dawn.’ Let us then, not measure our victories by their apparent magnitude, but by the sincerity of effort and the purity of intention behind them. For in the grand scheme, every act of preservation is a verse in the ode to our shared home, Earth.

In the peace of my introspection, I have transcended past disappointments, setting forth anew on a journey of self-realisation. My chosen paths, Church Street and Mickledale Lane, are not merely thoroughfares but conduits of contemplation, each step a meditation, each breath a silent mantra. The parks, Crompton Road Skate Park, and Maid Marion Park are my sanctuaries in the mundane, where the laughter of children and the whisper of the wind through the leaves are my companions. In these spaces, I find the essence of my aspirations, not bound by the dichotomy of success and failure, but in the harmonious balance of being. Here, I am both the eternal student and the sage, learning from the world and contributing to its endless caress.

In the criss-cross of my weekly routine, the selection of paths to traverse is a ritual of contemplation and variety. Brailwood Road, with its whispering leaves, beckons every ten days, a reminder of nature’s unyielding march. The Raucous, as its name suggests, is a symphony of life’s hustle, where every sound is a note in the urban orchestra. The Bilsthorpe Business Park, a monument to human industry, stands stoic, visited in the same rhythm as the moon waxes and wanes. Deerdale Lane, with its serene canopy, offers a respite from the world’s clamour, a tranquil interlude in the cadence of my days. Each location, a distinct verse in the poem of my existence, is chosen with intention, avoiding the mundane, embracing the essence of each place and moment.

On my wombles I often find myself wandering the paths less trodden with my canine companions. Our journey, a modest three miles, unfolds leisurely over the span of three hours, a testament to the virtue of patience. The pups, adorned in their harnesses, embrace their roles with a passive resolve, understanding the gravity of their task. They are not mere pets; they are guardians of my peace, partners in my solitude. As we traverse the urban landscape, the parks stand as forbidden realms, yet this does not deter our spirit. The training I have imparted upon them is not merely about obedience but about trust — a silent agreement between species. I can venture briefly into these verdant spaces, leaving them in a state of poised anticipation, confident in their discipline. They are the silent sentinels, the unwavering constants in the ebb and flow of city life. And as I return to their eager eyes, I am filled with a sense of pride that transcends the ordinary — I am not just a man with dogs; I am a custodian of noble beasts, a proud dog father, shaping the essence of their being as much as they shape mine.

Often, I find myself stumbling upon remnants of human haste—packs of food, cans, and bottles, all unopened, discarded without a second thought. It is a curious juxtaposition, this litter against the backdrop of serene fields and woods. Margaret, with her conscientious spirit, is always taken aback by my scavenging tales. She entertains a fear, justly so, of the unseen consequences of consuming such forsaken treats. And indeed, I must tread carefully, for the hidden gluten within these edible treasures can wreak havoc, leaving me to contend with the aftermath of its silent storm. It is a dance of risk and reward, played out beneath the open sky, a reminder of the delicate balance we must maintain with the world around us.

In the grassy embrace of Maid Marion Park, as the sun cast its impartial light upon the earth, I chanced upon a pack of Maryland Cookies. Alas, they were not meant for me, for my constitution could not entertain such glutenous delights. With a heavy heart, I consigned them to the abyss of the black bag, a silent testament to the pangs of denial. In a moment of vulnerability, I reached out to the collective spirit of the Village through our digital agora, the community Facebook page. I humbly implored my neighbours, if they found it within their means, to occasionally bestow upon me the kindness of gluten-free offerings. Such a gesture would bind me in a debt of gratitude, a small yet profound act of communal harmony that acknowledges the diverse tapestry of needs within our shared human experience.

That Sunday, the act of wombling, a humble yet profound effort, yielded a quartet of bags, each a testament to the diligence of the day’s efforts. Come Tuesday, the tally rose to five, a modest increase that nonetheless spoke volumes of the ongoing commitment to this cause. In this small corner of the world, one might ponder the significance of such actions, yet it is in the comparison with Hillingdon, a place not dissimilar in its community spirit, that one finds a sense of kinship. The pro rata, a term often reserved for the allocation of resources or the distribution of burdens, here finds a new application in the realm of environmental stewardship.

As I reflect upon this, I am reminded of the ancient Indian philosophy of ‘Vasudhaiva Kutumba am’, the world is one family. This ethos, deeply ingrained, resonates with the act of wombling. It is a practice that transcends mere cleaning; it is a meditation in motion, a physical manifestation of the internal desire for harmony with nature. Each bag collected is not just refuse retrieved from the embrace of the earth, but a step towards the restoration of balance, a gesture of respect to the interconnected web of existence that sustains us all.

In this small act lies the echo of the great cosmic dance of creation, preservation, and dissolution, as articulated in the philosophies of the East. The bags, four on Sunday and five on Tuesday, are more than numbers; they are symbols of the cyclical nature of life, of the eternal flow of time and energy that animates the universe. In the gift of existence, each individual effort to preserve the sanctity of our environment is a line that contributes to the strength and beauty of the whole.

As follows, in the quiet triumphs of these days, there reflects a larger truth, a microcosm of the universal principle of dharma, the righteous path. It is a path that calls for action, for participation in the sacred duty of care for our shared home. Whether in the bustling streets of Hillingdon or the tranquil paths of this small locale, the act of wombling is a profound affirmation of our collective responsibility, a chorus of individual voices joining in a song of stewardship that rises to meet the challenges of our time.

In this light, the comparison with Hillingdon is not merely a matter of arithmetic, but a recognition of the common spirit that animates communities across distances. It is a celebration of the unity that underlies apparent diversity, a unity that is the very heart of my worldview. For in each act of picking up litter, in each bag filled and set aside, there is an acknowledgment of the deep interdependence that defines our existence, a silent prayer for the well-being of all creatures, and a hope for the dawning of a more conscious and caring world.

KEEP LITTER OUT OF NATURE