I have a new hobby. With a bin bag tied to the handle of my mobility scooter, I have taken to weaving along the old railway path that runs through the industrial estate where I live, litter-picker at the ready. The path joins pockets of protected land, marshes and pools that shelter among the urban sprawl. It is one of my favourite places.
Right now, the hedgerow that grows on either side is thick with brambles beginning to flower. The cow parsley is making a last delicate display with its white firework flowers, and in the early summer heat, everything is sticky, lime and sycamore leaves slick with shine. The buttercups that grow on long stems are covered in ladybirds, and pollen from the feathery grasses tickles my nose as swifts shriek overhead. It is a glorious edge-place. Every time my family and I come here, we delight in our displaced slice of countryside, but “oh, isn’t it a shame about all the litter”, we’d always say. My new hobby is to do something about that.
It is, I admit, an endless task. A combination of antisocial behaviour, apathy and the nearby wind-blown rubbish dump soon replaces whatever gets picked up, but here I am again today; I am going to make another dent in it. I weave from side to side, grabbing at what litter I can reach, wrestling it from the cleavers that cling to it, and deposit it in my bag; soon there is a noticeable, satisfying difference along the stretch I’ve covered. The trees make a cool, shady tunnel over my head as I work.
Passing dog walkers call their cheer and encouragement: “You’re doing a great job, love!” Maybe I am, maybe I’m not, but there is hope in this simple action of care, and it’s contagious, I think; I can feel it. Baby robins bounce like ping-pong balls about the place. Our shared world is a little cleaner now and we can all rejoice in it.
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