On The Hoof

Dowdeswell Forestry

’Tis a noble and heroic thing, the wind! Who ever conquered it? In every fight it has the last and bitterest blow. Run tilting at it, and you but run through it. Ha! A coward wind that strikes stark naked men, but will not stand to receive a single blow.

Moby-Dick, Chapter 135: The Chase – Third Day

After the storm, stilled, stick-strewn streets. Silhouetted sycamores against close grey skies. The scraunch and snap of branches under car tyres. In the park, an oak has fallen, outspread arms grasping in frozen vain. Iron railings buckle and warp under its knotted belly. People stand and stare, hands to mouths. My throat tightens.

And here I go, even as I curse the wind, to browse among a felled canopy of neatly stacked trees. Christmas hats and children swirl. Laughing, squelching. I pull a tree upright and rattle it, judging I know not what. ‘Six foot Nord?’ says a voice behind me. ‘Good choice. That or the 5 foot Scotch here. Lovely tree, though, the six foot Nord.’

By main force, I resist the urge to ask for a Norwegian Blue. While the Nord waits to be pushed off its perch and netted, the last storm gasps dodge and squall and tug at my hat. I tilt uphill into the lee of the On The Hoof horsebox and order. As I raise the open cup, a slap of wind throws black coffee in my face. A bitter, cowardly blow.