Porthole

PLEUTER, v., n.,

I.v. (1) To dabble with the hands or feet, gen. in a liquid, to splash aimlessly in mud or water, to wade messily through wet ground.

 II. n. (1) The act of working or walking in wetness or mud, a splashing about

 Dictionary of the Scots Language

One of the greatest compliments I have been paid about my writing is to have been told by a close (and far better read) friend, that there is something in the way I write that is reminiscent of Scottish author Kathleen Jamie.  Unfamiliar with her work, I am then lent the book 'Findings' so we can get acquainted. Forty or so pages in, and I believe there is something serendipitous about our meeting.

Sat curled up in front of the fire last Friday evening, reading about her experiences of watching a pair of peregrine falcons, I start to think about a fellow dog walker I meet who has built up a relationship (of sorts) with some crows.  Less to do with Satanic forces and more to do with the bread in his pocket, they come down to meet him when they know he is near and for whilst I don't do birds that close up, I am envious of the connection he has made.  I have been struggling with the monotony of walking the same path day in day out, and I am struck by the realisation that somewhere along the line I have stopped seeing.

I'm not much of a bird watcher, but I know there are jays in the woods and yet I have no idea when I last saw them.  Are they not there? Have I just not looked for them? Or have I seen them and my head been too crowded to retain the information? I genuinely don't know, but I vow to look next time I'm walking with the dog.

Back to my book and a couple of pages on, I come across the Scottish word pleuter.  It is the first time I have seen it written down since learning a poem at school in 1981, which for some reason has never left me and, I don't believe coincidentally at all, I have just recited for friends in honour of Burns Night.*  A word that now has a thread connecting 18th Century Scotland with my childhood, my present, the life of stranger, the life of my friend, and now you.

There is a storm raging over Yorkshire as I type, displacing stones and tree branches and water.  There is still a dog that needs walking.  But, instead of the trudging I wrote of last week, today Dougal and I set off for a spot of pleutering - which somehow is just much more fun!

Delighting in the squelching and splashing and opportunities to make ripples in the puddles, oblivious to the people who walked past and witnessed me in my madness, I slowed down and opened my eyes.  The jays were there. A pair of them, waiting for me. The colours of their plumage echoed in the fragments of blue and white ceramic glaze washed clean amongst the grey, brown and pink hues of the sand, by the newly formed stream where the path should be.

I wonder about the other people in the park.  How many of them stopped for a moment to marvel at the contrast in colours and texture between the wizened outer bark ripped open and the freshly exposed inner secrets of the tree? Who took a moment to admire the beautiful reflections in a temporary lake that will be gone tomorrow when the flash flood waters recede?  I feel like I have found a porthole into a private magical world where the only requirement for entry is to actually look.

Not the most productive of days (which may actually form part of a larger picture of lethargy) and one where I spent a fair amount of time searching for my glasses (only to find them inside a wardrobe?!) I am somewhat amused to discover that my word has a second definition:

I. v. (2)  To work or act in an idle, aimless way, to potter or fiddle about

Hmmmm, looks like I may pleuter more often that I thought!

*for my international readers (and yes I have few!) this is an evening held on the 25 January to commemorate the life and work of Scottish poet Robert Burns (1759 - 1796)