8th April 2020

We seek him here, we seek him there, 
That virus seeks him everywhere.
Is he in heaven? — Is he in hell?
That elusive Tartan Pimpernel

(My deepest apologies to Baroness Emma Orczy whose poetic rendering within the text of the ‘Scarlett Pimpernel’ deserves better than my unfortunate infringement.)

Even in this most perturbing of years I have still managed to crawl doggedly to early April and therefore my steps are quite unavoidably drawn to that most beautiful and pungent of walks the trail of the Skunk Cabbage.

Those of you already aware of the location will no doubt find your own feet magically drawn to witness in all their scented glory the yellow middle fingers of Symplocarpus Foetidus pointed in resolute mockery to the heavens above. Those of you whom have yet to experiencing the challenge of passing between the plump leaves without causing bruising and thereby releasing the heady majesty of their aroma will with careful use of nose and perhaps even the odd enquiry or two might finally be equally enraptured.

My sense overwhelmed as always by this visceral experience I was emboldened to delve a little deeper into the wonder of that magical kingdom known as the Moran. My approach to the pungent trail had been carefully contrived to avoid as much as possible infringement of any temporary restraining order but now my blood hot and racing, probably as a result of letting my well positioned face scarf slip just sufficiently to inhale a full measure of the intoxicating scent,   I like some bellicose buccaneer swashed a very different buckle as I proceeded.

Swinging my ever-present cane like some might cutlass I soon found myself quite clear of cabbage alley and about to touch toe upon prohibited land. Boughed somewhat by the lateness of the hour and the absolute stillness of the day, I had already noted an e increase in insect avtivity in the absence of two-legged pedestrian intrusion, I proceeded cautiously, but with some bravado.

My path took me momentarily to the lakeside, somewhat close to the descent from the Firehouse, I must admit to there tarrying a few unnecessary moments simply to allow my eyes and ears to feed upon the sights and sounds that in happier times are inclined to make my life little short of perfection.

Following the sound advice of my old school motto, ‘animo et fide pergite’, I took a full measure of invigorating air into my lungs and headed brazenly forward. My passage was quite thankfully as solitary as it is ever inclined to be. Invariably I am blessed or perhaps cursed to follow a very singular path in life, cursed by the oft cold nights that are inclined to prove so long, blessed by you my dear readers who follow my hoch’poch of chronicles with such patience and consideration.  

My progress soon brought me succinctly to a juncture where by cutting left I could make a short accent to the main thoroughfare and thus find my feet once more upon hallowed ground. My arrival thus was quickly welcomed by a jovial wave from lady in a passing automobile, something that is ever inclined to raise my spirits but in such dark moments doubly so.

My ascent to the great white arch was slow but ecstatic, after so many days manacled within a galley with not even an oar to sweat upon the overwhelming taste of freedom quite overwhelmed both my senses and emotions.

Three miles of slow steady exercise, two hours spent sharing natures sublime solitude, I am replete as if I had feasted with Bacchus himself as mine host.

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