East along Ely high street, past one of England’s finest concentrations of charity shops, and, appropriately, the medieval almonry where charity was distributed to the poor and needy, stopping off at Londis. I fancied drinking a can by the river. Hard to buy one beer, all the packs were insistently marked as indivisible.

Down the short path that leads to a car park, then to the river bank, on a warm evening growing a little chilly with calm grey clouds to the south, where the forecast predicts thunderstorms.

North past the Arts Centre along a path which is cantilevered out over the river. Swallows nest under it, just a few feet above the water, then a small park. The dogs (I have her son Primo also) a little ahead and I see Skili doing a shit and two people sitting on the bank next to their boat looking disapprovingly in her direction:

• – It’s all right, I’ve seen it!
• – What?
• – Seen the dog having a shit. But it turned out he hadn’t been looking at that at all. I’m just anxious. Then I said, awkwardly,
• – Oh! You’re just enjoying the evening! Lovely evening, have you seen the swallows, skimming over the river, so beautiful! He agreed. At the end of the park the railway line crosses the river and the path goes under it and onto the rough grazing by the river, a widening strip over half a mile long between river and railway line with patches of surviving fen and some open water which dries up in summer, late and slowly this year. A little tribe of geese have kept a few of their young safe, they’re nearly full grown now and they cruise the river together. Once I saw a marsh harrier.. I knew it was a marsh harrier because it was big and it flapped low and slow over the marsh. A great crested grebe is still feeding its big baby. No wonder the fishermen sit motionless for hours; they bring so much stuff they must be exhausted. Their rods so long, the fish they catch so small. Some of them camp out there for the night. They’ve cut back a lot of nettles and opened up a whole bank of luscious fat blackberries against the railway embankment. Skili eats goose shit while I pick. An invisible train approaches just on the other side of the brambles. First the rough struggle of the diesel locomotive then the obedient clank and slow jostle of freight, a long series of shipping containers. Primo greets each passing dog. They’re all on leads. An couple walks past and she calls out,
• – Are they your guardians! I catch up with them as I walk on. He’s looking across the river with a pair of binoculars. doesn’t hear me very well, but she is very sharp and also has binoculars. They are at home here, they are bird watchers and train spotters. Scan the river, then turn and focus on the tracks. Another train and he names each container. Cosco, that’s chinese, Triton, that’s chinese, Evergreen, chinese. To and from Felixstowe. Once they heard about the biggest ship ever to put in at Felixstowe and went to see it. They live just on the other side of the railway line. The blackberries have escaped: there used to be allotments, where the car park is, they knew a man who grew lots of fruit including cultivated blackberries. They’ve crossed the railway line. A 3 car EMR diesel passenger train buzzes past. She calls out to him:
• – It’s a 431. They once saw a muntjac swim over the river. One by one, the planes go over, always on the exact same line: north east to Mildenhall, to the american base. Some are fuelling planes, apparently. I thought some look like spy planes. They have an american neighbour; she arranged for them to visit the base. They had to take their passports, because it’s like entering a foreign country. They asked her how tall she was. She didn’t know why. In any case , surely they could see how tall she was. A heron flew past. They got a nice meal at the airbase. A great crested grebe swam past. I love seeing the rspb poster bird, a lovely picture of it on the cover of their guide, so common here. I said the trains are on time here. she said, I should hope so too! not like London I said. Both born in Ely, and their parents too. A couple of young men went past, and a girl – they looked like shy boys who’d developed big lumpy bodies and sprouted surprising beards, and didn’t know how to behave, I mean how to meet strangers. They appeared distant, almost hostile, whereas she smiled. They had an eager young staffy straining at the lead. The old couple – why do I always forget to ask people their names? – we spoke about birds and sunsets and winter mists and she told me about Veronica of the Fens – I vaguely remember seeing her website – she does nice calendars and one of them had a lovely photo of a grebe with babies on her back and the male presenting them with a small fish. I said cheerio to my contemporaries, – Going to give the dogs a swim! There’s a place further up where the river has a firm, shallow edge and they can get in without getting too muddy or plunging through nettles. The staffy and his friends came back, he was dying to get into the water. We spoke! One of the boys said,
  • – Daren’t let him off the lead. He paddled in far enough for the dog to almost swim, still tight on the lead. Skili and Primo were charging in, cutting wakes across the placid river. Evening drew on, it began to get dark, already the days grow shorter. We headed back and the old couple were chatting to another couple, they hadn’t got much further. One of the new arrivals turned out to be the famous Veronica! But I haven’t got my camera with me just now she said. The dogs grew insistent and she, the old lady, obliged by throwing the ball a few times, which was good of her. Got some more blackberries in the gloom. So many! you could almost hold out one hand and just stroke them into the palm of the other hand. Coming back through the park the man I had thought was looking disapprovingly at Skili wandered along and smiled at me.
  • – You’re back now!
  • – Yes,I’ve been picking blackberries. So many of them! To make bramble jelly.
  • – Ah, blackberry and apple crumble, that’s the best!
  • – Yeah, lovely, I said, I made one yesterday! Actually it was a pie, and I felt proud to finally have made pastry, which turned out well. Back up the lane beside the car park and through the little close with a cluster of bungalows at the bottom of the hill. A new sign says Bishop’s Close, and that it’s private. And at the end of the close, where an iron gate leads onto the footpath through the meadow up to the deanery, a little wooden sign, just propped against a step, also announces PRIVATE. In the gloom I picked it up and hid it. And so back along the little lane, then left and past the priory and other old monastic buildings to the Porta, the grand 14^th century gateway to the monastery, and along the road which brings you to the west front of the cathedral. Here I bumped into the young people and their staffie again. One of the boys was on a scooter being pulled by the dog. He called out,
  • – Got some new transport! Quite relaxed and friendly by now, and obviously enjoying being pulled by the dog rather than straining to control it. Music in the cathedral. I walked into the porch and through the open door into the long nave glimpsed in the distance a darkened audience and at the crossing beneath the celebrated octagon a stage, lights, guitars, The security guard told me it was an Elton John tribute band. The Bishopric of Ely has always made money most ingeniously.
  • – Come on now! I said to Skili, who was distracted – then I saw that she was at the dog’s bowl in the porch,
  • – Oh, you’re having a drink!
  • – Unless it’s raining! Said a man sitting on the stone bench that runs the length of the beautiful 13^th century porch, who had been chatting to the security guard. Then across the green where the dogs had a last rough and tumble with Skili barking bossily while ‘it’s a little bit funny / this feeling inside’ with gothic echoes leaked out into the night.

There’s no end of easy walks round here, in account of it being dead flat, apart from the Isle of Ely which rises up almost dramatically from the river Ouse and in one place, according to the OS map, reaches a mighty 26 metres above sea level. Evenings and early mornings are the best times for birds and for people who like to chat.

August 4^th and already the swifts have left for Africa. They nest in St Mary’s church and all day right up until sunset they whirled around it as if it were a maypole, high and low, sometimes screaming like children with delight. Gone without ceremony.