Sex on the Stour

I arrived in Canterbury in January, suffered on successive weekends storms Ciara and Dennis and by the end of March entered the coronavirus lockdown with everyone else in the UK (and so many around the entire world). So I haven't had a lot of chance to get to know the city. But the current lockdown rules allow me an hour's exercise every day so I'm exploring the bits that are open.

I hadn't realised how wet the west of Canterbury is. As it flows past the town the Stour breaks into a number of pieces. I love walking down the bank and observing the wildlife. As a Londoner (long ago) I have often had the opportunity to see fucking pigeons but today I saw pigeons fucking. And a pair of Mallard drakes having a fight. And what is either a rat or a water vole. Spring is in the air and that means sex. Even the flowers are getting in on the act: a flower is essentially the sex organs of a plant and the beautiful colours and fragrances are designed to attract insects so pollination (insemination) can occur.

Blooming tulips on North Lane outside the Cafe du Soleil

The great thing about the Stour is that it is a chalk river; there are only 210 of these in the world and almost all of them are in England with a few in Northern France. Today the water was beautifully clear and showed the emerald-green water weeds sprouting from the gravel bed.

As well as the unruly wildlife there are observations of the human fauna. There is a new breed of lockdown jogger. These are mostly ladies. I'm not one to criticise another person's body: when you're living in a glass house like myself you can't throw stones; these days I bulge in all directions except the places I have always wished I bulged. But I wear tents. I wear ill-fitting garments. Shirts are never tucked. I've even moved to braces. These joggers favour body-hugging lycra perhaps in the belief that their so so solid flesh is indeed about to melt and that the consequence will be an awkward splurge, a consummation most devoutly to be wished away.