Anna Walker, Walk Friday June 26th, 2026
“Blood, bile, intracellular fluid; a small ocean swallowed, a wild wetland in our gut; rivulets forsaken making their way from our insides to out, from watery womb to watery world: we are bodies of water.” (Neimanis, 2017)
Between Gates 3 and 4 there is a pond. On the map it looks like a thumbs up. I follow the trail of the blue from the village. The stream moves underground then surfaces skipping across stones at Gate 3 before disappearing once more. The sound of the water, though low at this time of year, momentarily breaks open the heat. It’s 8am and already 31°C. Pause, listen, I feel the heat rise from my body as I struggle to meet the brightness of the sun.
Daily, I follow the same pathway through the landscape. This constant return is a form of world-making, thinking, remembering, recalling myths and stories, counting clouds, feeling the earth below my feet, talking to crow, to heron, egret, cow, oak, brook, and on and on… Occasionally I meet muntjac, owl, fox, these interactions are majestic. Through the walking I embody the earth and all of its critters. I am turning my body into an archive storing the traces of everything I walk through, encounter. I meet the land with my feet, my eyes, my ears my skin… building relationship, increasing my familiarity, my intimacy with this place. As I track the changes through this landscape, I also track the changes within myself. Getting to know my surroundings in this way, the movement of my body through the terrain allows for a different kind of thinking where I am in relationship with rather than outside of, walking upon or separate from.
The pond fizzes with algae, butterflies, ducks and dragonflies. But the egret and swans are nowhere to be seen. Emperor dragonflies hover, dart, flit, bumping into each other, landing, pausing, before taking flight again. I have a dragonfly tattooed on my lower back. A dedication to my mother upon her death. I think of her as they dart from plant to plant. As they land, their wings catch the light, a silvered sheen bright against the murky stagnant pond that bubbles under the sun. Algae has been plaguing the socials this past week, reaching across the Atlantic from the reflector pool in DC to Covert’s Hook here in Haddenham. As I breathe in the stench I cannot help but reflect on the ways nature pushes through all the hullabaloo, as if teasing and taunting – a constant reminder of the earth’s resilience.
Further on, a tree has collapsed into the stream. The lightening storm from earlier this week has left its mark. The angle of the sun makes it difficult to photograph its charred wound. The sound must have been tremendous. Left with the drama of the after effects, I feel a pang of regret at having missed the meeting of lightening and tree.
The sounds of the pond, 8am 26th June 2026.
