An unusual walk

Soft light glowed through the sleepy mist that hung over the river as the sun fought to rise on this unusually mild February morning. Birdsong decorated the bare tree branches high above, a lively orchestral soundtrack to my early morning walk. 

I inhaled the fresh aroma that emanated from the moving body of water as we plodded along the tow path, happy to fill my lungs with the crisp air and its early spring scents. I noticed the odd snowdrop daring to peek at the world and felt an excited wave of hope at these first signs of lovely new growth. It was good to move my achy bones after being so soundly asleep, lost amongst dreams of beautiful countryside with the boundless energy of my younger days where I could run for miles. 

Peter was quiet, he was often quiet on our walks. I tried to catch his eye a few times but he was huddled under his favourite red woolly hat with his puffy jacket zipped up under his chin, his mind somewhere else. We usually crossed paths with a few other early risers, I was more sociable than Peter and liked to begin the day with a few hellos but there was no sign of anyone this morning. So I concentrated on where I was going instead, head down, in step with Peter’s feet.

Suddenly a booming voice cut through the quiet, the sound carried along the water like a skimming-stone towards us. 

‘Ladies and Gentleman!’ the deep voice bounced off the buildings ricocheting between the mismatched brickwork of derelict warehouses, disused pipes stuffed with empty birds nests, and tightly woven blocks of flats with their balconies and stairwells. We stood under the bridge where some weighty pigeons stumbled and involuntarily added to the slippery monochrome Jackson Pollock beneath their perches. 

I looked up sharply but couldn’t see anyone. I watched the misty river intensely, my heart pounding, the sound was loud and aggressively out of place. Peter had heard it too. I felt his body stiffen as we both stood there confused. The dawn birdsong had shushed, their feathers all ruffled by the intrusion. Even the rats had scuttled away, usually bold in their swagger at this time in the morning. 

‘Laaaadies and Gentleman’ It came again, this time with the hollow sound of wood scraping against wood. Then a pause. Then an intermittent splash. 

I peered along the water and very slowly something came into view. First there was just a dark shape in the translucent air, then the edges became clearer as it came into focus. It was a man in a canoe, rocking side to side in an unwieldly fashion. He knocked his oar against the wood and splashed it into the water catching the end of an ineffective stroke. The boat wobbled as much as the man swayed, neither were making much progress. 

‘Laaaaaadiiees aaaaaaaand Gentleman’ he was closer now, swinging the oar in the air, shouting at the blank windows with their curtains drawn and lights off. I didn’t know what I was looking at, I didn’t recognise this behaviour, I just knew it didn’t feel safe. This man was addressing the world yet speaking to nobody. In a panic I looked at Peter who stood as still as a lamp post, watching, equally as bewildered. 

As the canoe man drew parallel with us he looked straight at me. I froze unable to read his intentions, bracing myself for more shouting. But as he drifted by I realised his glazed expression had registered neither myself nor Peter. He looked straight through us as the boat wobbled furiously and he tried to regain his balance, muttering words I’d only ever heard Peter reserve for special occasions, like when he dropped a tin of baked beans on his foot or the time he locked us both out.

I watched the canoe man with curiosity, he was wearing a dirty grey t-shirt, his hair was scruffy and there were empty bottles rattling in the hull. His long bare arms were waving the oar around as if it was midday in the middle of summer, not 7 o’clock in the morning one week after snowfall. 

Peter mumbled to himself, ‘Bloody hell, he’s going to wake up the whole town. Where does he think he’s going?’ He rolled his eyes and tutted under his breath. 

I shook off my confusion as the current carried the man along and out of sight, leaving nothing but the tangy smell of sweetness and body odour in his wake. What an odd start to the day I thought to myself whilst pondering his fate.

Then, just as we were about to turn around and head back, another canoe came into sight, gliding along like an arrow. This one was different, steady on the water, paddles quiet and rhythmic. I counted three, no four men, with bright reflective tops over black jackets. As they neared the bridge I could see their faces, they were frowny, concentrating hard, eyes trained directly ahead, straight backed with knees bent in front of them, squeezed in like sardines on a very serious mission. 

The moment was intensely serene as they drifted past, in sync with the sleepiness of the waking world yet fiercely out of place. I looked at Peter who was smirking to himself, and it dawned on me, I was watching the world’s slowest police chase. 

Their stealth-like presence was interrupted by the rustle of tin foil, 

‘Brian, shush’, the loud whisper and its accompanying glare were aimed directly at the man perched at the rear end of the boat. 

‘But I’m starving’ he whispered back. He pulled a face and carried on unwrapping something. I recognised that sound - sandwiches. I hadn’t realised how hungry I was until I caught the smell of honey roast ham, buttery cheddar and a perfect note of pickle singing to my taste buds. I was practically dribbling as my stomach growled at the floating snacks passing by.

Captured by this bizarre blend of ridiculous seriousness I jumped a little at the sound of footsteps nearby. Along the tow path came some shiny black boots striding leisurely across the crunchy gravel. The boots belonged to two tall coppers complete with stab vests and radios churning out a stream of crackly background noise,

‘Charlie Oscar 9 confirm visual on the suspect, over.’ 

‘Alpha 64 deployed ETA 0725. Over.’ 

None of it made any sense, it just made me wince when the frequency shifted between each update, a high-pitched interference scratching the ends of my nerves. 

I watched their pace get slower and slower, then, under the guise of surveying the situation, they came to a complete stop to avoid overtaking the wet silent pursuit down the centre of the river. 

Peter chuckled to himself, ‘Got a live one there’ he said to the police officers who tipped their hats good morning. They stood a few feet away chatting about the best way to apprehend the man in the canoe.

‘Back up’s on the way.’ One of them said in a serious tone as a fully decorated police tug boat came chugging up stream with three police officers crammed under its little roof harnessing ropes and megaphones. There was a tangible amount of adrenaline in the air as though the officers had been drama starved for too long. 

‘Come on then, let’s get out of their way’ Peter looked at me and nodded towards home. I could hear sirens in the distance, surely not I thought to myself, their urgency had never felt so misplaced. I took one final look along the river to see how the drama might unfold and felt a little pang of concern for the canoe man, whose antics had managed to mobilise half of Norfolk’s finest. Then, pausing for a moment to choose the best spot, I slowly relieved myself against the wall under the bridge in full view of the law. 

I felt rather pleased with myself as it trickled down the path under the boot of the unsuspecting bobby.

‘Come on Ralph’ Peter gave my lead a gentle tug and we went home for breakfast.