Reboot

I had a booter.

At the bottom of the field ditch, its brackish and green tinted residue was pouring over the top of my wellington boots.

It was a very unpleasant sensation, not altogether unknown to a 12 year old ranging about in the watercourses of the local area in search of tadpoles, sticklebacks and water boatmen, but nevertheless disappointing and demoralising and especially with the prospect of a long, soggy walk home.

It was always the same. A squelch followed by an eruption of dirty drainage up the back of your leg for the duration of the trek along the footpath at the back of the housing estate.

Socks were sodden and under the additional weight tended to work their way towards the toe-end of the welly boots before eventually falling off your foot altogether. This brought your skin directly into contact with the cold, clammy and saturated innards of the boot and another and even more unpleasant experience.

At this stage you just had to sit down on the path or on a fallen tree bough . The water heavy socks could be extracted and twisted hard to force out the excess moisture. They could never be put back on but were draped over the shoulder so that they could, upon the return home, be sneaked into the wash pile without being seen by a parent.

Trouser legs, also fully wet could be rolled up carefully to just below the knee and this process did tease out a bit more ditch water but the fabric remained damp and uncomfortable.

I soon developed a strange walking style to avoid any more than necessary chafing by wellies or clothing. This consisted of a lolloping from side to side, slightly bow legged in the style of someone suffering from rickets or haemorrhoids or as I imagined these afflictions would look and feel.

My unsightly progress up the track was complicated by my insistence on still carrying the spoils of my ditch bottom foraging. One hand held a jam jar, lidless and with red fibrous bailer twine from a ruptured straw bale wrapped around the rim and knotted into a makeshift handle. The contents of the jar consisted of yet more murky water and on very close inspection to those of a curious disposition could be seen the flick of a tail of a tiny scale-backed fish, frantic movements of small and newly developed frogs and a couple of water snails making their way up the sides in a bid for freedom.

In the other hand was a large stick. The first and most essential part of any expedition down the field side was to procure a stick. Previous adventures had created quite a pile of old bits of wood in the hedgerow where the pathway snuck down between the estate houses and these could be picked through for anything suitable. A brand new stick was preferred and although there were plenty of places to look there was a strict criteria to be met. It had to be as straight as possible. If formed from the convergence of two boughs then this would make a good thumb notch for extra comfort over the great distances to be wandered. A thin, stringy and strong stick was ideal to clear the nettles and other vegetation if venturing off the path or just to waggle at menacing animals such as loose dogs or cattle. As much time could be devoted to the search for the best ever stick as the intended expedition.

As well as capturing water creatures the acres of farmers fields in between the land drains could also produce a wealth of interesting collectables, curiosities and plain rubbish. Scratching around in the heavy clay soils I had found a good assortment of bits of clay pipes discarded by 19th century agricultural workers. Pride of place was given to an almost complete example albeit slightly chipped and scuffed from exposure to wind and weather for a century and more.

Any interestingly shaped stone was secreted away in pockets and a particularly productive session would result in significant sagging of trousers making walking quite difficult and ungainly. Before turning for home at the top of the path the stash was sorted and graded leaving, next to the old sticks, yet another pile of debris. A lot of stuff still made it past parents and into my private collection which occupied much of the window cill in my bedroom or various old shoe boxes and biscuit tins under the bed or at the foot of the wardrobe.

I am now over 50 but the prospect of a ramble in the countryside or even on the new edge of town revives memories of those distant and carefree days. Where there is a meaningful stretch of stream or a stagnant pond I still earnestly search, but in vain ,to catch a glimpse of a tadpole and as for the silver sliver stickleback, it's absence may indicate that it is extinct. Many of the ditches are now infilled or dry.

I accept that there have been major changes in the climate and in nature's response to it albeit enforced and distressing. There is however one reassuring constant in all of these things. A booter is still a booter.