Ice

The last place I expected to find myself on this cold winters day was the minor injuries hospital in Cinderford. This was definitely not the plan, but as is often the way when one has children, plans must be open to adaptation. I was accompanied by my little four year old and my teenager one of whom had a fishing hook stuck in their finger, and it wasn't the latter. 

The day had begun ordinarily enough, we did our morning devotionals, read a chapter of Oliver Twist and battled through some Maths and English lessons with my older boys, the four your old pottering around with his dinosaurs and cars.  We had some lunch and decided we needed to get out into the fresh air to experience some daylight on our skin, let off some energy and give the dog a run. But this was no ordinary walk, for this was a very icy, wintery, Forest of Dean walk, and this state of affairs commanded that we get ourselves to a body of water in order to fully immerse ourselves in one of the rare delights of this bleak season, that of thick, cold, dark but oh-so-fun ice.

    

  Speech House Lake was the body of water of choice for this particular walk and it did not disappoint.  We walked down the long straight path to the turning for the lake.  To the side of the path was a ditch, itself presenting us with a teasing taste of what was to come.  Crusts of ice formed above the trickle of water that had drained into it and much delight was had in stamping on, crushing and kicking the ice until the muddy waters underneath it pooled and swirled above like a decidedly unappetizing glass of iced coffee.  In some places the water beneath the ice had receded leaving little clean, floating shelves of ice held up with brackets of grass and twigs.

We finally approached the lake itself, excitement grew and it became clear that Jack Frost had been very thorough on his night-time visit leaving a inch, or in some places a two inch thick layer of ice, a veritable sensory playground for four boys whose current purpose in life was to touch, smash, crack and throw as much ice as was humanly possible till their fingers were frozen stiff.

The boys immediately began stamping on the ice at the edges of the lake where the water was shallow (no risk of falling through and drowning; a mothers worst nightmare)  it gave way with some effort and a satisfying crack, allowing for thick heavy shards to be lifted out trophy-like from the waters and thrown, skidding and skipping playfully across the lake virtually uninhibited by friction.  A competition to see how far the ice lumps would slide then ensued. 

The desire to destroy, smash and impose their physical strength on nature was over whelming, and rocks, sticks, stones and logs were hurled joyfully onto the ice, usually the ice won, it was so thick, it could withstand even the most powerful throw from the arms of a sturdy young boy, but occasionally the boy would win and a small, jagged hole would appear in the thick sheet, allowing air to form bubbles underneath, ethereal, like globules of mercury, taking on a life of their own and swimming away like a chilly jelly fish beneath the icy surface. The pond was soon littered with an array of natural detritus which, in a few days’ time would sink beneath the surface or float to the sides, likely causing aggravation to the fishermen who frequented the lakeside during more inclement seasons (more on them later). I also joined in with the fun breaking off pieces of ice and placing them artistically in tree branches. 

    

When that game was finished it was time to see how much weight the ice could bear.  Holding my hands, or a sturdy branch the boys each took turns standing at the edge of the lake to test its strength in another way. Apart from the meagre weight of the four-year-old the ice quickly gave way beneath them, and they dropped stone-like into the shallow leafy water beneath with a yelp, freezing water flooding over their wellies if they were particularly unlucky, squeals of laughter echoing across the forest. On one thicker patch it seemed the ice might take one of the boys' weight until a unearthly crack travelled eerily across the lake resonating through the surrounding forest like an extra-terrestrial craft landing in a corn field on a dark night in Roswell. The sound, so unnatural and alien felt foreboding and reminded us sharply of the dangers of walking on ice. “Do not walk on the ice” I repeated for the umpteenth time “I know it’s tempting but you really must not.”  The dog, of course refused to heed my warning and when running onto the ice like a puppy on a slippery floor.  The last thing I needed was to wade into a frozen lake to rescue a daft dog.  We all screamed and called for her to return, which she thankfully did without any harm done.  But my nerves had become slightly jangled by this alarming event and little did I know, more excitement was to come.

All seemed well, my children were playing in nature, happily engaging in their natural environment, how very Charlotte Mason, how very Nature Study, how very wild and free, but the joy was about to end as my little four-year-old turned to me for help with something stuck in his glove.  He had tried to remove his glove, but it was apparent that something was stopping it from coming off, a clothes tag?  A strange safety pin? No, a fishing hook!  And the darned thing wasn’t just stuck in his glove; it was hooked right through the fleshy surface of his index fingertip.  It pains me to remember.  Realisation dawned, and I quickly began to examine my options.  Remove the fishing hook there and then, but I was afraid, I didn’t know if it was barbed, I didn’t want to hurt him and his little fingers were cold so it wouldn’t bleed much, meaning bacteria could remain.  Option two was to go straight to the hospital, but I didn’t fancy that with all four boys and who knows how long a wait, and option three was to go home and ask my husband for help.

 

I opted for three, mediocre feminist that I am, but it was no easy feat getting everyone back to the car, we had walked quite a way, and I now had a screaming four-year-old who wouldn’t walk, and a crying nine-year-old, upset at the calamity and demanding I call an ambulance.  We said a quick prayer, and I calmly ordered them to walk to the car as I carried the four-year-old on my hip whilst my teen carefully supported the toddler’s hand to prevent the hook from tugging at his finger.

Eventually home and after a conflab with my husband and a quick snip with some pliers to remove the two ends of the hook we found ourselves back where this story began, in the minor injury unit of Cinderford Hospital.

Despite the anguish this unfortunate incident was causing his mother, at this point my four-year-old was playing happily in the hospital's children's area as if the fishing hook still impaled in his finger, were a distant memory.  I grumbled silently about the evils of fishing and inconsiderate fishermen.  We were eventually seen and after a myriad of questions regarding the incident, including, but not limited to his home life, his education, any allergies or medication and any number of other questions which I failed to see were related to the fishing hook, and it was swiftly removed.  We returned home and the event was filed in my memory under “accidents I’d rather forget but most likely won’t” and life continued as normal, no ill effects except that I will probably think twice about letting my children play in that particular lake.

Alas, that was the last thick ice of the season, we had enjoyed it very much, though not quite thoroughly enough since our play was interrupted by the fishing hook escapee. It would likely be another 10 months or so till we would be able to enjoy this rare treat of nature again, because winter would soon be coming to an end in the Forest of Dean.