28th December 2013
The stars were a reflection of my dreams.
The sharp crescent Moon lit the countryside and Saturn was approaching Mars in Virgo. Jupiter was shining in the west, and in the east, Vega and Altair: so bright. Such a glistening after the storms.
I waited under that sky for Dee and Maisie, then we drove to Kilndown for a year-end walk through the debris of the last few days of destruction and flood. We parked nearby to Christ Church and walked downhill toward Goudhurst as the light increased. The birdsong excelled as we passed Hillside Farm and Kilndown Place; the avian voices increasing lately. The limbs of trees were everywhere, and great boughs were lying at strange angles, twisted and broken. The ground was sodden and running rivulets were bubbling out of the clay and down to the valley's streams. Nearby Hope Mill, by the Tiese, two ponies were grazing on the verge of the lane. They began to follow us to the Goudhurst road. To save them from the danger of the road, I took one by the halter and led them back to the relative safety of a copse. They began to graze, and we left them there, hoping that their escape from a field somewhere would soon be discovered. At Crowbourne Farm, our way was blocked by a conifer laying across the path. Scrambling over the tree and then over a fence, we made the climb uphill through the soaking fields to a peaceful Goudhurst Village.
Downhill again to Smugley Farm, there were still Pheasants for Maisie to chase which she finds great sport, but is never successful, and at the swollen stream there, a tree had fallen to create a dam and the water was rushing over into a crashing white foam. We sat on a felled Scots Pine log near Three Chimneys farm, with the watery Sun warming us, and drank tea and ate some of Kay's excellent Christmas fruit cake. The trek through Bedgebury Forest was quiet: no walkers or cyclists, and the paths were streams that we splashed along and some trees were lying higgledy-piggledy. It clouded a little as we came to the Pinetum, and threatened rain, but it soon passed, and the Sun shone, blinding, low in the sky. We stopped for coffee and a bacon roll in the cafe to rest, before the last leg back to Kilndown.
On the lane to Kilndown, which had been recently resurfaced, above a bridge over a brook, the rushing water had undermined the road and lifted the surface into waves of tarmac. And the lane uphill was flowing with water. We got back to the village at 1pm for a New Year's toast of mead and went home tired and muddy, but satisfied.
Sunday 29 December 2013
Sunday 22 December 2013
Yuletide solstice
21st December 2013
It was a wild and wet night's walk to Coldrum Longbarrow, without much hope of seeing Sól rise but it was an adventure, just the same. My head torch was necessary to pierce the blackness of the night, and nothing stirred, no bird or animal: they were sheltered from the weather. The only sound was the wind and rain. Even in the woods, the rain sought me out, but as the wind was from the south east, it was behind me as I walked north.
I left at 4am for the three hour trek to the Longbarrow. In Platt Wood, the conifers provided relief for a short while at least, but out onto Gallows Hill, I was buffeted just as strongly and with a vengeance. Down into the valley the wind was lighter but the noise of the motorway traffic of the M20 joined the melee. The footpath goes through a tunnel under the motorway and up to the sand quarries where Song Thrushes were singing; their voices carrying above the tumult.
After changing my gloves to try to warm my hands, I crossed the fields to Ryarsh Wood. And a bright torchlight was directed at me. A young woman out early, walking her dogs, unnerved both of us. We wished each other a happy holiday and I continued to Coldrum.
There was someone there already. A young man who practises Druidism. He told me his life story. A manic depressive, he was constantly fidgeting and expressive, but quite harmless. He said that he played in a punk band, playing Victorian Punk, whatever that is. I offered him some mead, which he accepted with pleasure, and we spent the remaining time before sunrise chatting about life and the Universe. I ate my soup and drank a cup of green tea as the sky became brighter. Sól hid behind the heavy cloud, so at around 8.15, I started my journey back.
Gallows Hill is always a hard climb on the return journey and this time was no different. I was now walking into the weather. There were people out and about by now; all sense of solitude was lost. In Hurst Wood, I sat against an old Beech on the north east side, away from the driving rain, and drank a final cup of tea before arriving home to relax and rest.
Today, 22 December 2013, the sky from my window is clear and calm. Venus is low in the south west and Altair is above in the west; a prelude to a starlit night.
It was a wild and wet night's walk to Coldrum Longbarrow, without much hope of seeing Sól rise but it was an adventure, just the same. My head torch was necessary to pierce the blackness of the night, and nothing stirred, no bird or animal: they were sheltered from the weather. The only sound was the wind and rain. Even in the woods, the rain sought me out, but as the wind was from the south east, it was behind me as I walked north.
I left at 4am for the three hour trek to the Longbarrow. In Platt Wood, the conifers provided relief for a short while at least, but out onto Gallows Hill, I was buffeted just as strongly and with a vengeance. Down into the valley the wind was lighter but the noise of the motorway traffic of the M20 joined the melee. The footpath goes through a tunnel under the motorway and up to the sand quarries where Song Thrushes were singing; their voices carrying above the tumult.
After changing my gloves to try to warm my hands, I crossed the fields to Ryarsh Wood. And a bright torchlight was directed at me. A young woman out early, walking her dogs, unnerved both of us. We wished each other a happy holiday and I continued to Coldrum.
There was someone there already. A young man who practises Druidism. He told me his life story. A manic depressive, he was constantly fidgeting and expressive, but quite harmless. He said that he played in a punk band, playing Victorian Punk, whatever that is. I offered him some mead, which he accepted with pleasure, and we spent the remaining time before sunrise chatting about life and the Universe. I ate my soup and drank a cup of green tea as the sky became brighter. Sól hid behind the heavy cloud, so at around 8.15, I started my journey back.
Gallows Hill is always a hard climb on the return journey and this time was no different. I was now walking into the weather. There were people out and about by now; all sense of solitude was lost. In Hurst Wood, I sat against an old Beech on the north east side, away from the driving rain, and drank a final cup of tea before arriving home to relax and rest.
Today, 22 December 2013, the sky from my window is clear and calm. Venus is low in the south west and Altair is above in the west; a prelude to a starlit night.
Wednesday 18 December 2013
Rolvenden
16th December 2013
I waited at St Mary's Church in Rolvenden for cousin Pauline, while a fine, wind-driven rain drove me under an old Yew tree. The rain eased a little and I ventured out and sat on a bench at the Rolvenden Layne junction. Pauline arrived and we had a cup of tea before joining the High Weald landscape Trail in the churchyard. We passed the primary school into empty playing playing fields and followed the path through pasture to a nameless copse with a brook running through. The way down was booby-trapped with leaf-filled Badger holes which we fell into frequently, without injury, but with lots of profanities. Over the Devenden road, we went into orchards of Gala apples; still crisp and tasty, many still left on the trees. Paul kept her core for a couple of horses to share over the fence. At Dingleden Farm, an Alder tree had been felled and logged and stacked; its wood, deep blood red wounds. The path through the pasture up Broom Hill burned the thighs and at the old windmill at the top (now a residence and no sails), we stopped for a chocolate fix after catching our breath.
The path to Hole Park took us through Christmas tree plantations; all shapes, colours and sizes and for sale at the farm. We took a wrong turn here and came out of the parkland at the west entrance (my fault!) which meant a longer walk on the Benenden road back to Rolvenden. We walked by a second windmill at Mill House. This mill, built in 1772, and replacing an earlier mill, does indeed retain its sails and was beautifully restored in the 1950's.
Back in the village, we sat in the churchyard for a final cuppa before going our separate ways with a promise to meet in the spring. I left Pauline to lay wreaths on her grandparents graves and made my way back to Hadlow.
I waited at St Mary's Church in Rolvenden for cousin Pauline, while a fine, wind-driven rain drove me under an old Yew tree. The rain eased a little and I ventured out and sat on a bench at the Rolvenden Layne junction. Pauline arrived and we had a cup of tea before joining the High Weald landscape Trail in the churchyard. We passed the primary school into empty playing playing fields and followed the path through pasture to a nameless copse with a brook running through. The way down was booby-trapped with leaf-filled Badger holes which we fell into frequently, without injury, but with lots of profanities. Over the Devenden road, we went into orchards of Gala apples; still crisp and tasty, many still left on the trees. Paul kept her core for a couple of horses to share over the fence. At Dingleden Farm, an Alder tree had been felled and logged and stacked; its wood, deep blood red wounds. The path through the pasture up Broom Hill burned the thighs and at the old windmill at the top (now a residence and no sails), we stopped for a chocolate fix after catching our breath.
The path to Hole Park took us through Christmas tree plantations; all shapes, colours and sizes and for sale at the farm. We took a wrong turn here and came out of the parkland at the west entrance (my fault!) which meant a longer walk on the Benenden road back to Rolvenden. We walked by a second windmill at Mill House. This mill, built in 1772, and replacing an earlier mill, does indeed retain its sails and was beautifully restored in the 1950's.
Back in the village, we sat in the churchyard for a final cuppa before going our separate ways with a promise to meet in the spring. I left Pauline to lay wreaths on her grandparents graves and made my way back to Hadlow.
Sunday 15 December 2013
A starry morning
15th December 2013
An early start this morning, and the stars were out. Thrushes were singing in the gardens as I left the village and the darkness enveloped me. I decided to forego my head torch as the sky was so beautifully star-lit. Mars was high in the south, but I had to turn my back on him. And With Jupiter on my left shoulder and Cassiopeia and Polaris ahead, I used the familiar shapes of trees and country silhouetted against the sky to find my way to Hurst Wood. Tawny Owls hooted and screeched about me, but all else was silent; and startled birds: their wings whirred away from me, but without alarm calls. Through the pasture, the ground was uneven, but I had my pole to keep me upright and along the muddy tracks, the puddles reflected the sky. Even in the woods, as the trees were stripped bare, the guiding firmament was visible about me. Through the trees, I could see the old gamekeeper's cottage; it was was decorated with twinkling coloured lights for Christmas. I came to a great clearing where the Chestnut had been coppiced and only Jupiter and the brightest stars could be seen. The sky was brightening in the east, washing out the sky. A low mist had settled among the tree stumps and they protruded like islands in a soft sea.
At the stables, the cock was crowing in the new day and the birds awoke. When finally leaving the trees, the blue above was clear. I sat at Doris's bench and watched the valley below become completely engulfed in mist as the Sun rose behind me. A Jenny Wren in the Damson hedge said good morning, and I asked how she was. She was very busy about the branches and searching for breakfast. I finished my tea and went down to Long Bottom Wood where the temperature dropped dramatically in the mist. On the little bridge at Basted Mill, I looked over the parapet to the river and a dozen Mallards flew along and under, quacking madly as they went, then out the other side. I collected a few Brambly apples which the Fieldfare had kindly left, as I went through the orchard; these will be for an apple crumble for Boxing Day. Up the hill to Yopps Green, the Sun burned through the mist, only to be smothered by cloud and I ate my soup on the bench by the Beech as the sky darkened with blue-grey.
It would seem that December has knocked the final nail in Autumn's coffin. But things are just sleeping and in time, come Spring, Life will begin again.
As I walked back into Hadlow, the prospect of Saturday's Yuletide pilgrimage to Coldrum was relished. But tomorrow, I meet my favourite cousin for a rare walk!
An early start this morning, and the stars were out. Thrushes were singing in the gardens as I left the village and the darkness enveloped me. I decided to forego my head torch as the sky was so beautifully star-lit. Mars was high in the south, but I had to turn my back on him. And With Jupiter on my left shoulder and Cassiopeia and Polaris ahead, I used the familiar shapes of trees and country silhouetted against the sky to find my way to Hurst Wood. Tawny Owls hooted and screeched about me, but all else was silent; and startled birds: their wings whirred away from me, but without alarm calls. Through the pasture, the ground was uneven, but I had my pole to keep me upright and along the muddy tracks, the puddles reflected the sky. Even in the woods, as the trees were stripped bare, the guiding firmament was visible about me. Through the trees, I could see the old gamekeeper's cottage; it was was decorated with twinkling coloured lights for Christmas. I came to a great clearing where the Chestnut had been coppiced and only Jupiter and the brightest stars could be seen. The sky was brightening in the east, washing out the sky. A low mist had settled among the tree stumps and they protruded like islands in a soft sea.
At the stables, the cock was crowing in the new day and the birds awoke. When finally leaving the trees, the blue above was clear. I sat at Doris's bench and watched the valley below become completely engulfed in mist as the Sun rose behind me. A Jenny Wren in the Damson hedge said good morning, and I asked how she was. She was very busy about the branches and searching for breakfast. I finished my tea and went down to Long Bottom Wood where the temperature dropped dramatically in the mist. On the little bridge at Basted Mill, I looked over the parapet to the river and a dozen Mallards flew along and under, quacking madly as they went, then out the other side. I collected a few Brambly apples which the Fieldfare had kindly left, as I went through the orchard; these will be for an apple crumble for Boxing Day. Up the hill to Yopps Green, the Sun burned through the mist, only to be smothered by cloud and I ate my soup on the bench by the Beech as the sky darkened with blue-grey.
It would seem that December has knocked the final nail in Autumn's coffin. But things are just sleeping and in time, come Spring, Life will begin again.
As I walked back into Hadlow, the prospect of Saturday's Yuletide pilgrimage to Coldrum was relished. But tomorrow, I meet my favourite cousin for a rare walk!
Sunday 8 December 2013
Just a couple of weeks.
8th December 2013
A Song Thrush sang in the night from high on a Poplar behind the house, and Jupiter was glowing through the thin cloud.
I drove to Kilndown in the emerging light, parked by the church and at 7am left the village for Lamberhurst through the wood. All the trees were naked, twisted skeletons, and I walked through discarded brown leaf-litter to the little Bewl. The river banks' vegetation had died back and the river ran fast and clear. Over the hill to the Tiese valley, a frost had crisped the ground as the morning light increased. I followed the serpentine River Tiese, then across a field of winter wheat to a gap in the hedge, and waited while three fellows teed off, then crossed the golf course. They were early! Lamberhurst village was very quiet and no one was abroad as I joined the river again. The grass no longer grows and the hedge rows are dull, but for Holly and Rose Hips and Haws which redden the way with a Yuletide flavour. Along the Tiese, the Sun rose over the hill and sent gentle light through the trees to warm me a little.
I sat against an Oak in Hook Green, on the green, with the Sun on my face, sipping hot tea and then, feeling invigorated, left with an extra spring in my step. I went through fields of plough and harrow and winter wheat where markers were left for the guns. Shot gun cartridges were left here and there, bearing witness to the Autumnal slaughter. At Bluecaps, looking east, Goudhurst was drenched in sunlight, and St. Mary's Church was a beacon on the hill. Breakfast of pea and bacon soup, was at Bewl water, with wind surfers, taking advantage of the strong wind on the choppy water, entertaining me. Away from there, Chingley Wood was peaceful, with just the voices of the birds. Into Cats Wood, over the A21 (easy today), and over to Combwell Priory and through the free-range chicken farm, some birds were raking and searching through the grass in the trees; others were discussing the day. The marks of deer were all along the path and into Shearnfold Wood, but not to be seen. A couple of Chestnuts were picked up and peeled for a snack. Back at Kilndown, I had a natter with an old childhood friend, before sitting by the old quarry for a final cuppa to listen to a Goldfinch whistling prettily from the oak on the other side of the pond. Then was the journey back to Hadlow.
A Song Thrush sang in the night from high on a Poplar behind the house, and Jupiter was glowing through the thin cloud.
I drove to Kilndown in the emerging light, parked by the church and at 7am left the village for Lamberhurst through the wood. All the trees were naked, twisted skeletons, and I walked through discarded brown leaf-litter to the little Bewl. The river banks' vegetation had died back and the river ran fast and clear. Over the hill to the Tiese valley, a frost had crisped the ground as the morning light increased. I followed the serpentine River Tiese, then across a field of winter wheat to a gap in the hedge, and waited while three fellows teed off, then crossed the golf course. They were early! Lamberhurst village was very quiet and no one was abroad as I joined the river again. The grass no longer grows and the hedge rows are dull, but for Holly and Rose Hips and Haws which redden the way with a Yuletide flavour. Along the Tiese, the Sun rose over the hill and sent gentle light through the trees to warm me a little.
I sat against an Oak in Hook Green, on the green, with the Sun on my face, sipping hot tea and then, feeling invigorated, left with an extra spring in my step. I went through fields of plough and harrow and winter wheat where markers were left for the guns. Shot gun cartridges were left here and there, bearing witness to the Autumnal slaughter. At Bluecaps, looking east, Goudhurst was drenched in sunlight, and St. Mary's Church was a beacon on the hill. Breakfast of pea and bacon soup, was at Bewl water, with wind surfers, taking advantage of the strong wind on the choppy water, entertaining me. Away from there, Chingley Wood was peaceful, with just the voices of the birds. Into Cats Wood, over the A21 (easy today), and over to Combwell Priory and through the free-range chicken farm, some birds were raking and searching through the grass in the trees; others were discussing the day. The marks of deer were all along the path and into Shearnfold Wood, but not to be seen. A couple of Chestnuts were picked up and peeled for a snack. Back at Kilndown, I had a natter with an old childhood friend, before sitting by the old quarry for a final cuppa to listen to a Goldfinch whistling prettily from the oak on the other side of the pond. Then was the journey back to Hadlow.
Sunday 1 December 2013
Count-down to Yule
24th November 2013
Last night I had a dream. I dreamed that my binoculars were hanging from an apple tree. Early this morning, I drove to Roughway, parked and made my way through the orchards there. Dangling by the strap from an apple tree were my glasses waiting for me, a little damp with dew. And with much relief and guilt I rescued them!
1st December 2013
The sky was a roof of slate grey above the gloom. The temperature hovered just above freezing; the cloud kept the frost at bay. Blackbirds sang a duet as I left the village and sheep with yellow or green rumps grazed peacefully at Hope Farm. Then silence through the fields until Clearhedges Wood and Robins sang. Leaves rustled underfoot. The peace was broken in Dene Park Wood as a large tractor was clearing the rides of brambles and nettles.
As I sat drinking tea at Ightham Mote, the bells pealed at St. Giles' Church. The Fieldfare are back now from eastern Europe, chattering incessantly through the trees and hedgerows. Down Wilmot Hill from the cottage on the Greensand Way, lo and behold - plump, sweet and irresistible Blackberries! I savoured them and regarded the woodlands across the valley. They were still colourful, but Chestnut, Lime and Ash have shed their cloaks.
Back at Shipbourne, the tomato soup was cracked open for a late breakfast in the bus shelter. At Dunks Green, geese happily grazed under a sign: Free Range Geese! Order for Christmas! And then on to the Bourne. As I sat in a small copse of Silver birch, golden leaves rained down on me and Blue Tits darted from tree to tree above me. The Bourne behind me was quiet and I ate the last of the bread and drank tea before the last leg home. As I walked, shafts of pale yellow light pierced the cloud in the southern sky.
Last night I had a dream. I dreamed that my binoculars were hanging from an apple tree. Early this morning, I drove to Roughway, parked and made my way through the orchards there. Dangling by the strap from an apple tree were my glasses waiting for me, a little damp with dew. And with much relief and guilt I rescued them!
1st December 2013
The sky was a roof of slate grey above the gloom. The temperature hovered just above freezing; the cloud kept the frost at bay. Blackbirds sang a duet as I left the village and sheep with yellow or green rumps grazed peacefully at Hope Farm. Then silence through the fields until Clearhedges Wood and Robins sang. Leaves rustled underfoot. The peace was broken in Dene Park Wood as a large tractor was clearing the rides of brambles and nettles.
As I sat drinking tea at Ightham Mote, the bells pealed at St. Giles' Church. The Fieldfare are back now from eastern Europe, chattering incessantly through the trees and hedgerows. Down Wilmot Hill from the cottage on the Greensand Way, lo and behold - plump, sweet and irresistible Blackberries! I savoured them and regarded the woodlands across the valley. They were still colourful, but Chestnut, Lime and Ash have shed their cloaks.
Back at Shipbourne, the tomato soup was cracked open for a late breakfast in the bus shelter. At Dunks Green, geese happily grazed under a sign: Free Range Geese! Order for Christmas! And then on to the Bourne. As I sat in a small copse of Silver birch, golden leaves rained down on me and Blue Tits darted from tree to tree above me. The Bourne behind me was quiet and I ate the last of the bread and drank tea before the last leg home. As I walked, shafts of pale yellow light pierced the cloud in the southern sky.
Sunday 24 November 2013
Bino's lost!
24th November 2013
There was a cold northerly, laced with light rain driving into my face and blurring my spectacles as I walked up through Oxen Hoath. Greylag geese arrowing for Clearhedges, a regular morning thing, met another skein, banked and turned and made a new noisy formation before continuing to the water there. I wondered where the night was spent. Fieldfare chattered over the orchards; they are back from Norway and Russia for a British winter holiday. On Gover Hill, looking south, visibility was 100 metres maybe, the whole valley concealed in mist. Even Hadlow Tower was obscured. Along the Wealdway, in Hurst Wood, I took the path by the old gamekeeper's cottage. There, in a paddock, a grey pony greeted me, a Thelwell type, dumpy, with long mane and tail. I scratched his muzzle and he spoke. The path took me to Mereworth Woods and Ministry of Defence property. Troops have exercises there. There are public rights of way through the woods, however, and as long as no one strays off the path, all is well. There are signs: WARNING Troops training! And, WARNING Do not touch suspicious objects! And, Keep to marked footpaths or bridleway! There were no troops this early, so no explosions to disturb me. I came out of the woods near Platt. Through Pigeons Green, and north of Crouch, at the stables, a girl was standing on a bucket to groom her pony! I made my way to Long Bottom Wood for a cuppa, out of the wind. I collected some Crab apples for a sauce to have with dinner later. And the rain had stopped.
Along the Bourne from Basted, the peace allowed my mind to stray, and I drifted back to conciousness, annoyed with myself. Familiarity allows this to happen. I decided to change my route for home. On the path to Yopps Green, looking across the valley, the North Downs was bathed in sunlight. Ribbons of cerulean blue made a patchwork in the grey sky. I stopped for a breakfast of hot soup under the Copper Beech. Old motor cars on a rally (old Fords, Austins and others from bygone days), were taking the lane to Dux Hill. I decided to go that way. On Grange Hill, Nut Tree Hall, a 16th century timber framed house, stands behind a low wall. A beautiful house and garden. From Dux Hill, I took the path to Old Soar Manor, the old 13th century knight's dwelling. The Culpeppers lived here until the 16th century. On then, back to Oxen Hoath via Hamptons, through fields of Raspberries (under polythene in pots!) and orchards, and a peaceful copse of Lime trees. Another cuppa was drunk on Joan's bench in the park overlooking the Medway valley. The horizon under the dark blue-grey sky was pale strawberry. Hadlow tower now dominated the valley.
At home, I discovered that I had lost my binoculars. A pair of circa 1965 Nikons. Oh despair!
There was a cold northerly, laced with light rain driving into my face and blurring my spectacles as I walked up through Oxen Hoath. Greylag geese arrowing for Clearhedges, a regular morning thing, met another skein, banked and turned and made a new noisy formation before continuing to the water there. I wondered where the night was spent. Fieldfare chattered over the orchards; they are back from Norway and Russia for a British winter holiday. On Gover Hill, looking south, visibility was 100 metres maybe, the whole valley concealed in mist. Even Hadlow Tower was obscured. Along the Wealdway, in Hurst Wood, I took the path by the old gamekeeper's cottage. There, in a paddock, a grey pony greeted me, a Thelwell type, dumpy, with long mane and tail. I scratched his muzzle and he spoke. The path took me to Mereworth Woods and Ministry of Defence property. Troops have exercises there. There are public rights of way through the woods, however, and as long as no one strays off the path, all is well. There are signs: WARNING Troops training! And, WARNING Do not touch suspicious objects! And, Keep to marked footpaths or bridleway! There were no troops this early, so no explosions to disturb me. I came out of the woods near Platt. Through Pigeons Green, and north of Crouch, at the stables, a girl was standing on a bucket to groom her pony! I made my way to Long Bottom Wood for a cuppa, out of the wind. I collected some Crab apples for a sauce to have with dinner later. And the rain had stopped.
Along the Bourne from Basted, the peace allowed my mind to stray, and I drifted back to conciousness, annoyed with myself. Familiarity allows this to happen. I decided to change my route for home. On the path to Yopps Green, looking across the valley, the North Downs was bathed in sunlight. Ribbons of cerulean blue made a patchwork in the grey sky. I stopped for a breakfast of hot soup under the Copper Beech. Old motor cars on a rally (old Fords, Austins and others from bygone days), were taking the lane to Dux Hill. I decided to go that way. On Grange Hill, Nut Tree Hall, a 16th century timber framed house, stands behind a low wall. A beautiful house and garden. From Dux Hill, I took the path to Old Soar Manor, the old 13th century knight's dwelling. The Culpeppers lived here until the 16th century. On then, back to Oxen Hoath via Hamptons, through fields of Raspberries (under polythene in pots!) and orchards, and a peaceful copse of Lime trees. Another cuppa was drunk on Joan's bench in the park overlooking the Medway valley. The horizon under the dark blue-grey sky was pale strawberry. Hadlow tower now dominated the valley.
At home, I discovered that I had lost my binoculars. A pair of circa 1965 Nikons. Oh despair!
Monday 18 November 2013
Dull November
17th November 2013
It was a dim, dull, cold morning. The sheep alongside Carpenters Lane were laying down and refused to answer when I greeted them. Into Oxen Hoath, a flock of Herring Gulls took off and circled, then landed where the were. Hundreds of Rooks were flying west, in the half-light, over to Clearhedges, and croaking noisily as they went. Above the big house, a Blackbird sang from atop an Oak; so beautiful, with such tone and range. A song to arrest you; to make you stand and listen. And unexpected in November.
In the orchards, a few rows of young apple trees had been uprooted, all the irrigation pipes coiled and posts stacked. Another crop is planned for this field. From Gover Hill, the valley was misted and the horizon shrouded. In Hurst Wood, Blackbirds gave warning alarms, which has that particular autumnal sound; the resonance so familiar, of mornings and evenings in the low light and chill. The leaves are dropping and sound carries now. Chestnuts were still abundant, and squirrels had been busy, leaving empty casings. Daylight crept up on me, but brought no warmth, so a cup of hot Jasmine tea on Doris's bench was welcome.
Long Bottom Wood was golden and inviting and under an Ash, Shaggy Parasol mushrooms grew, but too small for picking; the bigger, the better for taste. Following the River Bourne, all was silent and I was left with my thoughts until the water rush at the old Winfield Mill ruins woke me. At the bottom of Brambly orchard, the tree blocking the way to the bridge over the brook had be sawn and stacked. A new home for insects and bugs. Up past Brookside Farm, the ivy flower on the wind-break was bereft of bees; much too chilly for them to work, but not for me! Yopps Green was quiet and I went up to Scathes Wood for breakfast, the climb making me puff. I stopped at Paul's bench (sawn from a fallen Oak and a deeply carved seat). Hot pumpkin and bacon soup, with fresh bread, with a ruddy view over to Fatting Pen.
Ightham Mote was just opening as I went through, and the walk to Shipbourne was a little busier with walkers. St. Giles church was quiet, although the Chaser pub next door was busy. I went on across the Green into Dene Park Wood. I felt a desperate urge, but dog walkers kept appearing as I was trying to pee! I went off the path and used my compass to take a different route to Clearhedges. I stopped and sat on a log for a final cuppa and was greeted by three young men, (good morning, they said) with red and green painted faces, wearing white sheets and carrying a tripod and camera. They stopped at a pond and were filming scenes as I watched through the trees.
A light rain started as I went through Clearhedges Wood, so up went my hood for the last leg home to Monypenny.
It was a dim, dull, cold morning. The sheep alongside Carpenters Lane were laying down and refused to answer when I greeted them. Into Oxen Hoath, a flock of Herring Gulls took off and circled, then landed where the were. Hundreds of Rooks were flying west, in the half-light, over to Clearhedges, and croaking noisily as they went. Above the big house, a Blackbird sang from atop an Oak; so beautiful, with such tone and range. A song to arrest you; to make you stand and listen. And unexpected in November.
In the orchards, a few rows of young apple trees had been uprooted, all the irrigation pipes coiled and posts stacked. Another crop is planned for this field. From Gover Hill, the valley was misted and the horizon shrouded. In Hurst Wood, Blackbirds gave warning alarms, which has that particular autumnal sound; the resonance so familiar, of mornings and evenings in the low light and chill. The leaves are dropping and sound carries now. Chestnuts were still abundant, and squirrels had been busy, leaving empty casings. Daylight crept up on me, but brought no warmth, so a cup of hot Jasmine tea on Doris's bench was welcome.
Long Bottom Wood was golden and inviting and under an Ash, Shaggy Parasol mushrooms grew, but too small for picking; the bigger, the better for taste. Following the River Bourne, all was silent and I was left with my thoughts until the water rush at the old Winfield Mill ruins woke me. At the bottom of Brambly orchard, the tree blocking the way to the bridge over the brook had be sawn and stacked. A new home for insects and bugs. Up past Brookside Farm, the ivy flower on the wind-break was bereft of bees; much too chilly for them to work, but not for me! Yopps Green was quiet and I went up to Scathes Wood for breakfast, the climb making me puff. I stopped at Paul's bench (sawn from a fallen Oak and a deeply carved seat). Hot pumpkin and bacon soup, with fresh bread, with a ruddy view over to Fatting Pen.
Ightham Mote was just opening as I went through, and the walk to Shipbourne was a little busier with walkers. St. Giles church was quiet, although the Chaser pub next door was busy. I went on across the Green into Dene Park Wood. I felt a desperate urge, but dog walkers kept appearing as I was trying to pee! I went off the path and used my compass to take a different route to Clearhedges. I stopped and sat on a log for a final cuppa and was greeted by three young men, (good morning, they said) with red and green painted faces, wearing white sheets and carrying a tripod and camera. They stopped at a pond and were filming scenes as I watched through the trees.
A light rain started as I went through Clearhedges Wood, so up went my hood for the last leg home to Monypenny.
Sunday 10 November 2013
Seal Chart
10th November 2013
Dee arrived as Orion melted in the west and Jupiter was just a pin-prick in the blue above. Heavy rain yesterday meant a muddy trek. We drove to Ightham Mote and prepared for our walk. Dee said, where is the dog's lead? It wasn't in the car, so we drove back to Hadlow. It was still in Dee's car; then, back to Ightham Mote, and off we went, toward Seal Chart. From the Mote, turning north west, the path is a sharp 100 metre thigh-burning climb up to Raspit Hill. The Sun filtered through the rain drenched trees above the old quarry workings, and we followed the ridge to Seal Chart, splish-sploshing our way along the ancient track-way through the wood, which was once grazed by commoners, past St. Lawrence Church and school above Stone Street, and on to The Grove, where the path is cut deep with centuries of footfall. Then into woods near Wildernesse Farm, for a cup of tea. All the while, yellow-red leaves were falling through the light, and a hundred Blue tits were twittering above us.
On to Godden Green village, then into Knole Park. The Fallow deer, peacefully grazing, stopped to watch us as we walked through the park, with Rose Ringed Parakeets, very green in the light, calling from the trees among the Rooks, and Chestnuts crunched underfoot, with some saved into our pockets. A breakfast of Pumpkin soup was taken in the sunlit wood with deer passing through. At 11am, we sat silently for 2 minutes, after a gun went off, to remember those killed in all wars. A second shot came, and we continued breakfast. The deer didn't notice Maisie, and Maisie didn't notice the deer, so all was peaceful.
We went out of the park at the south end and came to the Greensand Way onto the ridge. The views across the Weald were clear and fresh. The muddy undulating path made for hard work on the journey back to Ightham Mote. We met many walkers along the path - fine weather brings them out. The old farm buildings - oast houses and barns - at the Mote Farm are built of greensand stone; taken from the quarry up at Stone Street perhaps. They are such fine old buildings which belong, as so many do not.
A good, satisfying 5 hour walk.
Back at the car, I couldn't find the car keys! I eventually asked, after searching my bag several times, at the Ightham Mote reception. They had been handed in by a chap who found them in the car door. Oops!
Dee arrived as Orion melted in the west and Jupiter was just a pin-prick in the blue above. Heavy rain yesterday meant a muddy trek. We drove to Ightham Mote and prepared for our walk. Dee said, where is the dog's lead? It wasn't in the car, so we drove back to Hadlow. It was still in Dee's car; then, back to Ightham Mote, and off we went, toward Seal Chart. From the Mote, turning north west, the path is a sharp 100 metre thigh-burning climb up to Raspit Hill. The Sun filtered through the rain drenched trees above the old quarry workings, and we followed the ridge to Seal Chart, splish-sploshing our way along the ancient track-way through the wood, which was once grazed by commoners, past St. Lawrence Church and school above Stone Street, and on to The Grove, where the path is cut deep with centuries of footfall. Then into woods near Wildernesse Farm, for a cup of tea. All the while, yellow-red leaves were falling through the light, and a hundred Blue tits were twittering above us.
On to Godden Green village, then into Knole Park. The Fallow deer, peacefully grazing, stopped to watch us as we walked through the park, with Rose Ringed Parakeets, very green in the light, calling from the trees among the Rooks, and Chestnuts crunched underfoot, with some saved into our pockets. A breakfast of Pumpkin soup was taken in the sunlit wood with deer passing through. At 11am, we sat silently for 2 minutes, after a gun went off, to remember those killed in all wars. A second shot came, and we continued breakfast. The deer didn't notice Maisie, and Maisie didn't notice the deer, so all was peaceful.
We went out of the park at the south end and came to the Greensand Way onto the ridge. The views across the Weald were clear and fresh. The muddy undulating path made for hard work on the journey back to Ightham Mote. We met many walkers along the path - fine weather brings them out. The old farm buildings - oast houses and barns - at the Mote Farm are built of greensand stone; taken from the quarry up at Stone Street perhaps. They are such fine old buildings which belong, as so many do not.
A good, satisfying 5 hour walk.
Back at the car, I couldn't find the car keys! I eventually asked, after searching my bag several times, at the Ightham Mote reception. They had been handed in by a chap who found them in the car door. Oops!
Sunday 3 November 2013
After the storm
3rd November 2013
I walked out to a blue sky before the sun rose. The wind was keen and felt cooler that it was. The Balsam Poplars had shed their leaves and balls of mistletoe, wedged there, like balloons, were exposed. The trees were in the grip of Autumn and the waning light. I disturbed cows laying on the footpath chewing the cud in the bottom field at Oxen Hoath (I said, sorry girls). The lonely sound of Rooks was all about be. Wispy clouds in the west turned magenta, then yellow as the Sun rose and cast my shadow long.
There were Loganberries still, although not picked now. But the apples were all picked; just a few small ones left on the trees. The church in Shipbourne, across the valley, glowed in the Sunlight. Chestnuts were scattered along the path in Hurst Wood and I collected a few. Trees were down here and there, after last Monday's storm. Sometimes climbing over, sometimes through, to make my way. The Cob nuts over Crouch way had been picked but a few remained for the squirrels (and me). Some Damsons in the hedgerows at Crouch still hang invitingly; just a little ripe now, but good to taste. Then at Doris's bench, I stopped for a cup of tea in the Sun, with the wind chilling my hands.
At Basted Mill, there were invitations remaining at every house to 'trick or treat'. Carved Pumpkins and scary decorations made a festive spectacle of All Hallows Eve in the hamlet (will they make Pumpkin soup and pie?). The Bourne was running slow and clear. I could see the riverbed through my reflection. In the Bramley orchard, three Apples from under the trees would make a crumble! The Fieldfare are not here yet, to peck at the fruit. At the orchard bottom, at the little wooden bridge over the brook, an Ash tree was down; a scramble through and I was on my way to Yopps Green. Looking down from the hill, at the highest point, the Bourne valley was ablaze with changing colour. I stopped for breakfast at Paul's bench in Scathes Wood. Here, out of the wind, fingers of warm Sunlight caressed me. Hot tomato soup with bread to dip, helped to warm me. A couple of morning walkers came down the path with a sausage dog (Dachshund). He wanted some soup, and was persistent; I told him that he would have a jippy belly. He ignored his owners, they called: Loki, Loki! And came to drag him off. He was well named!
Past a quiet Ightham Mote, on up to Shipbourne, with Mr (or maybe Mrs) Buzzard, mewing overhead. St. Giles church was busy as I went through. I stopped at Joan and Frank Chapman's bench for another cuppa, facing Dean Park Wood in the Sun. It was warm and restful (there are benches dotted about all over the countryside. They are perfect for a rest and to prevent a wet arse).
The warm and sunny weather brings out the walkers; I was not alone in the wood; sometimes I wish for bad weather. I continued south, out of Dene Park, on into Clearhedges Wood and met a lady there walking with her granddaughter. We exchanged pleasantries. She suggested that I should try walking over at Seal Chart - it is not so muddy, she said. I have been looking at the map of the area recently, so maybe next week! Through the fields to home, dark grey clouds were building in the south west and I arrived just before the rain.
From the Greensand Ridge to Crowborough Hill,
Over red-gold undulating country of time-fogotten misery,
All hidden from tired eyes:
The rights of a man were taken for profit.
I walked out to a blue sky before the sun rose. The wind was keen and felt cooler that it was. The Balsam Poplars had shed their leaves and balls of mistletoe, wedged there, like balloons, were exposed. The trees were in the grip of Autumn and the waning light. I disturbed cows laying on the footpath chewing the cud in the bottom field at Oxen Hoath (I said, sorry girls). The lonely sound of Rooks was all about be. Wispy clouds in the west turned magenta, then yellow as the Sun rose and cast my shadow long.
There were Loganberries still, although not picked now. But the apples were all picked; just a few small ones left on the trees. The church in Shipbourne, across the valley, glowed in the Sunlight. Chestnuts were scattered along the path in Hurst Wood and I collected a few. Trees were down here and there, after last Monday's storm. Sometimes climbing over, sometimes through, to make my way. The Cob nuts over Crouch way had been picked but a few remained for the squirrels (and me). Some Damsons in the hedgerows at Crouch still hang invitingly; just a little ripe now, but good to taste. Then at Doris's bench, I stopped for a cup of tea in the Sun, with the wind chilling my hands.
At Basted Mill, there were invitations remaining at every house to 'trick or treat'. Carved Pumpkins and scary decorations made a festive spectacle of All Hallows Eve in the hamlet (will they make Pumpkin soup and pie?). The Bourne was running slow and clear. I could see the riverbed through my reflection. In the Bramley orchard, three Apples from under the trees would make a crumble! The Fieldfare are not here yet, to peck at the fruit. At the orchard bottom, at the little wooden bridge over the brook, an Ash tree was down; a scramble through and I was on my way to Yopps Green. Looking down from the hill, at the highest point, the Bourne valley was ablaze with changing colour. I stopped for breakfast at Paul's bench in Scathes Wood. Here, out of the wind, fingers of warm Sunlight caressed me. Hot tomato soup with bread to dip, helped to warm me. A couple of morning walkers came down the path with a sausage dog (Dachshund). He wanted some soup, and was persistent; I told him that he would have a jippy belly. He ignored his owners, they called: Loki, Loki! And came to drag him off. He was well named!
Past a quiet Ightham Mote, on up to Shipbourne, with Mr (or maybe Mrs) Buzzard, mewing overhead. St. Giles church was busy as I went through. I stopped at Joan and Frank Chapman's bench for another cuppa, facing Dean Park Wood in the Sun. It was warm and restful (there are benches dotted about all over the countryside. They are perfect for a rest and to prevent a wet arse).
The warm and sunny weather brings out the walkers; I was not alone in the wood; sometimes I wish for bad weather. I continued south, out of Dene Park, on into Clearhedges Wood and met a lady there walking with her granddaughter. We exchanged pleasantries. She suggested that I should try walking over at Seal Chart - it is not so muddy, she said. I have been looking at the map of the area recently, so maybe next week! Through the fields to home, dark grey clouds were building in the south west and I arrived just before the rain.
From the Greensand Ridge to Crowborough Hill,
Over red-gold undulating country of time-fogotten misery,
All hidden from tired eyes:
The rights of a man were taken for profit.
Sunday 27 October 2013
Stormy weather
27th October 2013
A storm is coming. Rain lashed the window panes last night and strong winds bent the Poplars behind the house. The rain eased as I drove to Brenchley and the pale blue sky was revealed. Dee (and Maisie) and I parked in Goudhurst, and took the path to Bedgebury Forest. The Sun broke free from the cloud and the wind blew from the south-west into our faces. Conversation was difficult, with oft repeated exchanges. Pheasants scattered and made noisy escape from Maisie as we followed the brook to Smugley Farm and lemon coloured leaves blew about us. Along the Bedgebury road were Pheasants killed by unemotional travellers; cocooned and away from the world, havoc is wreaked. Should I pop one into my bag? No; carrying, plucking and gutting would be a chore. I too, find it difficult to drag myself from modern convenience. I shall purchase a brace, oven-ready!
At Marlingate, the colours of the Limes was yellowing and were blown toward Goudhurst Parish in a flurry. Through Three Chimneys Farm and into Bedgebury Forest, a shower of rain forced us to don our coats. All was quiet in the forest, and there were no walkers or cyclists to disturb us. Even at the Pinetum, the people stayed away. We sheltered at the Centre with the lake before us, and leek and potato soup, with a chunk of home made bread was for breakfast. On the way out of the Pinetum, we admired the colours of a collection of American Sweetgum with their pale yellow to deep purple leaves. It is quite sheltered there, so the wind wasn't battering the trees. Among the conifers, Acers, deep scarlet, were dotted about to give contrast to the scene.
The lane to Kilndown was was strewn with Chestnuts, and these were sampled on the way. There were Common Earthball mushrooms along the path in Park Wood, but were left alone. They can give you a jippy
belly. Another cup of tea was taken by the old quarry in Kilndown, and we were sheltered by the trees. More Chestnuts were collected on the way to Pump Hill, then into Finchcocks Park, and the strength of the wind was increasing. It was behind us now; perhaps it would blow us up the hill to Goudhurst! There was a sole Shaggy Parasol mushroom in the park, but I let it be. The hedges along the lane to Green Cross were draped with Black Bryony berries like scarlet necklaces and Black Nightshade was in flower still.
The last leg of our walk was through Crowbourne Farm. I picked a couple of Field mushrooms and wished I had taken the Shaggy Parasol for a tasty medley. Up on the side of the hill, a tall hedge, maybe 30 feet high, was a solid wall of Blackberries. Some time was spent tasting this late crop! This hedge faces north-east, not a particularly favourable position, we thought. On the hill-top, we turned to admire the view, buffeted by the wind, and the air was crystal clear, all the way to the North Downs.
Back home, it was time to secure the garden furniture and batten down the hatches for the storm to come.
A storm is coming. Rain lashed the window panes last night and strong winds bent the Poplars behind the house. The rain eased as I drove to Brenchley and the pale blue sky was revealed. Dee (and Maisie) and I parked in Goudhurst, and took the path to Bedgebury Forest. The Sun broke free from the cloud and the wind blew from the south-west into our faces. Conversation was difficult, with oft repeated exchanges. Pheasants scattered and made noisy escape from Maisie as we followed the brook to Smugley Farm and lemon coloured leaves blew about us. Along the Bedgebury road were Pheasants killed by unemotional travellers; cocooned and away from the world, havoc is wreaked. Should I pop one into my bag? No; carrying, plucking and gutting would be a chore. I too, find it difficult to drag myself from modern convenience. I shall purchase a brace, oven-ready!
At Marlingate, the colours of the Limes was yellowing and were blown toward Goudhurst Parish in a flurry. Through Three Chimneys Farm and into Bedgebury Forest, a shower of rain forced us to don our coats. All was quiet in the forest, and there were no walkers or cyclists to disturb us. Even at the Pinetum, the people stayed away. We sheltered at the Centre with the lake before us, and leek and potato soup, with a chunk of home made bread was for breakfast. On the way out of the Pinetum, we admired the colours of a collection of American Sweetgum with their pale yellow to deep purple leaves. It is quite sheltered there, so the wind wasn't battering the trees. Among the conifers, Acers, deep scarlet, were dotted about to give contrast to the scene.
The lane to Kilndown was was strewn with Chestnuts, and these were sampled on the way. There were Common Earthball mushrooms along the path in Park Wood, but were left alone. They can give you a jippy
belly. Another cup of tea was taken by the old quarry in Kilndown, and we were sheltered by the trees. More Chestnuts were collected on the way to Pump Hill, then into Finchcocks Park, and the strength of the wind was increasing. It was behind us now; perhaps it would blow us up the hill to Goudhurst! There was a sole Shaggy Parasol mushroom in the park, but I let it be. The hedges along the lane to Green Cross were draped with Black Bryony berries like scarlet necklaces and Black Nightshade was in flower still.
The last leg of our walk was through Crowbourne Farm. I picked a couple of Field mushrooms and wished I had taken the Shaggy Parasol for a tasty medley. Up on the side of the hill, a tall hedge, maybe 30 feet high, was a solid wall of Blackberries. Some time was spent tasting this late crop! This hedge faces north-east, not a particularly favourable position, we thought. On the hill-top, we turned to admire the view, buffeted by the wind, and the air was crystal clear, all the way to the North Downs.
Back home, it was time to secure the garden furniture and batten down the hatches for the storm to come.
Saturday 19 October 2013
A tale of two rivers.
19 October 2013
Last night, I looked Máni full in the face. A mist surrounded him; it came from his cold breath.
It was a Saturday walk this morning and as the barometer said rain, I chose a route with as much tree cover as possible. Kay loaned me her waterproof (which annoyingly zipped up on the left), so I should stay dry.
The sky was blue-grey and heavy with rain. Sudden is the realisation that there are no Swallows, House Martins and Swifts. They are for Africa!
I parked in the car park by Lamberhurst Village Hall, and followed the River Tiese down Brewer Street. The brewery is long gone now and stylish country terraced houses are in its place. Along the river, the rain began and on went the coat. The leaves were turning gold and rust; the bracken flattened and yellowing, turning brown and will soon be brittle with death. Crab apples were in the hedgerows, and should be collected for jam. In the fallow fields, Wood Pigeons, Rooks and bronzed Pheasants rooted among the remnants of the harvest, and seeing me, left with much flapping and clapping. The Pheasants with tail down and head erect, ran, hell for leather, resisting the urge to fly for just a while. But then took to the air, kuk kuk kukking, which is death for them.
Furnace mills and corn mills worked their trade along this river for hundreds of years. Now, a few have been converted for dwellings but most are gone, and some romantic ruins remain. Past the ruined Abbey at Bayham (the work of Henry), a man was repairing a puncture on his bicycle and pumping furiously in the downpour. We nodded to each other knowingly as I passed. Over the crossroads at Hook Green, the rain eased and eventually stopped as I went across open farmland. Over the Wadhurst road, at Blue Cats Farm, there was the dull thud, thud of gunshot from over Scotney way: Pheasants being driven and put up by beaters for the guns. A brace of Pheasants for Sunday lunch would be a fine thing. Then into Pearsons Wood, out of the rain, picking up a few chestnuts on the way, and on to Bewl Water.
The water was choppy and only fishermen were braving the wind and rain. Forty five years ago, I walked the Bewl valley to Three Leg Cross, driven by teenage lust. The valley was flooded in 1975 and the Bewl above the bridge is a memorial to loss. There were Coots in a sheltered bay on the water, a commune silently bobbing up and down with the waves. A cup of honey green tea was taken on a bench facing the water as I was sketching the past in my mind.
On up through Chingley Wood, acorns crunching underfoot, the meadow had been mown and next spring was wished for. The London-Hastings road was almost impossible to cross; where was everyone going? Eventually, I crossed into Cats Wood. There were signs of deer and badger along the path, and all the while, golden Birch leaves were falling like confetti. Up through Shearnfold Wood, and another break for a cup of tea in the bus shelter in Kilndown village, recharged me for the last leg back to Lamberhurst.
Plenty of Chestnuts were collected through Kilndown Wood. Enough for a pie! Down at the River Bewl again, Indian Balsam still flowers in this sheltered place. All the forges and mills are lost to Bewl Water. Iron was last forged there 300 years ago. From the River Bewl, and across to Scotney, it was a final gentle stroll along the Tiese back to Lamberhurst, through the golf course, in the rain!
Last night, I looked Máni full in the face. A mist surrounded him; it came from his cold breath.
It was a Saturday walk this morning and as the barometer said rain, I chose a route with as much tree cover as possible. Kay loaned me her waterproof (which annoyingly zipped up on the left), so I should stay dry.
The sky was blue-grey and heavy with rain. Sudden is the realisation that there are no Swallows, House Martins and Swifts. They are for Africa!
I parked in the car park by Lamberhurst Village Hall, and followed the River Tiese down Brewer Street. The brewery is long gone now and stylish country terraced houses are in its place. Along the river, the rain began and on went the coat. The leaves were turning gold and rust; the bracken flattened and yellowing, turning brown and will soon be brittle with death. Crab apples were in the hedgerows, and should be collected for jam. In the fallow fields, Wood Pigeons, Rooks and bronzed Pheasants rooted among the remnants of the harvest, and seeing me, left with much flapping and clapping. The Pheasants with tail down and head erect, ran, hell for leather, resisting the urge to fly for just a while. But then took to the air, kuk kuk kukking, which is death for them.
Furnace mills and corn mills worked their trade along this river for hundreds of years. Now, a few have been converted for dwellings but most are gone, and some romantic ruins remain. Past the ruined Abbey at Bayham (the work of Henry), a man was repairing a puncture on his bicycle and pumping furiously in the downpour. We nodded to each other knowingly as I passed. Over the crossroads at Hook Green, the rain eased and eventually stopped as I went across open farmland. Over the Wadhurst road, at Blue Cats Farm, there was the dull thud, thud of gunshot from over Scotney way: Pheasants being driven and put up by beaters for the guns. A brace of Pheasants for Sunday lunch would be a fine thing. Then into Pearsons Wood, out of the rain, picking up a few chestnuts on the way, and on to Bewl Water.
The water was choppy and only fishermen were braving the wind and rain. Forty five years ago, I walked the Bewl valley to Three Leg Cross, driven by teenage lust. The valley was flooded in 1975 and the Bewl above the bridge is a memorial to loss. There were Coots in a sheltered bay on the water, a commune silently bobbing up and down with the waves. A cup of honey green tea was taken on a bench facing the water as I was sketching the past in my mind.
On up through Chingley Wood, acorns crunching underfoot, the meadow had been mown and next spring was wished for. The London-Hastings road was almost impossible to cross; where was everyone going? Eventually, I crossed into Cats Wood. There were signs of deer and badger along the path, and all the while, golden Birch leaves were falling like confetti. Up through Shearnfold Wood, and another break for a cup of tea in the bus shelter in Kilndown village, recharged me for the last leg back to Lamberhurst.
Plenty of Chestnuts were collected through Kilndown Wood. Enough for a pie! Down at the River Bewl again, Indian Balsam still flowers in this sheltered place. All the forges and mills are lost to Bewl Water. Iron was last forged there 300 years ago. From the River Bewl, and across to Scotney, it was a final gentle stroll along the Tiese back to Lamberhurst, through the golf course, in the rain!
Sunday 13 October 2013
A Wet Sunday
13 October 2013
Yesterday eve, streaks of magenta radiated from the west and the half-moon glowed behind a thin misty veil.
But the morning brought heavy rain and Sól warmed other places. I followed the tree-lined hedgerows to Clearhedges Wood and all was quiet under the leafy canopy; just pattering above. Mr. Robin sang some ditties and Mr. Buzzard mewed in the rain above. The light was dim, so tree roots were a hazard along the path. Over Puttenden Road into Dene Park Wood, dog-walkers dressed in long waxed coats and wide brimmed hats, called greetings over the sound of the wind as they passed. I took a path north through the wood to the fast flowing brook; over the little wooden bridge, up through the twitten, then out into the open, down Buck Lane, across the meadow and the Green to Shipbourne. Here, I took refuge in the bus shelter for a hot cup of tea.
I made my way past St. Giles' Church with the bells peeling, for Cold Blows Wood to Budds, through open, ploughed and harrowed fields: the Kentish clay reluctant to release my boots and the rain from the west driving into my face. I zipped up, pulled my hood tight and looked at the world through fogged, rain spattered spectacles. Once through the wood, I cleared the lenses, the better to see over the stile into Mote Road. And then up, up to the the cottage on the Greensand Ridge, into low cloud, picking a few rain sodden Blackberries on the way. Gangs of Blue Tits preceded me as I walked the hedgerow; out, along and in, calling sisisis and chattering as they searched for insects. Hadlow Tower was perhaps just visible in the gloom 7 or 8 kilometres distant, as the Crow flies.
Mostly downhill now, I followed the rivulets of rainwater flowing down the track to Ightham Mote (a 700 hundred year old moated house bequeathed to The National Trust for the nation by Charles Henry Robinson, of Portland, Maine. A fine, upstanding American). I was hoping that the restaurant there would be open for tea. It wasn't, I was too early, so I carried on through Fairlawne and Home Farm, then into the wood behind Puttenden Manor Farm, to find a log under the trees to take a break. Rain filtered through the trees which cooled my tea a little. I exchanged my sodden gloves for dry ones, and continued to Dunks Green, behind The Rifleman pub, down Hamptons Road, then followed the Bourne (really swollen now) home.
The rain did not let up all morning. I was soaked through to the skin (my jacket leaking somewhere!) and glad for a cup of hot tea and a warm shower. But - an adventure, just the same. After all, I'm a VIKING!
Yesterday eve, streaks of magenta radiated from the west and the half-moon glowed behind a thin misty veil.
But the morning brought heavy rain and Sól warmed other places. I followed the tree-lined hedgerows to Clearhedges Wood and all was quiet under the leafy canopy; just pattering above. Mr. Robin sang some ditties and Mr. Buzzard mewed in the rain above. The light was dim, so tree roots were a hazard along the path. Over Puttenden Road into Dene Park Wood, dog-walkers dressed in long waxed coats and wide brimmed hats, called greetings over the sound of the wind as they passed. I took a path north through the wood to the fast flowing brook; over the little wooden bridge, up through the twitten, then out into the open, down Buck Lane, across the meadow and the Green to Shipbourne. Here, I took refuge in the bus shelter for a hot cup of tea.
I made my way past St. Giles' Church with the bells peeling, for Cold Blows Wood to Budds, through open, ploughed and harrowed fields: the Kentish clay reluctant to release my boots and the rain from the west driving into my face. I zipped up, pulled my hood tight and looked at the world through fogged, rain spattered spectacles. Once through the wood, I cleared the lenses, the better to see over the stile into Mote Road. And then up, up to the the cottage on the Greensand Ridge, into low cloud, picking a few rain sodden Blackberries on the way. Gangs of Blue Tits preceded me as I walked the hedgerow; out, along and in, calling sisisis and chattering as they searched for insects. Hadlow Tower was perhaps just visible in the gloom 7 or 8 kilometres distant, as the Crow flies.
Mostly downhill now, I followed the rivulets of rainwater flowing down the track to Ightham Mote (a 700 hundred year old moated house bequeathed to The National Trust for the nation by Charles Henry Robinson, of Portland, Maine. A fine, upstanding American). I was hoping that the restaurant there would be open for tea. It wasn't, I was too early, so I carried on through Fairlawne and Home Farm, then into the wood behind Puttenden Manor Farm, to find a log under the trees to take a break. Rain filtered through the trees which cooled my tea a little. I exchanged my sodden gloves for dry ones, and continued to Dunks Green, behind The Rifleman pub, down Hamptons Road, then followed the Bourne (really swollen now) home.
The rain did not let up all morning. I was soaked through to the skin (my jacket leaking somewhere!) and glad for a cup of hot tea and a warm shower. But - an adventure, just the same. After all, I'm a VIKING!
Sunday 6 October 2013
Gathering nuts!
6th October 2013
Mars was pursuing Jupiter across the early morning heavens, then merged with the citric sunrise as Jupiter escaped. It was chilly and sharp when Dee arrived with Maisie at 7am. The fields were misty in the valley. A skein of Greylag Geese flying west, joined a skein flying south. They circled above, honking noisily, then arranged themselves into a new formation and flew west, satisfied now. The deep orange Sun burst through the mist up on Oxen Hoath, while we picked walnuts from the ground and secreted them into our bags. The sheep ignored us as we ferreted in the long grass and only looked on with mild interest when a nut was found!
Further up the hill, the pickers were at the Loganberries already, but in the orchard, Dee grabbed a couple of Galas for our breakfast. Straight off the tree, they were crisp and cool. Maisie was chasing rabbits in the top field and had to be called before we left the mist and entered the wood on Gover Hill. The only birdsong was from Mr Robin Redbreast and the song was melodious and cheerful as he followed us a short distance. We took the path through Hurst Wood to the Cobnut orchards which border the wood. I picked a few nuts and Dee, who couldn't stop, took off her gloves and stuffed them full to overflowing. Most of the orchard had been picked; a back-breaking job, as they must be picked from the ground after falling.
Past the crowing cock and onto the bridleway to Crouch, damsons supplemented breakfast (some were a little sharp!). The hedgerows here were planted with damson and progress was difficult with so much fruit. We are still hunter-gatherers at heart. Blackberries are still good in many places and will be for a while yet. At Doris's bench, we had tea and, with the Sun on our backs, and the valley's changing colours before us, pondered the agricultural changes in our lifetime. Once the valley was planted with hops, for a hundred of years or more; now all is fruit, wheat etc. and sheep. This is not a bad thing.
At Basted Mill, we picked a large Shaggy Parasol mushroom each, and slipped them into our bags. Will they go with roast chicken, we wondered? The little River Bourne was running clear and fast; it's character changed now; the bank's greenery just a remnant of the height of summer. Uphill and through the Brambley orchard, picked now, the Sun warmed to threaten the removal of a layer or two. The hedgerow by the green lane to Yopps Green was busy with bees of all sorts on the Ivy flower, joined by a solitary Comma butterfly, not hibernated just yet. We stopped for a break under the Beech in Yopps Green, sheltered from the hot Sun. Then vintage motorcycles of all types: Nortons, BSAs, Vincents, Arials, HRDs and even an ancient Harley, trundled on their way to a rally somewhere, through those country narrow lanes. Beautiful old machines lovingly restored, and in spite of the disturbance, wonderful to see.
We left via Plaxtol through fields of plough. The furrows were difficult to negotiate and all attention had to be on our footfall to avoid stumbling. Maisie chased Pheasants and was dashing all over the fields, the furrows not concerning her. At Dunks Green, we wanted to rest on the carved bench in front of the Rifleman pub, but it was occupied by a canoodling young couple, so we continued on our way, not wishing to disturb their peace. Greengages near Puttenden Manor was recompense, however, and we had a final break by the Bourne under Birch and Sycamore with the sound of the tranquil water quite soporific. The warm and pleasant spell was broken by the need to continue, so we packed up and made our way to Hadlow. The Buzzards were surprisingly quiet over at Clearhedges. By the river, on the field edge, a badger had dug a sett, and filled small holes around the entrance with poo: stay away! As we came onto plough near Hope Farm, a Grey Heron was standing erect and magisterial. Sir Herne surveyed the field as we walked past, and as we were not considered food, he ignored us. Hadlow Tower pointed the way home.
Gloves full of pixies!
Mars was pursuing Jupiter across the early morning heavens, then merged with the citric sunrise as Jupiter escaped. It was chilly and sharp when Dee arrived with Maisie at 7am. The fields were misty in the valley. A skein of Greylag Geese flying west, joined a skein flying south. They circled above, honking noisily, then arranged themselves into a new formation and flew west, satisfied now. The deep orange Sun burst through the mist up on Oxen Hoath, while we picked walnuts from the ground and secreted them into our bags. The sheep ignored us as we ferreted in the long grass and only looked on with mild interest when a nut was found!
Further up the hill, the pickers were at the Loganberries already, but in the orchard, Dee grabbed a couple of Galas for our breakfast. Straight off the tree, they were crisp and cool. Maisie was chasing rabbits in the top field and had to be called before we left the mist and entered the wood on Gover Hill. The only birdsong was from Mr Robin Redbreast and the song was melodious and cheerful as he followed us a short distance. We took the path through Hurst Wood to the Cobnut orchards which border the wood. I picked a few nuts and Dee, who couldn't stop, took off her gloves and stuffed them full to overflowing. Most of the orchard had been picked; a back-breaking job, as they must be picked from the ground after falling.
Past the crowing cock and onto the bridleway to Crouch, damsons supplemented breakfast (some were a little sharp!). The hedgerows here were planted with damson and progress was difficult with so much fruit. We are still hunter-gatherers at heart. Blackberries are still good in many places and will be for a while yet. At Doris's bench, we had tea and, with the Sun on our backs, and the valley's changing colours before us, pondered the agricultural changes in our lifetime. Once the valley was planted with hops, for a hundred of years or more; now all is fruit, wheat etc. and sheep. This is not a bad thing.
At Basted Mill, we picked a large Shaggy Parasol mushroom each, and slipped them into our bags. Will they go with roast chicken, we wondered? The little River Bourne was running clear and fast; it's character changed now; the bank's greenery just a remnant of the height of summer. Uphill and through the Brambley orchard, picked now, the Sun warmed to threaten the removal of a layer or two. The hedgerow by the green lane to Yopps Green was busy with bees of all sorts on the Ivy flower, joined by a solitary Comma butterfly, not hibernated just yet. We stopped for a break under the Beech in Yopps Green, sheltered from the hot Sun. Then vintage motorcycles of all types: Nortons, BSAs, Vincents, Arials, HRDs and even an ancient Harley, trundled on their way to a rally somewhere, through those country narrow lanes. Beautiful old machines lovingly restored, and in spite of the disturbance, wonderful to see.
We left via Plaxtol through fields of plough. The furrows were difficult to negotiate and all attention had to be on our footfall to avoid stumbling. Maisie chased Pheasants and was dashing all over the fields, the furrows not concerning her. At Dunks Green, we wanted to rest on the carved bench in front of the Rifleman pub, but it was occupied by a canoodling young couple, so we continued on our way, not wishing to disturb their peace. Greengages near Puttenden Manor was recompense, however, and we had a final break by the Bourne under Birch and Sycamore with the sound of the tranquil water quite soporific. The warm and pleasant spell was broken by the need to continue, so we packed up and made our way to Hadlow. The Buzzards were surprisingly quiet over at Clearhedges. By the river, on the field edge, a badger had dug a sett, and filled small holes around the entrance with poo: stay away! As we came onto plough near Hope Farm, a Grey Heron was standing erect and magisterial. Sir Herne surveyed the field as we walked past, and as we were not considered food, he ignored us. Hadlow Tower pointed the way home.
Gloves full of pixies!
Sunday 29 September 2013
Three Hills
29th September 2013
On my way to Brenchley, I stopped at the Hartlake Bridge over the River Medway. The russet sky was reflected in the slow water. Above, the waning Moon and Jupiter were the remnants of the night. I met Dee and Maisie dog on Pixot Hill and we started a walk over three hills: Brenchley, Horsmonden and Goudhurst. The orange Sun was now rising and silhouetting the trees and oast houses at the Lookout on the hill. We followed the Sun through orchards now picked and others waiting, downhill to the Furnace Pond where iron was forged by John Browne for guns four hundred years ago for the wars around the world. Now it is a peaceful haven for wildlife and fishing. Bulrushes and reeds line the banks; ducks and geese quietly feed and a gentle mist rises from the water. Then uphill to Horsmonden and a ramble through Sprivers with yellow Agrimony edging the path and over the Lamberhurst road to hop gardens, now picked but a few left to reminisce and keep for childhood memories.
Through more orchards of Gala and Golden Delicious and Brambleys and others; the boughs bowed with the burden of the fruit. A field of Suffolk sheep were (not) being serviced by a ram, but he had only marked three. He seemed more concerned about feeding himself! We met some boys burdened with great back-packs on an adventure for the Duke of Edinburgh Award. They seemed tired and a little weary, but were polite and friendly. We detoured to Horsmonden Church (St. Margaret's, which is 2 miles from the village) for a break. The porch front was decorated with harvest fruits and inside were preserves, jams and loaves. We sat on a bench in the churchyard overlooking the peaceful Tiese Valley, drinking tea and appreciating the view.
The morning remained cool and breezy in exposed areas as we made our way over the Tiese, running fast there after the night's rain and then uphill again; the steep climb to Goudhurst. There were White Dead Nettle, still flowering on a sunlit bank, the summer's last vestiges of bloom refusing to yield yet. The hedgerows were bursting with blue Sloes (extremely bitter!), Haws and Blackberries. Then out of breath and thirsty, we sat by the village pond for another break.
The way back took us through Trottenden Farm, where a cow (a Red Poll?) was resting on the ground with her calf by the stile in the sunshine. As we had Maisie, and danger threatened, we made a wide diversion to avoid any trouble. Mother was very affectionate toward her calf; she nuzzled and paid a great deal of attention to it. We went back over the Tiese and uphill again through Alpacas and Speckled Faced sheep, through more apples, and watched a Buzzard glide high until we came back onto the High Weald Trail, which was our way down. The last of our tea was taken in Sprivers in the woodland, under a Sweet Chestnut tree. The nuts should be ready in a couple of weeks or so!
The day had warmed considerably and the Sun was on our backs as we were climbing through Hononton Farm. At the top of the hill near Brenchley, I filled my bag with apples, as there wasn't far to get back to the car. Perfect for an apple crumble and custard.
Sól colludes with Máni as
The light fades, the greening fades.
The colours of decay are beautiful and deadly
And trespass the landscape with arrogance.
On my way to Brenchley, I stopped at the Hartlake Bridge over the River Medway. The russet sky was reflected in the slow water. Above, the waning Moon and Jupiter were the remnants of the night. I met Dee and Maisie dog on Pixot Hill and we started a walk over three hills: Brenchley, Horsmonden and Goudhurst. The orange Sun was now rising and silhouetting the trees and oast houses at the Lookout on the hill. We followed the Sun through orchards now picked and others waiting, downhill to the Furnace Pond where iron was forged by John Browne for guns four hundred years ago for the wars around the world. Now it is a peaceful haven for wildlife and fishing. Bulrushes and reeds line the banks; ducks and geese quietly feed and a gentle mist rises from the water. Then uphill to Horsmonden and a ramble through Sprivers with yellow Agrimony edging the path and over the Lamberhurst road to hop gardens, now picked but a few left to reminisce and keep for childhood memories.
Through more orchards of Gala and Golden Delicious and Brambleys and others; the boughs bowed with the burden of the fruit. A field of Suffolk sheep were (not) being serviced by a ram, but he had only marked three. He seemed more concerned about feeding himself! We met some boys burdened with great back-packs on an adventure for the Duke of Edinburgh Award. They seemed tired and a little weary, but were polite and friendly. We detoured to Horsmonden Church (St. Margaret's, which is 2 miles from the village) for a break. The porch front was decorated with harvest fruits and inside were preserves, jams and loaves. We sat on a bench in the churchyard overlooking the peaceful Tiese Valley, drinking tea and appreciating the view.
The morning remained cool and breezy in exposed areas as we made our way over the Tiese, running fast there after the night's rain and then uphill again; the steep climb to Goudhurst. There were White Dead Nettle, still flowering on a sunlit bank, the summer's last vestiges of bloom refusing to yield yet. The hedgerows were bursting with blue Sloes (extremely bitter!), Haws and Blackberries. Then out of breath and thirsty, we sat by the village pond for another break.
The way back took us through Trottenden Farm, where a cow (a Red Poll?) was resting on the ground with her calf by the stile in the sunshine. As we had Maisie, and danger threatened, we made a wide diversion to avoid any trouble. Mother was very affectionate toward her calf; she nuzzled and paid a great deal of attention to it. We went back over the Tiese and uphill again through Alpacas and Speckled Faced sheep, through more apples, and watched a Buzzard glide high until we came back onto the High Weald Trail, which was our way down. The last of our tea was taken in Sprivers in the woodland, under a Sweet Chestnut tree. The nuts should be ready in a couple of weeks or so!
The day had warmed considerably and the Sun was on our backs as we were climbing through Hononton Farm. At the top of the hill near Brenchley, I filled my bag with apples, as there wasn't far to get back to the car. Perfect for an apple crumble and custard.
Sól colludes with Máni as
The light fades, the greening fades.
The colours of decay are beautiful and deadly
And trespass the landscape with arrogance.
Sunday 22 September 2013
Autumn Equinox
22nd September 2013
I left for Coldrum Longbarrow at 2.45am with Máni looking down at me mockingly through thin cloud, then he hid from me. Although quite dark, I could see enough detail to find my way. Tawny Owls hooted from over Clearhedges way. I got a little warm and put on my head lamp to pack my jacket away. Moths and Crane flies were drawn to the light and fluttered about my face in droves until the lamp was switched off. Looking down from Gover Hill, the valley was in shadow; just a few twinkling lights of cottages dotted about. My lamp went on again as I entered the gloom of the wood. All was quiet there but for my footfall. The beam of my lamp hardly pierced the misty dark. At the stable near Crouch, the cockerel was unusually silent. At Platt, the traffic of the M26 motorway could be heard two kilometers away. On Gallows Hill, the noise increased and became insistent as I approached the M26/M20 intersection. My light reflected a foxes' eyes; he decided to make a detour and turned to watch me once or twice. The footpath went under the motorway and up again to Ryarsh Wood where the traffic noise gradually abated. Then into the darkness under the trees and the lamp went back on.
I arrived at Coldrum Longbarrow at 5.45am to quiet and calm. No-one was there to greet the Sun but me. I sat with my back against a sarsen stone and drank tea while I waited for Sól. These stones were placed six thousand years before I sat there and wondered about those people who put them there. A stone at the mound entrance appeared to have a face in the emerging light; two eyes, and a large nose. I said, how do you do? Sól rose behind cloud but the peace was compensation and I stayed to enjoy the mystical atmosphere. A Little Owl keewicked loudly above me in the Beech decorated with ribbons and ritual tokens. Then a Robin sang a welcome to the morning light. And a Buzzard cried.
The way back included the climb up Gallows Hill; always tough the second time, especially when one has walked all night! Some Greengages were taken at Pigeons Green and Damsons too. The cockerel was awake at the stables, making up for lost time (I did wonder if he had been eaten) and I had a cup of tea by the edge of Hurst Wood, sitting on an old log among briars, facing a Cobnut orchard (a good crop this year).
On through the wood, then down through Oxen Hoath. In the fields, as I walked, thousands upon thousands of Crane flies took to the air as I disturbed them; a great feast awaits our autumnal migrants. The resident Peregrine Falcon of Hadlow Tower crossed in front of me going somewhere important. Then, back home and tired after the 27k walk, another cuppa and a short kip!
I left for Coldrum Longbarrow at 2.45am with Máni looking down at me mockingly through thin cloud, then he hid from me. Although quite dark, I could see enough detail to find my way. Tawny Owls hooted from over Clearhedges way. I got a little warm and put on my head lamp to pack my jacket away. Moths and Crane flies were drawn to the light and fluttered about my face in droves until the lamp was switched off. Looking down from Gover Hill, the valley was in shadow; just a few twinkling lights of cottages dotted about. My lamp went on again as I entered the gloom of the wood. All was quiet there but for my footfall. The beam of my lamp hardly pierced the misty dark. At the stable near Crouch, the cockerel was unusually silent. At Platt, the traffic of the M26 motorway could be heard two kilometers away. On Gallows Hill, the noise increased and became insistent as I approached the M26/M20 intersection. My light reflected a foxes' eyes; he decided to make a detour and turned to watch me once or twice. The footpath went under the motorway and up again to Ryarsh Wood where the traffic noise gradually abated. Then into the darkness under the trees and the lamp went back on.
I arrived at Coldrum Longbarrow at 5.45am to quiet and calm. No-one was there to greet the Sun but me. I sat with my back against a sarsen stone and drank tea while I waited for Sól. These stones were placed six thousand years before I sat there and wondered about those people who put them there. A stone at the mound entrance appeared to have a face in the emerging light; two eyes, and a large nose. I said, how do you do? Sól rose behind cloud but the peace was compensation and I stayed to enjoy the mystical atmosphere. A Little Owl keewicked loudly above me in the Beech decorated with ribbons and ritual tokens. Then a Robin sang a welcome to the morning light. And a Buzzard cried.
The way back included the climb up Gallows Hill; always tough the second time, especially when one has walked all night! Some Greengages were taken at Pigeons Green and Damsons too. The cockerel was awake at the stables, making up for lost time (I did wonder if he had been eaten) and I had a cup of tea by the edge of Hurst Wood, sitting on an old log among briars, facing a Cobnut orchard (a good crop this year).
On through the wood, then down through Oxen Hoath. In the fields, as I walked, thousands upon thousands of Crane flies took to the air as I disturbed them; a great feast awaits our autumnal migrants. The resident Peregrine Falcon of Hadlow Tower crossed in front of me going somewhere important. Then, back home and tired after the 27k walk, another cuppa and a short kip!
Sunday 15 September 2013
A day with Poppy
15 September 2013
The Sun was rising through a heavy veil of mist; the light was soft, Elysian. Rain was expected, but there was not a cloud to be seen. And it was very cool, as we left the village. I had put on several layers in anticipation (they could always be taken off). Poppy and I left for Crouch through Oxen Hoath and the orchards. We stood aside while a convoy of tractors towing their small square trailers came along the track followed by a mini-bus packed with fruit-pickers. The apples were just ready and the packing-boxes were stacked at every corner. Up on the hill, looking down, the valley was completely submerged in the mist. The castellated tower of Shipbourne Church across the valley, was distinctive above the surrounding trees. There was, perhaps, the faintest hint of autumnal colour emerging.
In the wood, Poppy ran like a greyhound, fast and furious. Splashing through mud and puddles, with head down, to and fro', to and fro'. At the stables (cock still crowing), we turned left, off the main path, into a field of plough where Poppy ran in small circles with mud flying, ears flapping, tongue lolling and a manic look in her eye. Once this mania had passed, she calmed down a little and we went through some sheep, by-passing Doris's bench, for a break in the wood; tea for me and a chew for Poppy (which was devoured in a trice). Away again, as Poppy whimpered until we did, there were woodland mushrooms, Shaggy Parasols, the size of dinner plates, under a group of Alders. I chose a fine specimen and popped it into my rucksack. This would be a fine accompaniment with sausages for dinner!
Then down to the river, to the little Bourne. Just a bit swollen with rain, but fun for Poppy to splash and frolic. The pink Indian Balsam flowers thrive well into the Autumn. We followed the river as best we could. I was dragged off a lane by Poppy through Stinging Nettles into more plough. She was keen to follow something. What it was, we shall never know. Then we had a second break on a bench on the Green in Plaxtol Spout in the Sun. We said 'hello' to a young lady (with an antipodean accent) and a friendly Beagle and went on to Dunks Green through grassy fields, perfect for galloping about. I followed on. Near Puttenden Manor Farm, there were Greengages for the taking! I took some.
We followed the river still, until Bourne Mill. Here, I ate a few Blackberries, then we made our way home, before the rain came, where Poppy collapsed with exhaustion, and so did I!
The Sun was rising through a heavy veil of mist; the light was soft, Elysian. Rain was expected, but there was not a cloud to be seen. And it was very cool, as we left the village. I had put on several layers in anticipation (they could always be taken off). Poppy and I left for Crouch through Oxen Hoath and the orchards. We stood aside while a convoy of tractors towing their small square trailers came along the track followed by a mini-bus packed with fruit-pickers. The apples were just ready and the packing-boxes were stacked at every corner. Up on the hill, looking down, the valley was completely submerged in the mist. The castellated tower of Shipbourne Church across the valley, was distinctive above the surrounding trees. There was, perhaps, the faintest hint of autumnal colour emerging.
In the wood, Poppy ran like a greyhound, fast and furious. Splashing through mud and puddles, with head down, to and fro', to and fro'. At the stables (cock still crowing), we turned left, off the main path, into a field of plough where Poppy ran in small circles with mud flying, ears flapping, tongue lolling and a manic look in her eye. Once this mania had passed, she calmed down a little and we went through some sheep, by-passing Doris's bench, for a break in the wood; tea for me and a chew for Poppy (which was devoured in a trice). Away again, as Poppy whimpered until we did, there were woodland mushrooms, Shaggy Parasols, the size of dinner plates, under a group of Alders. I chose a fine specimen and popped it into my rucksack. This would be a fine accompaniment with sausages for dinner!
Then down to the river, to the little Bourne. Just a bit swollen with rain, but fun for Poppy to splash and frolic. The pink Indian Balsam flowers thrive well into the Autumn. We followed the river as best we could. I was dragged off a lane by Poppy through Stinging Nettles into more plough. She was keen to follow something. What it was, we shall never know. Then we had a second break on a bench on the Green in Plaxtol Spout in the Sun. We said 'hello' to a young lady (with an antipodean accent) and a friendly Beagle and went on to Dunks Green through grassy fields, perfect for galloping about. I followed on. Near Puttenden Manor Farm, there were Greengages for the taking! I took some.
We followed the river still, until Bourne Mill. Here, I ate a few Blackberries, then we made our way home, before the rain came, where Poppy collapsed with exhaustion, and so did I!
Sunday 8 September 2013
Hopping time
8th September 2013
Mr Robin Redbreast sang a dawning melody as I prepared to pick up Dee and Maisie. The Sun was lemon yellow, bursting through clouds low in the east, and the sky above was cerulean blue. We drove to Goudhurst and parked by the village hall. The church on the hill was open and busy as we walked through the churchyard, along Maypole Lane and downhill to Smugley Farm, tripping over juvenile Pheasants on the way. They have found their voice, but the cocks don't yet have the full livery of colour. Maisie chased a few, but was unsuccessful. At Pattenden, the vision of the avenue of Limes with filtered sunlight playing on the dusty lane to Three Chimneys Farm, was a from a time when troubles were for the future. Boyhood adventures were played out here.
At the farm, on the hill in the field to be crossed, were cows and their calves. Dee balked at the thought of crossing, especially with Maisie. I told her that these cows had chased me a couple of years back to protect their calves. I had to run and jump a fence to escape! We decided to carry on into Bedgebury Wood and circumvent any trouble. In the grassy verges, purple Scabius and delicate yellow Hawkweed coloured the greening, away from the trees. Blackberries were consumed as they were presented; glistening, irresistible. We arrived at Bedgebury Cross thirty minutes later than planned, but we were safe. We huffed and puffed our way (or, at least I did) uphill to Kilndown and had breakfast by the old quarry, where fish jumped and the sky was reflected in the water.
Down through Kilndown Wood, it began to rain but the canopy of Sweet Chestnut kept us dry. When we came to the Hop fields, the rain had stopped, the Sun shone, and we reminisced about our childhood days spent hop-picking; with mum at the picking-bin or playing with bows and arrows using the hop-string. And paddling in the river, but always they were happy, sunny, days. Later when older, we would help in the oast house, shovelling hops into the pocket from the dryer to be pressed. A two bob payment for each pocket pressed. The old kitchens were still there at the hopper-huts: hearths back-to-back with a roof to keep off the rain, and a bar to hang the pots. Londoners, down to pick the hops, would cook there dinners there.
From there, we walked toward Lamberhurst and crossed the River Tiese at the foot-bridge to make our way back to Goudhurst. All the wheat was in and the ground was ploughed and harrowed. Rooks and pigeons were picking up whatever was left by the harvester. Further along the river, we came opposite the Hop fields. Dee asked why we didn't cross over the river there? I said that I couldn't swim; she said that she would give me a piggy-back across. Cheeky bugger!
Back at the river, on the Goudhurst road, we watched the water glistening and sparkling from the bridge at the old Hope Mill; the water running fast with energy for the Medway. And then the climb for Goudhurst through the fields. At a stile, four ponies were being entertained by a mother and three children, feeding them grass. We wanted to climb over, but the ponies became interested in Maisie. Maisie wanted to escape these great beasts, and there was a great hullabaloo! We went over safely in the end, and reached the top of the hill to enjoy the view across the Tiese valley. Horsmonden Church was lit by a beam of sunlight from the south, to be framed by the ancient farmland it has served for a thousand years.
Then home, after a final cup of tea, to make Blackberry and Apple jam!
Bitter-sweet Blackberries,
Bitter-sweet memories,
Life now, is reparation for
The life lived before.
Mr Robin Redbreast sang a dawning melody as I prepared to pick up Dee and Maisie. The Sun was lemon yellow, bursting through clouds low in the east, and the sky above was cerulean blue. We drove to Goudhurst and parked by the village hall. The church on the hill was open and busy as we walked through the churchyard, along Maypole Lane and downhill to Smugley Farm, tripping over juvenile Pheasants on the way. They have found their voice, but the cocks don't yet have the full livery of colour. Maisie chased a few, but was unsuccessful. At Pattenden, the vision of the avenue of Limes with filtered sunlight playing on the dusty lane to Three Chimneys Farm, was a from a time when troubles were for the future. Boyhood adventures were played out here.
At the farm, on the hill in the field to be crossed, were cows and their calves. Dee balked at the thought of crossing, especially with Maisie. I told her that these cows had chased me a couple of years back to protect their calves. I had to run and jump a fence to escape! We decided to carry on into Bedgebury Wood and circumvent any trouble. In the grassy verges, purple Scabius and delicate yellow Hawkweed coloured the greening, away from the trees. Blackberries were consumed as they were presented; glistening, irresistible. We arrived at Bedgebury Cross thirty minutes later than planned, but we were safe. We huffed and puffed our way (or, at least I did) uphill to Kilndown and had breakfast by the old quarry, where fish jumped and the sky was reflected in the water.
Down through Kilndown Wood, it began to rain but the canopy of Sweet Chestnut kept us dry. When we came to the Hop fields, the rain had stopped, the Sun shone, and we reminisced about our childhood days spent hop-picking; with mum at the picking-bin or playing with bows and arrows using the hop-string. And paddling in the river, but always they were happy, sunny, days. Later when older, we would help in the oast house, shovelling hops into the pocket from the dryer to be pressed. A two bob payment for each pocket pressed. The old kitchens were still there at the hopper-huts: hearths back-to-back with a roof to keep off the rain, and a bar to hang the pots. Londoners, down to pick the hops, would cook there dinners there.
From there, we walked toward Lamberhurst and crossed the River Tiese at the foot-bridge to make our way back to Goudhurst. All the wheat was in and the ground was ploughed and harrowed. Rooks and pigeons were picking up whatever was left by the harvester. Further along the river, we came opposite the Hop fields. Dee asked why we didn't cross over the river there? I said that I couldn't swim; she said that she would give me a piggy-back across. Cheeky bugger!
Back at the river, on the Goudhurst road, we watched the water glistening and sparkling from the bridge at the old Hope Mill; the water running fast with energy for the Medway. And then the climb for Goudhurst through the fields. At a stile, four ponies were being entertained by a mother and three children, feeding them grass. We wanted to climb over, but the ponies became interested in Maisie. Maisie wanted to escape these great beasts, and there was a great hullabaloo! We went over safely in the end, and reached the top of the hill to enjoy the view across the Tiese valley. Horsmonden Church was lit by a beam of sunlight from the south, to be framed by the ancient farmland it has served for a thousand years.
Then home, after a final cup of tea, to make Blackberry and Apple jam!
Bitter-sweet Blackberries,
Bitter-sweet memories,
Life now, is reparation for
The life lived before.
Sunday 1 September 2013
Harvest continued....
1st September 2013
Pinch, punch, it's the first of the month!
These are mornings of mist and chill. My gloves went on for the first time in an age. Into the parkland, Mr Reynard, with a white tip to his tail, crossed my path. And as he trotted, he stopped now and then to watch me. The Greylag Geese left their grazing and arrowed to the water at Clearhedges, honking as they went. The Buzzard family were over Clearhedges Wood, early for breakfast. Pretty heifers were grazing peacefully and stopped to greet me. I met Mr Fearless, the Rabbit; I told him that I had just seen Mr Reynard. He was too busy munching to talk. The only sound now, was the KRARK! of a Rook.
I fed on berries of all sorts for breakfast, until my belly gurgled, and had coffee with the black faced Suffolk Sheep for company. They are always very friendly. And all about me, Swallows and Martins were feeding and twittering; fattening themselves for the long journey to Africa. Some of them, for the first time. There were little freshly dug holes filled with turds by the hedgerow. Are they the Badgers mark?
I thanked Doris for the loan of her bench and continued down to Basted Mill. In the bottom field, sixteen Suffolk boys were contemplating their lives of leisure and sex. The little river was in a reflective mood, the soft light revealing its serpentine course through the valley.
Toward Scathes Wood, I trod through golden stubble and husks of wheat. At the top of the hill the view extends from Basted in the east to Sevenoaks in the west. Only those who may look can see the beauty of the valley; the Sun in the south east brightening the Autumnal green. Much of the wheat is in now. Then, at Shipbourne, the air was thick with dust from the harvester working in the field west of the church. And tractors with trailers carting off the grain for storage.
Dene Park Wood was quiet - perhaps I was the only one there - and I followed the Sun south for Clearhedges. Here, the Buzzards were making such a racket! Were there half a dozen birds up there in the tree tops? The ground was dry, hard and dusty, through the fields to Hadlow. The Sun, hot now, bade me take off my fleece.
Then it was time for home, in the hot Sun, to make Damson jam!
Pinch, punch, it's the first of the month!
These are mornings of mist and chill. My gloves went on for the first time in an age. Into the parkland, Mr Reynard, with a white tip to his tail, crossed my path. And as he trotted, he stopped now and then to watch me. The Greylag Geese left their grazing and arrowed to the water at Clearhedges, honking as they went. The Buzzard family were over Clearhedges Wood, early for breakfast. Pretty heifers were grazing peacefully and stopped to greet me. I met Mr Fearless, the Rabbit; I told him that I had just seen Mr Reynard. He was too busy munching to talk. The only sound now, was the KRARK! of a Rook.
I fed on berries of all sorts for breakfast, until my belly gurgled, and had coffee with the black faced Suffolk Sheep for company. They are always very friendly. And all about me, Swallows and Martins were feeding and twittering; fattening themselves for the long journey to Africa. Some of them, for the first time. There were little freshly dug holes filled with turds by the hedgerow. Are they the Badgers mark?
I thanked Doris for the loan of her bench and continued down to Basted Mill. In the bottom field, sixteen Suffolk boys were contemplating their lives of leisure and sex. The little river was in a reflective mood, the soft light revealing its serpentine course through the valley.
Toward Scathes Wood, I trod through golden stubble and husks of wheat. At the top of the hill the view extends from Basted in the east to Sevenoaks in the west. Only those who may look can see the beauty of the valley; the Sun in the south east brightening the Autumnal green. Much of the wheat is in now. Then, at Shipbourne, the air was thick with dust from the harvester working in the field west of the church. And tractors with trailers carting off the grain for storage.
Dene Park Wood was quiet - perhaps I was the only one there - and I followed the Sun south for Clearhedges. Here, the Buzzards were making such a racket! Were there half a dozen birds up there in the tree tops? The ground was dry, hard and dusty, through the fields to Hadlow. The Sun, hot now, bade me take off my fleece.
Then it was time for home, in the hot Sun, to make Damson jam!
Sunday 25 August 2013
Harvest, the beginnings
25th August 2013
Dawn broke reluctantly this morning. The light was dull behind a dark blue-grey curtain. The birds were quiet in their roosts and the air was cool after the long rain; the rancid air was washed clean. In the parkland, a black and white heifer was reaching up to the lower branches of an Oak, giraffe-like, and plucking leaves with an out-stretched tongue. At Oxen Hoath, the birds were singing among the Limes and Beeches as if it was spring again. Then all was quiet.
I approached a grey rabbit. he didn't run from me. I asked him why he wasn't afraid. The whole World was reflected in his dark bold eyes.
I broke my fast with bitter-sweet Blackberries and soft Loganberries. Up onto Gover Hill, the mist was rain-filled but dry under the broad Sweet Chestnut trees. The rain pitter-pattered sharply on the leaves above me and the way was a dimly-lit tunnel. I came upon a Rowan tree, its bunches of brilliant scarlet berries brightened the place.
At Crouch, the Damsons were almost ready, but still a little bitter, so they were left to ripen. I forsook Doris's bench and drank coffee under an Oak in the wood near Basted Mill. And then walking by the Bourne, sunlight filtered through the trees and spangled the rain-soaked foliage. Then up the hill from the river, apples invited me into the Brambly orchard. I accepted and popped a few large ones into my bag. At the orchard bottom, by the little wooden footbridge over the clear-running brook, I took off my coat for the uphill walk to Yopps Green. My legs were soaked by the long wet grass, and halfway, at the edge of of the meadow, the bungalow there had burnt to the ground, just a few blackened bricks were standing. The sum total of a life lived was just a pile of stinking, smoking ash.
A second cup of coffee was taken under a Copper Beech in Yopps Green, in case of a shower. It was much warmer and doves cooed about me. Opposite, the Victorian orchard was heaving under the weight of fruit: apples, plums and pears.
Through fields of wet golden Barley, in the blue distance, Hadlow Tower dominated the valley; a Gothic grandiose monument to silliness, but it shows my way home. I had one more coffee in front of the Kentish Rifleman, on the strangely-carved pine bench in Dunks Green. Then the final leg took me back to the Bourne. A family of Buzzards were crying and wheeling over Clearhedges Wood, sometimes harried by Rooks, but always, they were hunting.
I continued homeward, with muddied boots and a belly-full of blackberries.
Dawn broke reluctantly this morning. The light was dull behind a dark blue-grey curtain. The birds were quiet in their roosts and the air was cool after the long rain; the rancid air was washed clean. In the parkland, a black and white heifer was reaching up to the lower branches of an Oak, giraffe-like, and plucking leaves with an out-stretched tongue. At Oxen Hoath, the birds were singing among the Limes and Beeches as if it was spring again. Then all was quiet.
I approached a grey rabbit. he didn't run from me. I asked him why he wasn't afraid. The whole World was reflected in his dark bold eyes.
I broke my fast with bitter-sweet Blackberries and soft Loganberries. Up onto Gover Hill, the mist was rain-filled but dry under the broad Sweet Chestnut trees. The rain pitter-pattered sharply on the leaves above me and the way was a dimly-lit tunnel. I came upon a Rowan tree, its bunches of brilliant scarlet berries brightened the place.
At Crouch, the Damsons were almost ready, but still a little bitter, so they were left to ripen. I forsook Doris's bench and drank coffee under an Oak in the wood near Basted Mill. And then walking by the Bourne, sunlight filtered through the trees and spangled the rain-soaked foliage. Then up the hill from the river, apples invited me into the Brambly orchard. I accepted and popped a few large ones into my bag. At the orchard bottom, by the little wooden footbridge over the clear-running brook, I took off my coat for the uphill walk to Yopps Green. My legs were soaked by the long wet grass, and halfway, at the edge of of the meadow, the bungalow there had burnt to the ground, just a few blackened bricks were standing. The sum total of a life lived was just a pile of stinking, smoking ash.
A second cup of coffee was taken under a Copper Beech in Yopps Green, in case of a shower. It was much warmer and doves cooed about me. Opposite, the Victorian orchard was heaving under the weight of fruit: apples, plums and pears.
Through fields of wet golden Barley, in the blue distance, Hadlow Tower dominated the valley; a Gothic grandiose monument to silliness, but it shows my way home. I had one more coffee in front of the Kentish Rifleman, on the strangely-carved pine bench in Dunks Green. Then the final leg took me back to the Bourne. A family of Buzzards were crying and wheeling over Clearhedges Wood, sometimes harried by Rooks, but always, they were hunting.
I continued homeward, with muddied boots and a belly-full of blackberries.
Sunday 18 August 2013
Hops!
18th August 2013
The ground was damp from the night's rain and it was cool. Low dark purple clouds scudded eastward with a pale blue backdrop. Collared Doves coo-cood softly all about me but there was no other voice as I left for Goudhurst. I parked at the loos and walked up the hill. As I passed the pond, the fountain started. Not very impressive, but better than the piddling squirt which was there before. On the hill at the church, all was locked and bolted. Then I went down the hill to Smugley farm. And dozens of young Pheasants went before me, still with their camouflaged plumage but panicked and cheep-cheeped and ran in all directions to escape me. This path brought me to the Bedgebury road and I followed it to Marlingate and the avenue of beautiful Limes (Lindon trees) to Three Chimneys Farm. The ground was littered with the fruit of the Limes and the leaflets; little balls on a wing.
From Three Chimneys (after purchasing some courgettes for 30 pence, money into a jar!), I went across to the Great Lake at Bedgebury. Grebes were diving, and a great arrow of Greylag Geese honked their way to the lake, the formation broke and they landed gracefully, with under-carriage down. I could hear Mr Buzzard crying over the forest, but couldn't see him.
The lane to Kilndown from Bedgebury Cross is a dark green corridor in summer, with little sunlight. The smell was as always: earthy, with leaf mold, damp and fern. The verge in the sunlight at Rogers Rough was overflowing with Great Willowherb, as tall as me, and still delicately pink. The Church clock struck nine as I went by and the steeple between the old school and the mock country cottage, reminded me of past times.
And then into Kilndown Wood, down to the River Bewl, and into hop gardens at Little Scotney Farm. I had breakfast in a garden with the familiar scent of the flowers which were hanging from the bines. They will be ready in maybe two weeks, but the old ways will not be used to pick them. It is was heartening to be in the well-kept gardens and memories came flooding. The hops are used in a National Trust bitter beer. Very good it is, too. Comma Butterflies seemed to favour the gardens and were busy about the place as I drank my coffee sitting on an old garden-pole.
The path then took me through sheep and a half dozen nanny goats (with a handsome Billy), along the River Tiese to Lamberhurst. The path goes under the carriageway to the village, and is a wild flower paradise with sunny Fleabane; wild Angelica, popular with butterflies and bees and Bistort and Ragwort everywhere. Velvety brown Reedmace standing proudly erect, edged the path to Lamberhurst village where I took another break at the War memorial opposite the old school.
The clock in the tower struck eleven as I left for the final leg back to Goudhurst, through the golf course and then through field after field of golden wheat, gently moving in the warm breezes. Along the track, among the blackberries, Great Mullein of the brightest yellow and with furry leaves commanded the hedgerows. I heard Mr Buzzard again and then saw him, soaring over Kilndown Woods, fingers spread wide. Some wheat had been harvested over near the Goudhurst road. By the Green Cross Inn, I feasted on the sweetest, fattest blackberries, then made the ascent to Goudhurst, the final steep 100 metre climb; but the reward is the view North West over the Tiese valley and the patchwork countryside of the Weald.
I saw Máni watching me last night.
His face, lit by Sól, was askance.
What did he want from me?
But he is dead; he will not answer.
The ground was damp from the night's rain and it was cool. Low dark purple clouds scudded eastward with a pale blue backdrop. Collared Doves coo-cood softly all about me but there was no other voice as I left for Goudhurst. I parked at the loos and walked up the hill. As I passed the pond, the fountain started. Not very impressive, but better than the piddling squirt which was there before. On the hill at the church, all was locked and bolted. Then I went down the hill to Smugley farm. And dozens of young Pheasants went before me, still with their camouflaged plumage but panicked and cheep-cheeped and ran in all directions to escape me. This path brought me to the Bedgebury road and I followed it to Marlingate and the avenue of beautiful Limes (Lindon trees) to Three Chimneys Farm. The ground was littered with the fruit of the Limes and the leaflets; little balls on a wing.
From Three Chimneys (after purchasing some courgettes for 30 pence, money into a jar!), I went across to the Great Lake at Bedgebury. Grebes were diving, and a great arrow of Greylag Geese honked their way to the lake, the formation broke and they landed gracefully, with under-carriage down. I could hear Mr Buzzard crying over the forest, but couldn't see him.
The lane to Kilndown from Bedgebury Cross is a dark green corridor in summer, with little sunlight. The smell was as always: earthy, with leaf mold, damp and fern. The verge in the sunlight at Rogers Rough was overflowing with Great Willowherb, as tall as me, and still delicately pink. The Church clock struck nine as I went by and the steeple between the old school and the mock country cottage, reminded me of past times.
And then into Kilndown Wood, down to the River Bewl, and into hop gardens at Little Scotney Farm. I had breakfast in a garden with the familiar scent of the flowers which were hanging from the bines. They will be ready in maybe two weeks, but the old ways will not be used to pick them. It is was heartening to be in the well-kept gardens and memories came flooding. The hops are used in a National Trust bitter beer. Very good it is, too. Comma Butterflies seemed to favour the gardens and were busy about the place as I drank my coffee sitting on an old garden-pole.
The path then took me through sheep and a half dozen nanny goats (with a handsome Billy), along the River Tiese to Lamberhurst. The path goes under the carriageway to the village, and is a wild flower paradise with sunny Fleabane; wild Angelica, popular with butterflies and bees and Bistort and Ragwort everywhere. Velvety brown Reedmace standing proudly erect, edged the path to Lamberhurst village where I took another break at the War memorial opposite the old school.
The clock in the tower struck eleven as I left for the final leg back to Goudhurst, through the golf course and then through field after field of golden wheat, gently moving in the warm breezes. Along the track, among the blackberries, Great Mullein of the brightest yellow and with furry leaves commanded the hedgerows. I heard Mr Buzzard again and then saw him, soaring over Kilndown Woods, fingers spread wide. Some wheat had been harvested over near the Goudhurst road. By the Green Cross Inn, I feasted on the sweetest, fattest blackberries, then made the ascent to Goudhurst, the final steep 100 metre climb; but the reward is the view North West over the Tiese valley and the patchwork countryside of the Weald.
I saw Máni watching me last night.
His face, lit by Sól, was askance.
What did he want from me?
But he is dead; he will not answer.
Sunday 11 August 2013
Home and dry
11th August 2012
It was warm and sunny and with puffy clouds to rival Constable, as I left home this morning. A cat was chasing a mouse across the road at the Mill. The cat stopped and the mouse escaped; I apologised for distracting her, but she was well fed, I told her.
Into Oxen Hoath, the fields were dry, parched and sun-bleached. Rabbits bobbed their tails escaping and the cows grazed contentedly. A young Buzzard, very pale, came to me and circled just overhead. He was silent but seemed to be curious. I could see every feather. Then he alighted a branch and watched me leave.
The fruit was ripening in the orchards and the irrigation pumps were working. The Loganberries were soft and juicy. I looked back and the rising Sun lit the Gothic Tower in sharp relief. Into the wood at Gover Hill, Beech mast rained down on me: squirrels were feeding on the unripe kernels, and my feet crunched on Hazelnuts robbed in the same way by those pesky Americans. The songsters were silent - just a few cheeps, except Mr Robin Redbreast who will always sing if asked. A Crow cawed as he flew over the wood and the sound echoed eerily.
The Walnuts and Cobnuts looked fine and promising as I went through Allen's Farm orchards; better than last year, which was disastrous. Along the bridleway, the Damsons in the hedgerow were green and plump, and those in the Sun were purpling, but bitter yet! At Basted Mill on the bridge over the Bourne, I said 'hello' to a Mute Swan. Of course, he didn't answer me. Along the peaceful river, the water was tinkling musically over stones, playing a soft melody; or drifting silently as the river wended its way through the trees. Rosebay is setting but Great Willowherb is still tempting bees to its pink offering. Bramley apples are almost ready to join Blackberries in a pie! The Sun warmed and Speckled Woods, Meadow Browns and Commas greeted me as I went through the golden wheat and barley fields. The black, claw-like seed pods of Vetch, lined the lanes and Sorrel's dark brown seeds filled my boots.
As I rested in Scathes Wood, looking out to a field, thousands of fairies floated in the air, being released from thistles on the uncultivated edges. And Rosebay seeds joined them, like cottony feathers, dancing and moving at the will of the breezes. The clock at Ightham Mote chimed eleven as I left the wood.
The Green at Shipbourne had been mowed, as had the meadow beyond. Apples reddened in cottage gardens. The rides in Dene Park Wood had Fleabane (a lousy name for a sunny flower) to prettify the way, with their plump centres and sunburst petals. Out of Clearhedges, a Buzzard perched on a tree and ignored me; a Peacock butterfly sunned in the dust and objected to my shadow, so moved on to a better place. A man had left his tractor and was laying stretched out on a bale of straw, taking the Sun, in a wheat field. Then continued his baling as I made my way homeward in the increasing heat.
It was warm and sunny and with puffy clouds to rival Constable, as I left home this morning. A cat was chasing a mouse across the road at the Mill. The cat stopped and the mouse escaped; I apologised for distracting her, but she was well fed, I told her.
Into Oxen Hoath, the fields were dry, parched and sun-bleached. Rabbits bobbed their tails escaping and the cows grazed contentedly. A young Buzzard, very pale, came to me and circled just overhead. He was silent but seemed to be curious. I could see every feather. Then he alighted a branch and watched me leave.
The fruit was ripening in the orchards and the irrigation pumps were working. The Loganberries were soft and juicy. I looked back and the rising Sun lit the Gothic Tower in sharp relief. Into the wood at Gover Hill, Beech mast rained down on me: squirrels were feeding on the unripe kernels, and my feet crunched on Hazelnuts robbed in the same way by those pesky Americans. The songsters were silent - just a few cheeps, except Mr Robin Redbreast who will always sing if asked. A Crow cawed as he flew over the wood and the sound echoed eerily.
The Walnuts and Cobnuts looked fine and promising as I went through Allen's Farm orchards; better than last year, which was disastrous. Along the bridleway, the Damsons in the hedgerow were green and plump, and those in the Sun were purpling, but bitter yet! At Basted Mill on the bridge over the Bourne, I said 'hello' to a Mute Swan. Of course, he didn't answer me. Along the peaceful river, the water was tinkling musically over stones, playing a soft melody; or drifting silently as the river wended its way through the trees. Rosebay is setting but Great Willowherb is still tempting bees to its pink offering. Bramley apples are almost ready to join Blackberries in a pie! The Sun warmed and Speckled Woods, Meadow Browns and Commas greeted me as I went through the golden wheat and barley fields. The black, claw-like seed pods of Vetch, lined the lanes and Sorrel's dark brown seeds filled my boots.
As I rested in Scathes Wood, looking out to a field, thousands of fairies floated in the air, being released from thistles on the uncultivated edges. And Rosebay seeds joined them, like cottony feathers, dancing and moving at the will of the breezes. The clock at Ightham Mote chimed eleven as I left the wood.
The Green at Shipbourne had been mowed, as had the meadow beyond. Apples reddened in cottage gardens. The rides in Dene Park Wood had Fleabane (a lousy name for a sunny flower) to prettify the way, with their plump centres and sunburst petals. Out of Clearhedges, a Buzzard perched on a tree and ignored me; a Peacock butterfly sunned in the dust and objected to my shadow, so moved on to a better place. A man had left his tractor and was laying stretched out on a bale of straw, taking the Sun, in a wheat field. Then continued his baling as I made my way homeward in the increasing heat.
Wednesday 7 August 2013
Tuesday and Wednesday in Wales
6th & 7th August 2013
It stopped raining on Monday evening.
On Tuesday evening the air was cool and blue above. The sheep on the eastern hills were lit by the setting Sun; the clouds on the horizon were turning magenta. There was the sound of tumbling water from the brook at the far side of the meadow behind the trees. Wheeling House Martins caught their supper into the evening and as the light faded, Charlotte fished with a net (the poles tied together with her shoe laces) intent on catching something - seven fish and a newt!
--------------------------------------
Breakfast was on the patio as the warm Sun rose over the hill and the sheep marched in procession to the next place to munch.
Then we were off to Llyn Brianne RSPB nature reserve for a walk around the woods there. Taking a clockwise direction, we went through deep-green, open broad-leafed woods with moss and lichen encrusted trees. The Bluebells had gone to seed long ago and must be a wonder in May. All was peaceful. We met two sheep with their lambs on the path and stepped aside to allow them to pass as they seemed determined to go to their destination.
We came to the river and found a place to have lunch below, at the river's edge where there is a confluence of two rivers surging over falls into a large pool where fish jumped. Kay wasn't so keen to climb down, but bravely did! After lunch, we cooled our hot feet in the chilled water - so cold!
The roar of the falls drowned all sounds and a calling Kite could only just be heard. We then followed the water-worn boulder-strewn Afon Tywi in a roller coaster path among the rocks and tree roots to finally emerge at the place we started from. And there were the sheep, grazing the fresh grass down at the river's edge among the Meadowsweet. The walk was a contrast of peace and drama.
On the drive back to Meadow cottage, we stopped at a tea room for refreshment, with the peak of Pen Lifau framed by the trees in the south west. Afterwards as we drove on south, The Lady of the Lake was in the distance, dominating the horizon.
Sunday 4 August 2013
Meadow Cottage
3rd and 4th August 2013
Venus and the young Moon rose together, hand in hand. Orion placed Rigel carefully and tiptoed across the pale dawning sky until Sól washed away the celestial travellers.
The stone cottage, hidden away, sits on the side of a hill, overlooking a valley eastward toward Llandovery. Wild flowers in the garden perfume the still summer air; Meadowsweet, Mallow, Iris, Indian Balsam and bright yellow Agrimony are sheltered by Hazel, Holly and Ash with ferns greening the earth, under. On the bank at the side, old twisted bitter-apple trees meander toward the Sun and Honeysuckle and roses beautify the perimeter fence.
A spring trickles through it all, clear and fresh, searching for y Afon Mynys in the valley below. Birds can bathe here, a safe, secret place. Blue Tits, Great Tits, Dunnocks and Nuthatches queued on the branches, politely waiting for their turn on the bird-table. Then Mr Grey Squirrel rudely chased off the rightful feeders, giving Americans a bad name. Another came; he tapped the window, asking to enter. How rude!
In the meadow before us, sheep with black faces and knees (Beulah Speckled Face Sheep), recently shorn, graze peacefully, uncaring; perhaps a little curious of our presence, but then continue to graze. A pond, lined with Iris and reed is the host to dragonflies darting here and there, looking for special places to lay eggs; and damselflies, slender and delicate, of the brightest blue. Fish ripple the surface and Skaters defy drowning, dimpling the water.
It was warm, peaceful and idyllic.
Then it rained. And it didn't stop. A short walk was taken up the hill with the gang above Penrhiw in the rain; every step a reminder of my limited breath. Rosebay Willowherb is everywhere; as is yellow and purple Vetch, and teeny yellow flowers of some sort, but so pretty. Most exciting of all, ripe raspberries! Then back to the cottage for a desperate change of clothing and some refreshment awaiting us at the big house.
Venus and the young Moon rose together, hand in hand. Orion placed Rigel carefully and tiptoed across the pale dawning sky until Sól washed away the celestial travellers.
The stone cottage, hidden away, sits on the side of a hill, overlooking a valley eastward toward Llandovery. Wild flowers in the garden perfume the still summer air; Meadowsweet, Mallow, Iris, Indian Balsam and bright yellow Agrimony are sheltered by Hazel, Holly and Ash with ferns greening the earth, under. On the bank at the side, old twisted bitter-apple trees meander toward the Sun and Honeysuckle and roses beautify the perimeter fence.
A spring trickles through it all, clear and fresh, searching for y Afon Mynys in the valley below. Birds can bathe here, a safe, secret place. Blue Tits, Great Tits, Dunnocks and Nuthatches queued on the branches, politely waiting for their turn on the bird-table. Then Mr Grey Squirrel rudely chased off the rightful feeders, giving Americans a bad name. Another came; he tapped the window, asking to enter. How rude!
In the meadow before us, sheep with black faces and knees (Beulah Speckled Face Sheep), recently shorn, graze peacefully, uncaring; perhaps a little curious of our presence, but then continue to graze. A pond, lined with Iris and reed is the host to dragonflies darting here and there, looking for special places to lay eggs; and damselflies, slender and delicate, of the brightest blue. Fish ripple the surface and Skaters defy drowning, dimpling the water.
It was warm, peaceful and idyllic.
Then it rained. And it didn't stop. A short walk was taken up the hill with the gang above Penrhiw in the rain; every step a reminder of my limited breath. Rosebay Willowherb is everywhere; as is yellow and purple Vetch, and teeny yellow flowers of some sort, but so pretty. Most exciting of all, ripe raspberries! Then back to the cottage for a desperate change of clothing and some refreshment awaiting us at the big house.
Sunday 28 July 2013
A (slightly) cooler walk.
28th July 2013
Only Mr Robin Redbreast sang as I woke.
Dee and Maisie joined me this morning at Kilndown for another Lamberhurst - Hook Green walk. It was decidedly cooler after the previous night's rain and I wondered whether I should have worn a fleece. Dee said, good grief! There was a strong breeze also, and the chill could be felt going down through Kilndown Woods toward Scotney. At the little River Bewl, the Flag is finished, but Great Willowherb is on each bank and it was very peaceful there. The fields were occupied with sheep of all sorts. And black lambs which protested at Maisie's presence. At the top, horses shared the field, including a Clydesdale (I think), with its feathers trimmed. A very quiet and gentle boy.
The path to the Tiese was quite different from a couple of weeks ago; there were great clumps of Rosebay Willowherb and Great Willowherb, but not together, and masses of yellow Woad. There were huge brambly bushes, with immature blackberries (yum). The Giant Hogweed was brown and wilting, not standing proud as before. It would be useless as an umbrella now. The Indian Balsam was even more intrusive. I don't believe it can be controlled; it's too late. It is a very attractive flower though. I ate some beans from the bean crop - not too bad!
There were plenty of golfers about at the golf course at Lamberhurst church, but we passed safely. The Meadowsweet along the Tiese is sadly ending and going brown, losing its delicious perfume; the only Vetch was yellow and the Bracken was taking over the banks. But the Honeysuckle persisted.
Breakfast was on the green at Hook Green, under a young Oak. Maisie was on the lead, and she wandered around the tree and tied us up! It was just 20C by this time, quite comfortable and a very pleasant break.
Over at Blue Cats farm, the Corn Camomile had exploded over the bridleway and was the preferred place for butterflies of every hue, including Peacocks. The Rape was all set and now must dry out. Large Whites were busy over it, laying eggs. Mr Buzzard visited us for some time and we watched him through our glasses as he wheeled and soared, then flew off toward Bewl Water. The water at Bewl was very choppy and made me feel quite nauseous at the thought of boating. A strong breeze came across from Wadhurst, and the dinghies fairly flew! The temperature increased considerably as we went through.
Along by the water under the trees, Dee tripped spectacularly, and later slid down on her bum to the water's edge. I couldn't help chuckling, and I apologised. The next cup of coffee was under the great Beech in Chingley Wood, and peace and quiet (there is a carving in the bark on this tree dated 1920). Then we went out to the beautiful meadow where more Peacocks and Browns flitted among the Centaury and grasshoppers chirruped. The Blackcurrants looked almost ready to eat, but I resisted! I satisfied myself with some wild cherries, but as they were from the ground, Dee refused: in case a dog had peed on them!
We crossed the A21 with ease at The Post Boys and struggled over the stile into Cats Wood, and followed the footpath to Combwell Priory. Here, Maisie touched an electric fence and got a bit of a shock. Yelp! Into Shearnfold Wood, a Roe Deer crossed our path. A wonderful sight, as I hadn't seen deer in these woods before. She leaped away with her white arse bouncing through the trees!
At the Quarry in Kilndown, one more coffee was drunk and it was time for home.
With a little moss
On the clay,
Add a little water,
And you're away!
Only Mr Robin Redbreast sang as I woke.
Dee and Maisie joined me this morning at Kilndown for another Lamberhurst - Hook Green walk. It was decidedly cooler after the previous night's rain and I wondered whether I should have worn a fleece. Dee said, good grief! There was a strong breeze also, and the chill could be felt going down through Kilndown Woods toward Scotney. At the little River Bewl, the Flag is finished, but Great Willowherb is on each bank and it was very peaceful there. The fields were occupied with sheep of all sorts. And black lambs which protested at Maisie's presence. At the top, horses shared the field, including a Clydesdale (I think), with its feathers trimmed. A very quiet and gentle boy.
The path to the Tiese was quite different from a couple of weeks ago; there were great clumps of Rosebay Willowherb and Great Willowherb, but not together, and masses of yellow Woad. There were huge brambly bushes, with immature blackberries (yum). The Giant Hogweed was brown and wilting, not standing proud as before. It would be useless as an umbrella now. The Indian Balsam was even more intrusive. I don't believe it can be controlled; it's too late. It is a very attractive flower though. I ate some beans from the bean crop - not too bad!
There were plenty of golfers about at the golf course at Lamberhurst church, but we passed safely. The Meadowsweet along the Tiese is sadly ending and going brown, losing its delicious perfume; the only Vetch was yellow and the Bracken was taking over the banks. But the Honeysuckle persisted.
Breakfast was on the green at Hook Green, under a young Oak. Maisie was on the lead, and she wandered around the tree and tied us up! It was just 20C by this time, quite comfortable and a very pleasant break.
Over at Blue Cats farm, the Corn Camomile had exploded over the bridleway and was the preferred place for butterflies of every hue, including Peacocks. The Rape was all set and now must dry out. Large Whites were busy over it, laying eggs. Mr Buzzard visited us for some time and we watched him through our glasses as he wheeled and soared, then flew off toward Bewl Water. The water at Bewl was very choppy and made me feel quite nauseous at the thought of boating. A strong breeze came across from Wadhurst, and the dinghies fairly flew! The temperature increased considerably as we went through.
Along by the water under the trees, Dee tripped spectacularly, and later slid down on her bum to the water's edge. I couldn't help chuckling, and I apologised. The next cup of coffee was under the great Beech in Chingley Wood, and peace and quiet (there is a carving in the bark on this tree dated 1920). Then we went out to the beautiful meadow where more Peacocks and Browns flitted among the Centaury and grasshoppers chirruped. The Blackcurrants looked almost ready to eat, but I resisted! I satisfied myself with some wild cherries, but as they were from the ground, Dee refused: in case a dog had peed on them!
We crossed the A21 with ease at The Post Boys and struggled over the stile into Cats Wood, and followed the footpath to Combwell Priory. Here, Maisie touched an electric fence and got a bit of a shock. Yelp! Into Shearnfold Wood, a Roe Deer crossed our path. A wonderful sight, as I hadn't seen deer in these woods before. She leaped away with her white arse bouncing through the trees!
At the Quarry in Kilndown, one more coffee was drunk and it was time for home.
With a little moss
On the clay,
Add a little water,
And you're away!
Monday 22 July 2013
Misty morning
21 July 2013
It was so cool at 6.30am and the Sun was struggling to appear from behind the cloud and mist. At the Bourne Mill, the water ran over the weir and glistened silver as it fell. A Song Thrush sang a complicated tune as I walked through. I took the path through Hadlow College grounds toward Poult Wood, fighting through a forest of Hogweed, Great Willowherb and purple Thistles pricking my legs. On the Poult Wood golf course path, in a small meadow at The Poult house, a Fox cub with spindly legs, hunting alone, came toward me and stopped. He was perhaps twenty feet away. He looked at me, and I looked at him. We both stood stock still. Then, I said, 'hello', and he scarpered - right between two rabbits, who were startled and panicked, not knowing which way to escape. No worries, Reynard junior was gone!
At the golf course, I dodged a flying ball from the left and went through, to laughter from the golfers (ruining a good walk, to paraphrase Mark Twain), on to Grange Farm. The farm buildings there had been fenced off and the path diverted. All the tiles had been stripped. A conversion was in progress: the eponymous oast house dwelling.
On to Horns Lodge and Coldharbour. Two kilometers of tarmac and stony track. Wealthy people live along here; out of the way, amongst peaceful farmland and wooded places. Off Riding Lane, the meadows had been cut for hay. It is very difficult to walk across the bundles waiting to be bailed.
At Underriver Farm a Buzzard took off from the field as I went over the stile, leaving behind whatever he had caught for breakfast. I reached Underriver, at around 9.30, and I prepared myself for the climb up Kettles Hill. At the base, there is a clear spring which flows over stones and pebbles. Chaffinches, Goldfinches and a Blackbird were bathing and were startled as I came to them. Then I climbed up and up, without stopping, as Dee and I used to when training for the Coast to Coast. I was very proud of myself at the top, but extremely breathless! I carried on to One Tree Hill for breakfast, overlooking a misty valley, far into the distance.
I came off the Greensand Way at Willmot Hill into the meadow which showed a lot of evidence of deer; footprints and droppings. And down the bottom, the apples in the hedgerow were swelling splendidly! Going into the woods at Budds was a relief to be out of the Sun. I went off the path to have a pee and beside me were the richest, tastiest cherries ever! I took a hand-full before the foxes did. And then out into the blazing Sun to St. Giles' Church at Shipbourne. Another cup of coffee revived me and I went on to Home Farm and then to the River Bourne via Dunks Green. In the fields of Rape, the air was thick with Cabbage Whites, fluttering and flitting in a confusing dance. At the confluence with the mill stream, slender blue damselflies settled on the Hazel.
The last kilometer or so was hard under the hot Sun and home and the cool of a shower, very welcoming!
It was so cool at 6.30am and the Sun was struggling to appear from behind the cloud and mist. At the Bourne Mill, the water ran over the weir and glistened silver as it fell. A Song Thrush sang a complicated tune as I walked through. I took the path through Hadlow College grounds toward Poult Wood, fighting through a forest of Hogweed, Great Willowherb and purple Thistles pricking my legs. On the Poult Wood golf course path, in a small meadow at The Poult house, a Fox cub with spindly legs, hunting alone, came toward me and stopped. He was perhaps twenty feet away. He looked at me, and I looked at him. We both stood stock still. Then, I said, 'hello', and he scarpered - right between two rabbits, who were startled and panicked, not knowing which way to escape. No worries, Reynard junior was gone!
At the golf course, I dodged a flying ball from the left and went through, to laughter from the golfers (ruining a good walk, to paraphrase Mark Twain), on to Grange Farm. The farm buildings there had been fenced off and the path diverted. All the tiles had been stripped. A conversion was in progress: the eponymous oast house dwelling.
On to Horns Lodge and Coldharbour. Two kilometers of tarmac and stony track. Wealthy people live along here; out of the way, amongst peaceful farmland and wooded places. Off Riding Lane, the meadows had been cut for hay. It is very difficult to walk across the bundles waiting to be bailed.
At Underriver Farm a Buzzard took off from the field as I went over the stile, leaving behind whatever he had caught for breakfast. I reached Underriver, at around 9.30, and I prepared myself for the climb up Kettles Hill. At the base, there is a clear spring which flows over stones and pebbles. Chaffinches, Goldfinches and a Blackbird were bathing and were startled as I came to them. Then I climbed up and up, without stopping, as Dee and I used to when training for the Coast to Coast. I was very proud of myself at the top, but extremely breathless! I carried on to One Tree Hill for breakfast, overlooking a misty valley, far into the distance.
I came off the Greensand Way at Willmot Hill into the meadow which showed a lot of evidence of deer; footprints and droppings. And down the bottom, the apples in the hedgerow were swelling splendidly! Going into the woods at Budds was a relief to be out of the Sun. I went off the path to have a pee and beside me were the richest, tastiest cherries ever! I took a hand-full before the foxes did. And then out into the blazing Sun to St. Giles' Church at Shipbourne. Another cup of coffee revived me and I went on to Home Farm and then to the River Bourne via Dunks Green. In the fields of Rape, the air was thick with Cabbage Whites, fluttering and flitting in a confusing dance. At the confluence with the mill stream, slender blue damselflies settled on the Hazel.
The last kilometer or so was hard under the hot Sun and home and the cool of a shower, very welcoming!
Wednesday 17 July 2013
Hot mid-week special!
17th July 2013
Marden is flat. So a walk from here is challenging, but the only way is up! I left Marden at 9am, and cut across toward the River Tiese. The footpath was dotted with glossy red wild cherries, like drops of blood. The cherries are sweet, but not fulfilling. Out in the fields, along the track, Fox poo was crammed with cherry stones, his main diet! At Little Cheveney farm, I came out onto a lane over a stile and was met by workmen repairing the road. They looked extremely hot working their pneumatic drills in the Sun. The day's heat was increasing, but there was some shade along the paths and tracks by the river.The path drifted away from the Tiese and followed a dried-up brook for a while. In a short distance, the path took me up toward Haymans Hill and the orchards there. I walked along a windbreak avenue of Lime and Hazel, with some shade. And then into Horsmonden, to stop on the village green for lunch, under an Oak.
My thermometer read 29C in the shade. A lone swift searched for insects above, and the only birdsong was a Collared Dove and House Sparrows. A Small White fluttered by, and plump ladies waddled across the green calling, cooee! to friends out shopping. After coffee and some nibbles, I set off again for the return journey to Marden via Swags Farm. The farmhouse there is a beautiful old black and white building in the valley, and the old barns have been converted into dwellings. These barns would, of course be lost, if it wasn't for the money spent on renovation, but it is sad that they are lost to the working farm and the farming industry. The remnants of a pear orchard survive along the track leaving there; saved as a decorative feature to delight the visitor. The fruit was filling out well; It would be more delightful if they were ripe.
I took an ancient track north, at Yew Tree farm (notices up - planning permission sought to convert old barns), down, through vast fields of pale blue Linseed. At The Poplars, a Kestrel alighted the top of a pole and was not concerned about me watching him from below. From August Pitts farm, the footpath was badly marked, overgrown and obviously not frequented. I took an age to find the route, and the Sun beat down, the grass seeds worked their barbs through my socks and pricked my ankles. The path led me along three kilometers of open farmland. My thermometer read 32C; it was a joy to reach The White Hart at Claygate!
A short rest there and I was away again for the last leg alongside the railway track. In spite of the heat and discomfort, I could enjoy the flowers which grow all along the hedgerow: bright yellow Woad, lovely pink Centaury, Vetches of all colours, and by the River Tiese, the Field Rose, tumbling and dropping onto the water, pure white petals and golden centre. In the sky above the railroad, a Buzzard cried and took the currents of air beneath his huge wings, to glide effortlessly, higher and higher.
I was finally brought back to Marden and drank the last of my water. That was a hard walk. But I am a VIKING!
Marden is flat. So a walk from here is challenging, but the only way is up! I left Marden at 9am, and cut across toward the River Tiese. The footpath was dotted with glossy red wild cherries, like drops of blood. The cherries are sweet, but not fulfilling. Out in the fields, along the track, Fox poo was crammed with cherry stones, his main diet! At Little Cheveney farm, I came out onto a lane over a stile and was met by workmen repairing the road. They looked extremely hot working their pneumatic drills in the Sun. The day's heat was increasing, but there was some shade along the paths and tracks by the river.The path drifted away from the Tiese and followed a dried-up brook for a while. In a short distance, the path took me up toward Haymans Hill and the orchards there. I walked along a windbreak avenue of Lime and Hazel, with some shade. And then into Horsmonden, to stop on the village green for lunch, under an Oak.
My thermometer read 29C in the shade. A lone swift searched for insects above, and the only birdsong was a Collared Dove and House Sparrows. A Small White fluttered by, and plump ladies waddled across the green calling, cooee! to friends out shopping. After coffee and some nibbles, I set off again for the return journey to Marden via Swags Farm. The farmhouse there is a beautiful old black and white building in the valley, and the old barns have been converted into dwellings. These barns would, of course be lost, if it wasn't for the money spent on renovation, but it is sad that they are lost to the working farm and the farming industry. The remnants of a pear orchard survive along the track leaving there; saved as a decorative feature to delight the visitor. The fruit was filling out well; It would be more delightful if they were ripe.
I took an ancient track north, at Yew Tree farm (notices up - planning permission sought to convert old barns), down, through vast fields of pale blue Linseed. At The Poplars, a Kestrel alighted the top of a pole and was not concerned about me watching him from below. From August Pitts farm, the footpath was badly marked, overgrown and obviously not frequented. I took an age to find the route, and the Sun beat down, the grass seeds worked their barbs through my socks and pricked my ankles. The path led me along three kilometers of open farmland. My thermometer read 32C; it was a joy to reach The White Hart at Claygate!
A short rest there and I was away again for the last leg alongside the railway track. In spite of the heat and discomfort, I could enjoy the flowers which grow all along the hedgerow: bright yellow Woad, lovely pink Centaury, Vetches of all colours, and by the River Tiese, the Field Rose, tumbling and dropping onto the water, pure white petals and golden centre. In the sky above the railroad, a Buzzard cried and took the currents of air beneath his huge wings, to glide effortlessly, higher and higher.
I was finally brought back to Marden and drank the last of my water. That was a hard walk. But I am a VIKING!
Sunday 14 July 2013
Another day with Poppy Dog
14th July 2013
I woke at 12.30am and Altair was sparkling through the bedroom window. The Universe is so beautiful.
It was already warm when I left with Poppy Dog at 6.30am. Poppy Dog very conveniently, did her business under the poo-bin, on the way out of the village. The Sun was sending shafts of misty light through the thin cloud, onto the green fields of Oxen Hoath. Around thirty Greylag geese were resting in the bottom field as we walked by. Poppy didn't see them; she was only concerned with rushing to the kissing gate. And then squeezed under it, as she wouldn't wait. There were no cattle in the lower field, so Poppy stayed off the lead, until we reached the parkland proper. The Walnut trees showed some fruit. Hopefully, the squirrels would leave some for me!
At the orchards, under the polythene, Loganberries were ripe and tasty. Such a breakfast I have been longing for, all year! I filled a container with water from the water-butt in the apple orchard, for Poppy Dog, and she drank the lot.
It was with relief that we entered the wood at Gover Hill onto the Weald Way. The valley below, from where we came, was misty: a light, ethereal green; an enchanted valley. Through Hurst Wood, A bright green dragonfly sought me out and encircled me. Blue-green, with delicate wings, it stayed with me for a short while, until we left the path to enter the Chestnut woods, which were sprouting their wiggly flowers. The footpath was bordered with Foxglove, Red Campion, red Woundwort and Enchanter's-nightshade, with their delicate white flowers. As the Chestnut had been coppiced here, the flowers could thrive. The Walnut and Cobnut orchards are showing their fruits; the Cobnuts did not look so promising. Breakfast was on Doris's bench in the hot Sun. Poppy Dog had a drink from the water trough there. The Rapeseed across the valley was set and there was just a little colour left. I had a drink and a rest but Poppy Dog wanted to get going and grumbled until we did.
We joined the River Bourne at Basted Mill. The Indian Balsam had been cut back but was making a come-back. It was cooler there by the river under the trees. At the mill ruin, there is a small sandy beach where Poppy Dog paddled and drank.
We went into the Brambly orchard where the apples were swelling, and Poppy lost me. I whistled as best I could with lack of practice, and a broken tooth. She ran up and down the rows until finally, she saw me at the bottom of the orchard. She was happy to see me, she said: oh, there you are!
I re-filled Poppy Dog's water bottle in the brook by the little bridge and the Sweet Briar under the shade and we carried on, up to Yopps Green and Scathes Wood and our second break at Raggedy Robin's bench.
Then we went through Ightham Mote and on to Shipbourne, past the church while people were leaving their prayer and Poppy had another drink on the Green. The meadow leaving the Green was a sea of pink with tall Rough Meadow Grass, fluffy; waving in the breeze. We went into Dene Park Wood and the relative cool under the trees. Another drink was taken there at the small brook. Near the car park we met a dog of the type which one knows is nasty just to look at it: black and grey, snarling and teeth bared. It attacked Poppy Dog and I put myself between the dogs. The woman said sorry, but didn't mean it. She looked like her dog.
We had another drink, the last, in Clearhedges Wood. Then we were out - into the blazing, relentless heat, through the wheat and bean fields, until we reached home. Then Poppy dog collapsed onto the cool tiled floor. And I had a shower. Oh, Sól!
Poppy Dog and I are good friends.
In the Sunlit wooded glades and rides,
Where Speckled and Meadow Browns have danced,
The lordly White Admiral commands the light
And wonder is brought to this fair place.
I woke at 12.30am and Altair was sparkling through the bedroom window. The Universe is so beautiful.
It was already warm when I left with Poppy Dog at 6.30am. Poppy Dog very conveniently, did her business under the poo-bin, on the way out of the village. The Sun was sending shafts of misty light through the thin cloud, onto the green fields of Oxen Hoath. Around thirty Greylag geese were resting in the bottom field as we walked by. Poppy didn't see them; she was only concerned with rushing to the kissing gate. And then squeezed under it, as she wouldn't wait. There were no cattle in the lower field, so Poppy stayed off the lead, until we reached the parkland proper. The Walnut trees showed some fruit. Hopefully, the squirrels would leave some for me!
At the orchards, under the polythene, Loganberries were ripe and tasty. Such a breakfast I have been longing for, all year! I filled a container with water from the water-butt in the apple orchard, for Poppy Dog, and she drank the lot.
It was with relief that we entered the wood at Gover Hill onto the Weald Way. The valley below, from where we came, was misty: a light, ethereal green; an enchanted valley. Through Hurst Wood, A bright green dragonfly sought me out and encircled me. Blue-green, with delicate wings, it stayed with me for a short while, until we left the path to enter the Chestnut woods, which were sprouting their wiggly flowers. The footpath was bordered with Foxglove, Red Campion, red Woundwort and Enchanter's-nightshade, with their delicate white flowers. As the Chestnut had been coppiced here, the flowers could thrive. The Walnut and Cobnut orchards are showing their fruits; the Cobnuts did not look so promising. Breakfast was on Doris's bench in the hot Sun. Poppy Dog had a drink from the water trough there. The Rapeseed across the valley was set and there was just a little colour left. I had a drink and a rest but Poppy Dog wanted to get going and grumbled until we did.
We joined the River Bourne at Basted Mill. The Indian Balsam had been cut back but was making a come-back. It was cooler there by the river under the trees. At the mill ruin, there is a small sandy beach where Poppy Dog paddled and drank.
We went into the Brambly orchard where the apples were swelling, and Poppy lost me. I whistled as best I could with lack of practice, and a broken tooth. She ran up and down the rows until finally, she saw me at the bottom of the orchard. She was happy to see me, she said: oh, there you are!
I re-filled Poppy Dog's water bottle in the brook by the little bridge and the Sweet Briar under the shade and we carried on, up to Yopps Green and Scathes Wood and our second break at Raggedy Robin's bench.
Then we went through Ightham Mote and on to Shipbourne, past the church while people were leaving their prayer and Poppy had another drink on the Green. The meadow leaving the Green was a sea of pink with tall Rough Meadow Grass, fluffy; waving in the breeze. We went into Dene Park Wood and the relative cool under the trees. Another drink was taken there at the small brook. Near the car park we met a dog of the type which one knows is nasty just to look at it: black and grey, snarling and teeth bared. It attacked Poppy Dog and I put myself between the dogs. The woman said sorry, but didn't mean it. She looked like her dog.
We had another drink, the last, in Clearhedges Wood. Then we were out - into the blazing, relentless heat, through the wheat and bean fields, until we reached home. Then Poppy dog collapsed onto the cool tiled floor. And I had a shower. Oh, Sól!
Poppy Dog and I are good friends.
In the Sunlit wooded glades and rides,
Where Speckled and Meadow Browns have danced,
The lordly White Admiral commands the light
And wonder is brought to this fair place.
Sunday 7 July 2013
Paradise found
6th July 2012
I put on a fleece when I arrived at Kilndown as it was a little chilly, though the Sun shone and the sky was clear and there was no wind. I went into Kilndown Woods, past the old Beech with my teenage carvings in the bark still visible; past the Scots Pine plot, which has been thinned out and is less foreboding now and out into a field of wooly black sheep to the River Bewl. Yellow Flag were still by the little bridge and the clear water passed under gently. The walk to the top of the hill warmed me and I considered removing my fleece, but not yet! I took the footpath to Lamberhurst, downhill to the River Tiese, and at the bridge, Indian Balsam chokes the flow. My fleece came off for the climb to the church at Lamberhurst and I walked through green, sweet-smelling wheat. Across the golf course, players were out early and I kept my eye open for any hooked balls.
I took the course of the river down Brewers Street and into the woods. It was very warm and a relief to be under the trees. Along this track huge parasols of Giant Hogweed grow, deep red Hedge Woundwort, the wonderful perfume of Meadowsweet; candyfloss on a stick. The hedgerows were full of Honeysuckle; sweet and inviting, but be sure to check that the flower is not occupied before putting one's nose in!
Breakfast was under an old Oak, with low boughs in a marshy meadow; at the bottom of a valley. Each side of the valley taken over by Bracken. From this secret place I watched Goldfinches on thistles, pulling apart the flowers, searching for food.
Along the bridlepath at Bluecaps Farm, through a field of ripening rapeseed, Corn Chamomile was the favourite flower for Meadow Brown butterflies dancing from flower to flower. The path leads directly to Bewl water, where I walked along the dam. The water was busy with dinghies and sailboats and fishermen in hire boats dotted about. Number 23 cast a fly as I went into the wood on the eastern shore. There was the sound of water lapping gently on my right and birdsong on my left as I searched for the footpath leading uphill through Chingley Wood.
My second break of the morning was under an ancient Beech in the wood. I sat in the roots, a perfect seat, under an inscription carved in the bark: MKM 1952. I wondered who this person was, of the same age as myself. From there, I went into a beautiful meadow of grasses and flowers of every sort expected. There were small blue butterflies (what type?) feeding on Black Medick or Hop Trefoil and Small Tortoiseshells. Above me, a pair of Buzzards were calling. A wanderers paradise!
After an age trying to cross the A21, I entered Cats Wood and the climb to Kilndown overheated me! I was glad of the extra water I brought. I drank one more cup of coffee at the Quarry in Kilndown; the water was still, with Yellow Flag at the pond's edge and Spotted Orchids on the bank. Then home.
The heat of the day dominates the senses,
And must be disregarded,
Or thoughts trickle away;
Sight and sound are down the drain.
I put on a fleece when I arrived at Kilndown as it was a little chilly, though the Sun shone and the sky was clear and there was no wind. I went into Kilndown Woods, past the old Beech with my teenage carvings in the bark still visible; past the Scots Pine plot, which has been thinned out and is less foreboding now and out into a field of wooly black sheep to the River Bewl. Yellow Flag were still by the little bridge and the clear water passed under gently. The walk to the top of the hill warmed me and I considered removing my fleece, but not yet! I took the footpath to Lamberhurst, downhill to the River Tiese, and at the bridge, Indian Balsam chokes the flow. My fleece came off for the climb to the church at Lamberhurst and I walked through green, sweet-smelling wheat. Across the golf course, players were out early and I kept my eye open for any hooked balls.
I took the course of the river down Brewers Street and into the woods. It was very warm and a relief to be under the trees. Along this track huge parasols of Giant Hogweed grow, deep red Hedge Woundwort, the wonderful perfume of Meadowsweet; candyfloss on a stick. The hedgerows were full of Honeysuckle; sweet and inviting, but be sure to check that the flower is not occupied before putting one's nose in!
Breakfast was under an old Oak, with low boughs in a marshy meadow; at the bottom of a valley. Each side of the valley taken over by Bracken. From this secret place I watched Goldfinches on thistles, pulling apart the flowers, searching for food.
Along the bridlepath at Bluecaps Farm, through a field of ripening rapeseed, Corn Chamomile was the favourite flower for Meadow Brown butterflies dancing from flower to flower. The path leads directly to Bewl water, where I walked along the dam. The water was busy with dinghies and sailboats and fishermen in hire boats dotted about. Number 23 cast a fly as I went into the wood on the eastern shore. There was the sound of water lapping gently on my right and birdsong on my left as I searched for the footpath leading uphill through Chingley Wood.
My second break of the morning was under an ancient Beech in the wood. I sat in the roots, a perfect seat, under an inscription carved in the bark: MKM 1952. I wondered who this person was, of the same age as myself. From there, I went into a beautiful meadow of grasses and flowers of every sort expected. There were small blue butterflies (what type?) feeding on Black Medick or Hop Trefoil and Small Tortoiseshells. Above me, a pair of Buzzards were calling. A wanderers paradise!
After an age trying to cross the A21, I entered Cats Wood and the climb to Kilndown overheated me! I was glad of the extra water I brought. I drank one more cup of coffee at the Quarry in Kilndown; the water was still, with Yellow Flag at the pond's edge and Spotted Orchids on the bank. Then home.
The heat of the day dominates the senses,
And must be disregarded,
Or thoughts trickle away;
Sight and sound are down the drain.
Monday 1 July 2013
A hot last day of June
30th June 2013
The Moon was sliced in half in the blue sky this morning and it followed Dee and I on our walk on the Greensand Ridge. It was already very warm at 7am and any breeze was welcome. Along the Ridge, many of the spring flowers were gone; Queen Anne's Lace is brown and burnt, the Ransomes seed pods are an explosion of triple balls, like the Big Bang! Blackberries are flowering; an Autumn gift. It was pleasantly cool under the tree canopy, as the climb to Knole was hard, hot going. The breeze in Knole Park which can sometimes chill to the marrow, was unusually warm, and we sought some shade under an ancient Chestnut tree for breakfast, with the Parakeets calling above us, unseen. Bracken was chest high and there are Foxgloves everywhere. Of course, it is well known that foxes put the flowers on their toes to creep into chicken houses quietly!
There was an elderly lady laying prostrate, flat on her back on the grass in the Sun, dressed in thick trousers, coat and hat. She did not move, and Dee suggested I poke her with my walking pole, just to check that there was life. Then she spluttered; we were relieved to know that she was sleeping. The deer were staying away from the heat and were under the trees, keeping cool, maybe this lady should do the same! We crept away sniggering with black humour.
It was a blessed relief when we entered the wood to Godden Green; a chance for us to cool down. Along the sunken medieval path to Bitchet Green, we wondered whose feet from ages past had taken this way. There was Common Mallow, White Mustard, Yellow Flag, Vetch and Herb Robert to lighten the uphill struggle. And at the top a small, muddy puddle for Maisie to drink from.
There was a welcome break back on the Ridge at the Beeches, with a light breeze. Then down toward Budds, back in the baking heat of the Sun. On the side of the hill, we watched a Kestrel through our glasses hover and bank, hover and bank, with glistening chestnut plumage. The heat had brought out Red Admiral, Meadow Brown and Speckled Wood butterflies, bouncing and fluttering from flower to flower, not still long enough to appreciate their beauty. And in the hedgerows, Dog Rose, Sweet Briar and apple, the fruits swelling. We wondered what type they were, too bitter to taste. And then back into the wood at Budds, so much cooler. In there, Speckled Wood butterflies were abundant in the speckled light, and a Robin followed us for a while.
At the end of the wood, we faced the long walk in the full Sun through the great wheat field to Shipbourne church. The heat bore down on us relentlessly until we reached the woodland close by Ightham Mote. Then back to the car and home.
Then in the afternoon in Molly's garden in Paddock Wood, a pair of Peregrines above!
The Moon was sliced in half in the blue sky this morning and it followed Dee and I on our walk on the Greensand Ridge. It was already very warm at 7am and any breeze was welcome. Along the Ridge, many of the spring flowers were gone; Queen Anne's Lace is brown and burnt, the Ransomes seed pods are an explosion of triple balls, like the Big Bang! Blackberries are flowering; an Autumn gift. It was pleasantly cool under the tree canopy, as the climb to Knole was hard, hot going. The breeze in Knole Park which can sometimes chill to the marrow, was unusually warm, and we sought some shade under an ancient Chestnut tree for breakfast, with the Parakeets calling above us, unseen. Bracken was chest high and there are Foxgloves everywhere. Of course, it is well known that foxes put the flowers on their toes to creep into chicken houses quietly!
There was an elderly lady laying prostrate, flat on her back on the grass in the Sun, dressed in thick trousers, coat and hat. She did not move, and Dee suggested I poke her with my walking pole, just to check that there was life. Then she spluttered; we were relieved to know that she was sleeping. The deer were staying away from the heat and were under the trees, keeping cool, maybe this lady should do the same! We crept away sniggering with black humour.
It was a blessed relief when we entered the wood to Godden Green; a chance for us to cool down. Along the sunken medieval path to Bitchet Green, we wondered whose feet from ages past had taken this way. There was Common Mallow, White Mustard, Yellow Flag, Vetch and Herb Robert to lighten the uphill struggle. And at the top a small, muddy puddle for Maisie to drink from.
There was a welcome break back on the Ridge at the Beeches, with a light breeze. Then down toward Budds, back in the baking heat of the Sun. On the side of the hill, we watched a Kestrel through our glasses hover and bank, hover and bank, with glistening chestnut plumage. The heat had brought out Red Admiral, Meadow Brown and Speckled Wood butterflies, bouncing and fluttering from flower to flower, not still long enough to appreciate their beauty. And in the hedgerows, Dog Rose, Sweet Briar and apple, the fruits swelling. We wondered what type they were, too bitter to taste. And then back into the wood at Budds, so much cooler. In there, Speckled Wood butterflies were abundant in the speckled light, and a Robin followed us for a while.
At the end of the wood, we faced the long walk in the full Sun through the great wheat field to Shipbourne church. The heat bore down on us relentlessly until we reached the woodland close by Ightham Mote. Then back to the car and home.
Then in the afternoon in Molly's garden in Paddock Wood, a pair of Peregrines above!
Sunday 23 June 2013
Hilden Brook
23 June 2013
There is only one thing to do on a Sunday morning: go for a long walk. Dee arrived (and Maisie too) at around 8am, for a walk along the River Medway and over the Hilden Brook. The weather looked reasonable and the forecast was for showers. We took a route through Golden Green to the Medway and at the old World War 2 pillboxes by the lock, we turned toward Tonbridge. Every few metres, there was a fisherman, each with carts and bagfuls of equipment to cover every eventuality. They were discussing the merits of homemade ground bait and other such things of import. Very different from the rod and line and bread paste of my youth.
The mature growth at the river bank was flattened by the weather; Skullcap and Yellow Archangel prostrate. But Stinging Nettles stood proud and firm and out to get the unawares. Damoiselles fluttered and flitted among the reeds. At the Town Lock, Dee saved a life: a Bumble bee was struggling on the surface tension of the water in the lock. Dee took my walking pole and offered it to the bee which promptly climbed on and was put down gently on the bank.
We arrived in Tonbridge to music and crowds for a carnival, featuring dragon races on the river with canoes stuffed with men like sardines in a tin, ready to paddle furiously. We left the hubbub behind as quickly as we could for the Hilden Brook. The Sun had peeped out and the temperature rose as we arrived at a peaceful spot by the brook and sat in the long grass with Cuckoo Spit and White Dead Nettle, to drink tea and coffee. The meadow was alive above with swinging and swooping Swifts and Swallows and clouds of midges dancing in the sunlight. Here, there was Grass Vetchling, scarlet droplets among the Buttercups.
Bordering the meadow, Elder was in blossom, the flowers like plates of clotted cream and Dog Roses tumbling down the hedgerows, making up for lost time. We left this idyll for Coldhanger and the long ride through copses to Dean Park Woods. The Horse Chestnut blossom is suddenly gone and now the immature nuts are forming a conical mace. We were caught in a sharp shower near Tinley Farm and as I had removed a layer, my back was liberally soaked. At this time, I received a text from Kay, saying that Dee had left her car door wide open. Dee said, oops! And I said, what a plum!
In Dean Park Woods, the boles and twisted arms of the Hornbeam were moss covered; dark, damp and mysterious in the shadows and the ponds were green with Duckweed. In Clearhedges, the path was dappled in sunlight and we were led to the Skylarks and home.
There is only one thing to do on a Sunday morning: go for a long walk. Dee arrived (and Maisie too) at around 8am, for a walk along the River Medway and over the Hilden Brook. The weather looked reasonable and the forecast was for showers. We took a route through Golden Green to the Medway and at the old World War 2 pillboxes by the lock, we turned toward Tonbridge. Every few metres, there was a fisherman, each with carts and bagfuls of equipment to cover every eventuality. They were discussing the merits of homemade ground bait and other such things of import. Very different from the rod and line and bread paste of my youth.
The mature growth at the river bank was flattened by the weather; Skullcap and Yellow Archangel prostrate. But Stinging Nettles stood proud and firm and out to get the unawares. Damoiselles fluttered and flitted among the reeds. At the Town Lock, Dee saved a life: a Bumble bee was struggling on the surface tension of the water in the lock. Dee took my walking pole and offered it to the bee which promptly climbed on and was put down gently on the bank.
We arrived in Tonbridge to music and crowds for a carnival, featuring dragon races on the river with canoes stuffed with men like sardines in a tin, ready to paddle furiously. We left the hubbub behind as quickly as we could for the Hilden Brook. The Sun had peeped out and the temperature rose as we arrived at a peaceful spot by the brook and sat in the long grass with Cuckoo Spit and White Dead Nettle, to drink tea and coffee. The meadow was alive above with swinging and swooping Swifts and Swallows and clouds of midges dancing in the sunlight. Here, there was Grass Vetchling, scarlet droplets among the Buttercups.
Bordering the meadow, Elder was in blossom, the flowers like plates of clotted cream and Dog Roses tumbling down the hedgerows, making up for lost time. We left this idyll for Coldhanger and the long ride through copses to Dean Park Woods. The Horse Chestnut blossom is suddenly gone and now the immature nuts are forming a conical mace. We were caught in a sharp shower near Tinley Farm and as I had removed a layer, my back was liberally soaked. At this time, I received a text from Kay, saying that Dee had left her car door wide open. Dee said, oops! And I said, what a plum!
In Dean Park Woods, the boles and twisted arms of the Hornbeam were moss covered; dark, damp and mysterious in the shadows and the ponds were green with Duckweed. In Clearhedges, the path was dappled in sunlight and we were led to the Skylarks and home.
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