Cloudy Solstice

21 June 2013

  Kay woke me at midnight from a sweaty, fitful sleep. After preparation, I left for Coldrum Longbarrow at 12.30am. A ghostly Moon and Virgo were behind me in the southern sky. Ahead, the cloud was building. Leaving the village and the street lamps, it was quite dark, but not enough to use my head torch, until I reached Oxen Hoath. Lambs were bleating and a few night birds called, then all was silent. The dew on the long grass wet my legs through the parkland and the cow's spectral eyes watched me in the torch light. I followed the Walnut trees to find the Weald Way path.
  There was no light under the canopy in the wood at Gover Hill. I hadn't packed a spare lamp, so I hoped the batteries lasted the night. The silence was a little unnerving; all the night creatures made no sound, not even an Owl hooting. The cockerel at the stables was, for once, silent and I went through the gate as quietly as possible so as not to wake him. There was a bright orange Sulphur Polypore mushroom growing from a large Hazel tree close to the Old Saw Mill. The tree is done for!
  I now took my map from my bag: I didn't want to go off course tonight. Through Platt and the wood, up over Gallows Hill and I could now hear the M20 motorway.  It was comforting to see the WW way-markers from time to time. The path running parallel to the motorway was so overgrown, that nettles stung my legs and hands and brambles tore at my fleece. Rabbits scattered from my torch-light as I went under the motorway and through the sand pits.
  As I entered Ryarsh Wood, a bird began to sing and as I left the wood, the World was awake. At Coldrum, there were perhaps a dozen people sitting around a camp fire (NO FIRES! NATIONAL TRUST PROPERTY!) in the half light. We greeted each other and I made myself a cup of coffee. I had plenty of time; Sun-rise was at 4.45am. There was a buxom American woman with red flowers as a crown; a man pontificating with long plaited hair; a comedian and a two pretty girls with friendly dogs; a chap from Tunbridge Wells(!) and a couple or more trying to sleep with all the lively discussion going on. I was invited to join them, but although we were there for the same reason, I didn't want to join the discussion: I disagreed with any religious connotation!
  As the time approached, the American began to bang a drum and a large man rang a bell. The Sun rose behind the clouds and no amount of drumming and ringing would make her appear from behind her grey cloak. I drank a tot of mead to Sól, packed and left, saying cheerio!
  With daylight, it was easier going, but I made a slower pace, especially after the climb to Gallows Hill. It was all downhill from there and I was sleepy. In Platt Wood, there was a Badger's set, with fresh footprints in the red earth. A pressing matter became urgent and I went off the path, dug a hole and settled the matter. I felt much better! Back at the stables, Mr Cockerel was expressing himself vigorously and I sat within earshot to have a break among the Bluebells gone to seed.
  In the parkland, the cows viewed me much less suspiciously and I said 'good morning'. Sir Herne the Heron landed over at the Bourne and the Rooks were doing brisk business in the bottom field. I was back at 9am, ready for a kip!

 
The Sun is as important to a beetle,
As it is to me.
The beetle does not keep the seasons,
But I do.