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.

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.

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.
    

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!

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    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.

    

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.