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.

 

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!

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!

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.

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!