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 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!

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!

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!