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!
Sunday 24 November 2013
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.
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