Autumn equinox 2014

23 September 2014

    I started out at 2.30am as Mr. Reynard slunk through the Close below the street lamp in the cool misty night. Above the mist, Orion was standing guard and Sirius was brilliant in the south east. Mani was not out to light the way but just the starlight. On, out of the valley and up to Oxen Hoath out of the mist, the Tawny Owls were active and vocal; kewicking and hooing and the temperature dropped enough to encourage me to put on gloves and a woolly hat. I switched on my head torch as I went into Hurst Wood and the total darkness. Sometimes a fox would cry, but owls and other noises of the night were about me all the way to Crouch. Of course, time goes slowly in the dark, and it took an age to make tracks through Platt Wood, Gallows Hill and reach the M20.
    It was Tuesday, the motorway was very busy and the noise intrusive. The road lamps and noise broke through the darkness bringing the other world. Then under the motorway, and through Ryarsh Wood, the noise receded and I arrived at Coldrum Longbarrow at 5.45am and I was alone at the sacred place. I sat against a sarsen stone for breakfast and to await Sol. The sky was clear. It became very cold and I was glad of hot soup. Robins began to sing and the sky to the east reddened. The valley was immersed in a dense mist. Finally, from the mist, she emerged; majestic and bold: blood red. Slowly, but surely, she rose into the pale, watched by Sirius, still brilliant in the south east. I toasted her and after feeling her warmth, left in the magenta light, contented.
    From Coldrum, I walked through Trottiscliffe and by the beautiful little old church of St. Peter and St. Paul. This hamlet still has two pubs and on the menu of the George, is suet puddings, yum! From Trottiscliffe to the motorways is all road-work along the lanes, over the M20 and under the M26, to the footpath for Gallows Hill. Now Sol was high and the temperature was rising rapidly. I took off layers and took my time for the return. I sat on a bench in Platt Wood, for tea. Mums and dads were taking their children on a short-cut through the wood for Platt School, chattering and laughing, the day beginning for them.
    I stopped again at Oxen Hoath and sat on Joan's bench over-looking the valley toward Hadlow. There was still a slight mist, but the sunlit tower was thrusting through the haze magnificently. The year is running down; life is petering out. From now on, the days will shorten, the Great Migration will begin and familiar friends will go south and others will come from the north. Although late September, dragon flies and butterflies are still abroad in the warm Sun; a last gasp. The leaves are changing, the crops are coming in. The whole cycle will begin again.

A new one

14th September 2014

    Dee came over to Hadlow at 6.40am bringing Maisie and we left in my car for Yalding and parked near Teapot Island by the canal. At this time, the canal was quiet and the River Medway was calm and the morning already warm. The Sun had risen with fiery splendour; there was no wind. We walked over the medieval Twyford Bridge, where the River Tiese joins the Medway and across the grassy Lees to the village, then over (15th C) Town Bridge across the River Beult. There was no sign of the tremendous flooding of last winter, but people here are always on their guard. After the Walnut Tree pub, a lovely old black and white timber framed house, we turned onto the Greensand Way going east, into woodland.
    Then we climbed up onto the Greensand Ridge leaving the rivers behind. The track is deeply cut with high hedges and must have been an old drover's way. We came to Fox Pitt farm and on the green, huge twisted Chestnut trees laden with their spiky husks, testified that there will be plentiful harvest this year. We skirted Quarry Wood and entered woodland to the east. A mistake made with the compass here, meant that we went east, not north east and came out onto North Folly(!) Road. We walked north, and, up Gallants Lane, Dee chose the narrow Vicarage Lane route to East Farley through pear orchards.
    Of course, we were up on the plateau, and East Farleigh is down on the Medway. The lane is steep going down and as we passed some cottages, Dee realised that we were at the place where she lived as a child. She remembered the house, number 7, her neighbours and the allotments behind; careering downhill on a home made cart. Forty years has passed since her family moved to Brenchley, but it has all remained almost unchanged and her memory fresh. In the village, we made for the 12th C St. Mary's Church to find a bench for breakfast. The view was over the river and on the banks were moored cabin cruisers, barges and allsorts, each side of the 14th C bridge. And on the other side of the valley, the red roofs of Barming crowding the side of the hill. Old friends of Dee are buried at St. Mary's, a stark reminder of our destiny.
    We left St. Mary's going down hill to the bridge and joined the Medway Valley Walk to follow the river west. Every 30 metres or so, among the trees and bushes, fishermen were failing to catch their prey despite the impressive array of special equipment. A couple of Jersey heifers were roaming free along there, so Maisie went back on the lead until we went over the bridge near West Farleigh. For hundreds of years, all along this stretch of the Medway, people have been standing on these bridges and looking into the water, just as I did.
    The path went uphill through Tutsham Hall Farm. There is an old oak on the bank by the lane so huge, that its roots had engulfed a stone wall the and canopy spread far and wide with all wildlife living there. The path from Tutsham Hall looks down onto the river and soon took us down to Wateringbury past the boat chandler to the waterside again. Walking on the riverside can be somewhat tedious, especially under the hot Sun, so the last 3 kilometres was hard work, but just beyond the weir and Hampstead lock near Yalding we popped into the caff by the canal for coffee before home.

Two walks, number two

7th September 2014

    After picking up Dee and Maisie at Pixot Hill, I drove east toward the magenta orb rising above the mist, and parked in Goudhurst. We left, taking the same route as I did last week, downhill, tripping over juvenile pheasants, picking blackberries and keeping Maisie on a tight leash until we passed Smugley Farm and went over to Pattenden. The camp site is shut up for the winter now and only ashes in the grass where camp fires were was evidence of people.
    At Trillinghurst, I picked an apple, and munched breathlessly uphill and Maisie followed scents all over the harvested fields until we came onto the lane for Kilndown and out of the mist now. There was a place in the hedgerow at Gatehouse Farm, where Honeysuckle has bloomed into September and we breathed in the sweetness. And White Dead-nettle was blooming on the verge below. Rose hips, blood-red, tumble down the hedges among the haws and sloes. Dee wanted to take the path via The Beeches through the wood to Scotney and we were rewarded with a peaceful Sun-scattered walk down to the Bewl where we went east through sheep pasture and back into the wood at Little Scotney. Just by, there is a pasture within the wood. Once used to grow hops, but not for 40 years. The anchors for the steel rope are still in place after all this time and still in good condition.
    We crossed the river into the hop gardens of Little Scotney Farm, sat against a pole, drank tea and breathed the hops' perfume. Nothing arouses the memory like a smell. We reminisced about our childhood working with our mums in the gardens, sitting on the picking bins or playing with the children of Londoners down for a working holiday. They lived in hopper huts for a month; a basic and meagre existence, but a time for fresh air, enjoy the Kentish countryside and earn some money. As Dee is a little (lot!) younger than me, picking machines were used in her time. The hops were taken to a shed adjacent to the oast, picked and dried. A lot less labour. This was the beginning of the end for the industry. A few gardens survive, and The National Trust does excellent work in using the hops grown at Scotney in its own beer brewed in Kent.
    We left the garden in a reflective mood and joined the River Tiese for Lamberhurst. The village was busy with runners in tight Lycra and we left via the church and we were back to the river for the last leg to Goudhurst. Now the Sun was high; there was no wind. We sweltered and suffered in the heat until we came to the trees at the mill. And there was the long climb to Goudhurst, but stopping to gather blackberries for an apple and blackberry crumble gave us new wind. We looked out at the top of the hill across the valley to Brenchley, gathered our senses and went to St. Mary's for tea on the bench.
    Home then; dropping off Dee and Maisie at Pixot Hill, Brenchley first, then a shower!

Two walks, number one

31st August 2014

    All right, here's the thing; autumn is almost upon us. Spring is long gone and darkness beckons.
    I stumbled in the half light to prepare for the mornings walk and the light switch went on for the first time in months. The mist had evaporated some time before I left for Goudhurst, and I arrived with the promise of a fine day. The walk down to Smugley along the path lined with purple Scabious and young pheasants was uneventful but thoughtful and introspective steps were taking me to the places of my childhood and unrepeatable bliss.
    Pattenden Farm has a camping site and I bid early risers, on their way to the wash-house, good morning. And with the delicious aroma of fried eggs and bacon wafting past me, I went through and up to Trillinghurst Hill Farm past apple trees draping their wares over the path.
    Along the lane toward Kilndown, on the grass verge, there were laying two one pound notes! Now, one pound notes were discontinued in 1984, I believe. What were these doing there? I tucked them into my map case and wondered what to do with them!
    The entrance to Kilndown House promised a bag of plums for one pound. I was too early; the table was empty. Into Kilndown woods, the silence was complete and just my footfall was heard until I reached the little River Bewl, where dragonflies and bees hummed under the trees. At the hop gardens, I stopped for breakfast, sitting against a pole and breathing in the wonderful bitter perfume of the pale green flower.
    From the hop gardens, I followed the River Tiese to Lamberhurst, crossed the river, and walked up through the village to St. Mary's Church, then back down to the river onto the north bank. The path to Goudhurst runs along the valley to the old mill, then departs the river for the climb past Crowbourne. The Tiese makes its way to the Medway. And the view from the hill across to Brenchley is an English pastoral scene quintessential. I stopped for tea and rest in a meadow on the hill above an old cottage and looked down onto the past.
    Back home from my jaunt, my map was missing. Ah yes, I left it on the roof of my car! Good grief.
   

It continues

24th August 2014

    The morning was fine, chilly and a little misty; perfect hopping weather. And hopping will begin next week; always the first week in September. Beyond Oxen Hoath, a minibus arrived and unloaded fruit pickers who immediately set to work in the orchards. I took an apple from a tree and munched as I went on my way through Hurst Wood, wondering how the chestnuts will be this year. Along by Doris's bench, some damsons from the hedgerow were ready and they went down a treat as I watched the swallows performing their aerial acrobatic feats, fattening themselves for the coming journey. And in anticipation I looked forward to the Bramley orchards.
    Some of the apples were huge and I selected five, popped them in my rucksack, with a plan to pick blackberries on the morrow to make jam. The Sun brought butterflies out, and dragonflies and bees; the air was dancing. All the wheat was in, and all the barley; bails of straw were scattered about the fields and just stubble remained. Pigeons were picking up any remnants. This was the scene right across the valley and a bailer was working over at Shipbourne, kicking up a fearful amount of dust.
     As I sat against a beech in Dean Park Wood drinking tea, I watched a pair of speckled wood butterflies fluttering, encircling, round and round, in the the warm dappled sunlight of the glade. People were by now out and about, and families were enjoying the calm sunny walks of the Kentish countryside. Time for me to make myself scarce!

Harvest time begins in earnest

17th August 2014

    Mister Robin Redbreast woke me this morning, in good time to arrive in Kilndown by 7am. and the church clock chimed. The sky was grey, and there was a cool breeze. I decided to walk the Bewl Water - Lamberhurst route in reverse, and I left going south east through Shearnfold Wood with the sound of Buzzards searching above. There were one or two trees down after last week's storm, but only short diversions off the path were needed. Out of the wood, the pond created last year is maturing well and Canada Geese have taken up residence. They objected to my presence and they and their goslings honked until I left, apologising. The free range chicken sheds at Combwell Priory were unusually quiet, but of course, it was early yet and maybe they were still  roosting, and I crossed the newly mown fields without disturbing hens.
    On through Cats Wood, and across the A21, not busy yet, there were a couple of women walking their dogs up the track away from the camping site there; they were wearing walking boots and stripy pyjamas! I said, good morning, that was a nice smell of bacon back there! They said, yes, they were keen to get back for breakfast. I recognised one of them from the telly, but for the life of me, I can't remember her name. It's driving me nuts!
    Down to Bewl Water, the dry earthy banks each side of the deeply cut track are perforated with badger setts and rabbit holes among the roots of the ancient hedges and at the water, a sign says, No Swimming! I turned right to follow the shore. Growing on a stump near the shore-line, was Sulphur Polypor, the brightest orange bracket fungus glowing in the gloom. My breakfast was taken on a bench at the north end by the dam overlooking the choppy water. The wind was quite strong there and only fishermen braved the wind, but in the distance, an eight was being rowed and was fairly flying along.
    Leaving the water, on a lawn by the visitor centre, Field Mushrooms were growing in a circle, like a Bronze-age stone circle. The scene was so delightful, I was loathe to pick any, and thoughts of omelettes were banished. In a mown pasture from Wiskett's Wood, standing half a metre high, a lone blue Chicory stood incongruously against the shaven green. Then a Roe deer startled away into a harvested wheat field. And beyond, after leaving Hogs Hole Lane, a harvester was noisily doing what it must while the drying wind persists, and trailers, loaded with the bounty, raced to the grain stores, and back again for the next consignment, and I munched sweet blackberries from the hedgerow as I watched. I stopped at Hook Green and sat under the Oaks on the green for a cuppa before continuing to Hoathley Farm. I usually take the path which follows the River Teise, but a notice stapled to the footpath sign warned that the path was closed at the foot bridge at Furnace Mill for repairs. I took the path east a few hundred metres to the north instead. I wouldn't be able to follow the river, which is a very pleasant walk, but went through farmland instead. The sky was clearing, and the fields had been harvested, and the views across the valley to the vineyards at Lamberhurst Down was a good alternative.
    From Lamberhurst village, the only way is up. I went over the Tiese beyond the village and crossed plough (with difficulty!) uphill to Scotney Castle for a cup of coffee at the busy restaurant. By now the Sun was out and about and I left the castle for Kilndown Woods and puffed up to Kilndown village via the Beeches avenue and the car.

Stormy weather

10th August 2014
   
    Mani  this weekend was brilliant but invisible.
    After a week in the Welsh hills at Meadow Cottage resting and having close encounters with Buzzards and Red Kites, reading and walking the hills, back at home, I walked the familiar route to Crouch.
    A storm was forecast, and the sky was grey but all was calm. As I passed Oxen Hoath, the rain started and my jacket went on; it was light rain though, and refreshing. The passage through Hurst Wood was dark and oppressive until the coppice clearing approaching the nut orchards, where, in the sudden light, two Roe deer were startled and bounced off indignantly. I apologised. Mister Robin sang a solo; only he sings now.
    At Crouch, the hedgerows were groaning under the weight of Damsons, but they were most definitely not ready to eat and the bitter taste stayed with me to Doris's bench. As the rain persisted, I continued to Long Bottom Wood for breakfast under the verdant canopy. In the field opposite, all the sheep were prostrate, chewing, taking it easy. I said, hello ladies. They looked at me with disinterest.
    At Basted Mill, I peeked over the bridge parapet to glimpse the fish; Chubb and Trout. And the River Bourne was flowing rapidly but clearly, a little hurriedly, after all the rain. At the Bramley orchard, I resisted the temptation to pick apples; I shall wait until they are a little blushed, maybe. I shall make apple and blackberry jam, apple chutney and crumbles. A busy time is expected in the kitchen!
    In Scathes Wood, I sat to take a cuppa; the heavens opened. There was a flashing and crashing overhead, the wind blew, the rain lashed, the creatures sheltered and I wondered if this tree would be struck and I quickly packed my bag, put on waterproof trousers and erected my mini-brolly to make my way to Ightham Mote for shelter and coffee as the sky rumbled.
    Then as the rain eased, I left with my brolly up and made for Dean Park Wood with sweat inside and wet outside. Out of the woods, the wheat-fields remain unharvested; acres and acres of wheat and barley soaking. Hopefully, Sol will dry the staff of life very soon.
    And my stinking self walked to a hot shower.

Ditto with Dee and Maisie

27th July 2014

    Hot already, Dee, Maisie and me left Bedgebury Cross and walked the Hawkhurst Moor trail. The Great Lake today was as still as polished silver and the world was reflected in its waters. There were cows with calves in the field above the lake, so we took a wide birth along the edge of the field, as Maisie would only antagonise them, and she was kept under close control. Up at Three Chimneys, our path was blocked by an open gate, secured with rope. We unhooked the rope and replaced it after walking through. It must have been like that for a particular reason; we were taught as children: leave gates as you find them. So we did.
   It was much cooler in the forest and any water Maisie found was lapped up and sat in. There was a funnel web of a Labyrinth spider among the grasses and purple Loosestrife by the path, and we watched it scuttle into its lacy funnel. Last week's mud was by now firming up and the going was firm. On top of the hill out of the forest there was a sign at the lane to Tanyard Farm: "Road repairs. Access closed to walkers and horses and cyclists from 24th to 29th April". We ignored this as it was Sunday and no-one would be working. Maisie went back on the lead to prevent her running herself ragged chasing pheasants; they were everywhere again. She was constantly trying to pull Dee's arm out of it's socket, pulling this way and that in an endeavour to nab a pheasant. And downhill I couldn't keep up until we were through the farm and into woodland away at last from the birds. In the valley where Trenley Gill runs through from springs close by, Maisie laid stretched out with her belly in the water to cool down while we waited and we cooled down in the shade. The brook chuckled and giggled as it went on its way and so did we.
    Away from the wood, rather than take Maisie through the pasture of suckling calves, we diverted through Siseley Farm. As we approached a cottage there, Maisie chased a cat which leapt on her back, and dug in his claws; there was a yelp! Then puss escaped up a tree and all the while Dee was admonishing Maisie.
    All was calm from there to The Moor and we took breakfast in the shade on the green. St Lawrence's bells were chiming and church goers bid us good morning.
     The temperature was an unhealthy 26C when we made our way back through orchards and wheat fields and Lacy Wood cooled us a little. Then finally, we were back in Bedgebury Forest. We stopped for a break at Louisa Lake and watched the dragon flies darting and fish rising in the murky, still water, but we were shaded and a gentle cool breeze picked up.
    Towards Iron Latch, at the way side, a myriad of insects fed on nectar from purple Scabius. A Peacock settled and graciously allowed us to take its picture. At Tree Chimneys, a lady stopped us. She said that she lets out her horses early. She saw us go through and was concerned that her horses would run us down as they gallop to their pasture, but this morning they were lazy. I said that we didn't see anyone or the horses and that explained the open gate. A lucky escape! Again, we skirted the cow-pasture by Great Lake and up the meadow to Bedgebury Cross, the Adonis Blues danced merrily in the lazy air and at last we were back at the car.

Hawkhurst Moor

20 July 2014

    Muggy and overcast, the morning was very dull and after the thunderstorms of last week, one was expected this morning. I bought a new Leki walking pole, and as it is made of carbon fibre, the lightening won't seek me out! I parked at Bedgebury Cross at 7am, and walked first to the Great Lake. Grey Wagtails with yellow breast startled me at the overflow. Are these the same pair as last year? Vapour was lifting from the lake and the far shore was vague and indistinct. Swallows flew low over the lawns at Three Chimneys and the horses there watched me with interest as I passed by.
   Walking into the trees was a relief, as the heat was intensifying, and the journey through Bedgebury Forest was interrupted only by Buzzards calling. Out into wheat fields at Tanyard farm, young pheasants were everywhere, scattering in all directions as I walked along the track, but mainly running ahead of me and only taking flight when I got a little close. There were hundreds; put down for the winter shoot, but here and there, a feathered corpse, picked apart by a hungry Buzzard; an offering not to be rejected.
    At a gap in the hedge by a field of maize, a sign warned: Beware suckling calves. I stood on the stile and thought, ah... I checked to see if there were any cows likely to upset by my presence. They all looked peaceful enough, and with the recent stories of walkers being trampled to death by irate cows protecting their young in my mind, I stepped into the pasture. As I made a wide birth around the herd, a couple of calves walked towards me. I tried to look nonchalant and although some cows showed interest, I made it to the stile at the other end of the pasture safely. Phew!
    At the Hawkhurst road, I nipped across and through the Marlborough House School grounds through woodland, past Hensill House to Hawkhurst Moor. The Moor has the quintessential English village green. The triangular green is surrounded by cottages and the bells of St. Lawrence's Church rang out as I breakfasted, sitting on a bench under trees to shelter from the Sun.
    The journey back was an uneventful walk via Basden Wood and Mopesden Wood and into Bedgebury Forest for the Cross. Another break was by the Great Lake and I watched Grebes with their babies diving and peeping. And, in the meadow to the Cross, Adonis Blue butterflies (although the female is quite brown) courted about me.
    Next Sunday, the walk will be repeated with Dee; Things always happen with Dee!

Painted Ladies and others

13th July 2014

    I left for the morning's walk into light rain and an undecided air about what to wear. After watching two Painted Lady butterflies dance about the clover, the heavens opened; so fleece off and waterproofs on decided the matter. There must have been a wedding at Oxen Hoath; cars were parked along the verges under the trees and ribbons adorned the cast iron gates to the manor house. All was quiet though; it was only 7am. A faint mist had descended on Hurst Wood. An area of woodland has been coppiced and a vista has been opened up of Plaxtol village nestled among the trees on the hillside. Very little birdsong is heard now; Blackbirds have stopped singing after a hard working spring. So it was a silent walk to the Walnut and Cobnut orchards. The trees bore an abundance of fruit and Meadow Brown butterflies braved the damp air. I counted 35 Suffolk rams in the pasture at Claygate Cross, and as I approached Doris's bench, Mr. Reynard was there, crouching, ears pricked, ready to pounce on something in the grass on the bank. I watched, still, as he leapt and caught it chewed it, saw me and scarpered. Then I sat on the bench and had my breakfast.
    Over the stile, into Long Bottom Wood, Nettle-leaf  Bellflower grows by the path; violet hats for fairies and other small people, to keep off the rain. Walking down the Bourne, with Himalayan Balsam on its banks, beautiful, but forbidden, it was a peaceful journey to the Bramley orchard where the fruit is soon to be picked, and down to the babbling brook there for quiet reflection.
    I began to climb up again to Yopps Green and then to Lady's Wood and on up, through rolling fields of soft golden barley to Scathes Wood and at the Mote, had a cuppa under showers of warm rain under my brolly.
    As it was too warm to wear my waterproofs, I stayed under my brolly through Fairlawne and fields of rape where Cabbage Whites fluttered in spite of the shower, and by Dunks Green when the rain stopped and then I was back at the river near the fish farm.  I sat under the cool Silver Birches and watched a Dusky Meadow Brown display his beautiful deep orange wings and children played in the stony shallows down stream and the sweet perfume of Honeysuckle filled the air.
    By now the heat was unbearable and my water supply was getting low as I arrived back at Hadlow desperate for a cool beer.

Warm rain and ripening fruit

6th July 2014

    Pembury Old Church, St. Peter's, sits on the side of a hill with woodland behind and parkland in front. A couple of pretty cottages keep it company and nearby, Kent College School for girls is in the Victorian manor house. Of course, the Culpeppers had something to do with this idyll. All is peace here.
    I parked in the lane in front of the church porch at 6.30am, as the rain started. From there, I picked up the High Weald Landscape Trail to take me through Downingbury Farm where Redcurrants dangled in sparkling bejewelled bunches from bushes along the path. Then over the Lower Green Road into Pippins Farm where Blackbirds were trapped under the netting in the cherry orchards. They find a way in, but can't get out; they won't go hungry. Down the hill through a redundant, neglected orchard into the wood, as I slipped on the clay, I remembered my walking pole left in the car, damn! I saw no one in the woods except a security guard with a German Shepherd on the hill near Albans farm. I said, good morning. The dog wanted to eat me; and I wondered, whatever needs protecting up here in the wood?
    In Brenchley Wood, on the boggy parts of the footpath, a boardwalk has been built; about 100 metres in length curving its way through the trees, it made progress a lot easier. Then after pasture of sheep and well grown lambs, I emerged at Matfield Green. The cricket pavilion which burnt down in September 2011, has been replaced with a splendid black weatherboarded pavilion surmounted with a clock, all in time for this season's cricket on the green.
    From the green, I crossed over the road into a twitten which leads to fields of blackcurrants, of which a few ripe berries sustained me, and from there to Brenchley, orchards of ripening apples and pears were alive with birdsong and the rain pitter-pattered all the way to the church which has stood on the hill for 800 years and more. I continued up to the lookout on Pixot Hill for breakfast and soaked up the view across the Weald in the rain.
    From Pixot Hill, going back west, the path through apple orchards, comes out onto the Paddock Wood road by a hedge festooned with unripe and bitter(!) Greengages, then over to wheat fields and emergies north of Matfield on the Crittenden Road. Down Chestnut Lane and into Cinderhill Wood, I stopped for a break as the rain left off and looked over the steep valley where Tudeley Brook trickles through and a grey Heron was disturbed and flew gracefully following the gill north. On the other side of the gill, in the conifer wood, there was a motorcycle trials event taking place. It disturbed my peace, but I watched the lads expertly wending through the Scots pines over the steeply undulating ground with interest, then went on my way to arrive back at Pippins Farm. I considered buying refreshments at Downingbury Farm Shop, but continued to Pembury Old Church and drank tea on the bench by the porch in the Sun before driving home for a late lunch.

Sheep and Grass Snakes

29th June 2014

    Dee and Maisie were ready when I arrived on Pixot Hill at 6.30am. We drove to Cranbrook and parked with a clearing sky and a promising morning ahead. We left Cranbrook via St. Dunstan's churchyard (The Cathedral of the Weald). On the green, we watched a Sparrow Hawk chase a small bird which escaped. Dee said, good! I said, but what about the hawk's babies? Going north, we passed Angley Lake, and entered Gravel Pit Wood, signs of ancient excavation everywhere. The stream at the bottom of the hill once powered the old corn mill at Spratsbourne Farm. Maisie paddled and drank under the little bridge and we started the climb to Dogkennel Farm. We could hear a sheep, clearly in distress, on the other side of the hedge, bleating, 'help'! At the field gate, I climbed over and found the sheep was stuck with her head through a pig wire fence. I spoke calmly to her, pushed her head down and back and she pulled free, taking the skin of my thumb with her. As she ran off bleating, I said that I hope that meant thank you! I nursed my thumb and Dee put a sticky plaster on to arrest the leaking blood.
    Out at Harewood as we left the trees, a Buzzard circled silently in the azure sky looking for breakfast and we walked on to Hazelden Farm. Not a farm now, but the old farm buildings are now beautifully restored as homes and the footpath runs through the peaceful settlement, with just the old hopper huts left to show of industry. The path took us down to Friezley and to Hocker Edge where we followed the gentle stream again to have breakfast in the trees on the hillside in Pond Wood by a Badger set.
    Through the pasture, then into Saunders' Wood, along a grossly overgrown footpath through bramble, nettles and bracken taller than me (that's not difficult), we entered Home Wood, where somebody lives in a make-shift home of caravan and tarpaulin, cold and hardship. The short walk along the A229, is a dangerous task, and the relief is palpable when the footpath off is reached. Out of Foxearth Wood, the footpath had been mown and a quivering of the grass caused Maisie to pounce. A Grass Snake escaped with ease, luckily for Maisie, as they will bite! Several snakes were around us and perhaps there was a nest of these beautiful creatures with the yellow band about the neck. Then, at a nettle and bramble overgrown clearing, there were Loganberries hidden in the undergrowth and we feasted!
    When we came to Digdog Lane, Meadowsweet and Rosebay Willowherb crowded the bridge at the stream which flows through, with Himalayan Balsam on the banks. We left the lane and sat on a bench watching a Kestrel hovering over the fields. A group of elderly walkers came through. We decided to get ahead so we weren't delayed. They were like a gaggle of Geese and they were gaining on me. I said to Dee: don't leave me behind, I will be enveloped and perhaps become a part of a sinister cult! We made it to Sissinghurst Castle just in time for safety, coffee and cake.
    The final leg to Cranbrook took us through orchards of burgeoning fruit and shaded lanes and tracks. Butterflies surrounded us as we walked to a classic view of the Union Windmill and we arrived back to the churchyard at St. Dunstan's for tea and a rest in the shade of an Oak before returning home.

A summer solstice

21st June 2014

    As it is a 13k walk to Coldrum Longbarrow, I left at 12.30am to get there in good time. Polaris was bright and I followed until I entered the woods. The change for the senses is that hearing and smell is dominant. The perfume of Honeysuckle and Mallow filled the air along the pathways and lanes. Tawny Owls called for reply and animals scuttled among the woodland litter. When I stopped to look, sharp eyes reflected lamplight back to me; they watched suspiciously through the trees as I walked by.
A Nightjar churred constantly through Hurst Wood, and the sound diminished as I approached Platt Wood. The night was warm and windows were open to cool the sleeping occupants of the village and I walked on the verges where possible so as not to disturb people from their dreams. The Beech trees which blocked my way on the Spring Equinox walk had been cleared and I made my way easily to the motorways which were busy as usual and I walked under the road at the bridge at the M20/M26 intersection.
    I caught a glimpse of Mani through the trees in Ryarsh Wood and as I neared Coldrum, flashes of light lit the trees. At the longbarrow, perhaps twenty people were there; sitting at fire-sides, dancing, drinking, smoking(!), breathing and juggling with fire, drumming and enjoying the time before the moment to come.
    Mani looked down on Venus, and Capella watched over Sol as she glowed from below the north east horizon. As the orange glow intensified, everyone looked north east and the drummers' rhythm increased. Sol appeared with a majesty and benevolence and our faces reflected the glory and our cameras clicked with a frenzy.
   I toasted Sol with a tot of mead and shared some with a new friend. I had to leave the party, with a long walk ahead of me; pipes were playing softly as I left and the walk back was warm and the new day sparkled. The morning was rounded off with sunny tea in Hurst Wood surrounded by Foxgloves and Chestnut suckers, birdsong and bees.

Bad dog!

15th June 2014

    A hot day was expected but didn't materialise. It was overcast and a cool northerly kept the fleece firmly on my back. Dee and Maisie joined me and we left Kilndown along the Bedgebury lane past Prior's Heath, which was part of the old Combwell Abbey and then Priory, of Robert de Turneham in the 12th century, and into the grassy meadow where Maisie leapt onto a Pheasant which was rescued by Dee with much remonstration and he flew off minus several feathers. Then across to the Great Lake where we met some inquisitive calves, all waiting at the stile. Maisie thought they they may be good sport, but was under close control, and so was frustrated. She then licked a cow-pat. Bad dog! Through Bedgebury Forest and down the old droveway onto Bishops Lane, the wind was broken by the trees hedging the lane; just birdsong was heard, roses prettified the dullness and iron is no longer transported along this ancient way. From Hartley to Cranbrook, along the road, traffic dulled the pleasure, but breakfast at the War Memorial was peaceful, in spite of the earnest travellers.
    The owners of Angley Wood welcome walkers, but all was quiet and we were alone through the woodland and we crossed over the Hartley road into the Glassenbury estate without meeting a soul. But the sky was brightening and butterflies were abroad. And by the streams, damselflies flitted and darted and ducks hurried onto ponds to escape Maisie. The footpath skirted Smugley Farm through barley and meadows and soft green shadows by the stream; and then up to Goudhurst for coffee and cake at Weekes the Baker, sitting in the high street on the hill in the Sun.
    It was busy along the narrow lane to Finchcocks, with cars passing to and fro on their way to see the musical instruments on display there. The gardens have been restored to their original glory also (by an old friend of mine, Lynda Shepherd). We passed by along the footpath through the parkland and climbed the hill back to Kilndown for a final cuppa by the quarry pond and we watched the damsel flies settle about the lily pads and the fish jumping for flies. The Spotted Orchids were tall by the water's edge and the Yellow Flag Irises reflected the summer.

Wild Roses and Sun

8th June 2014

    This is the time of the wild rose, Foxglove, Bramble-blossom, Meadowsweet and Mallow. The cool morning gave way to the hot Sun. Butterflies were abroad: Tortoiseshell, Red Admiral and Meadow Brown. Damsel flies settled. And sheep were taking the shade.
    The woodland walk hid the Sun's heat but the paths were overgrown with Stinging Nettles and Brambles and tall grasses. The nettle hairs found their way through my trousers and thorns tore at my arms. It was an adventure of epic proportions!
    Poppies dotted the crops in the fields with blood-red and on this 70th anniversary weekend of D-day, I remembered my uncle Peter who died near Caen, Normandy, in a fierce battle on the 20th June 1944. My father's beloved brother gave his life for me and us all.
    Swallows and Skylarks busied themselves above Doris' bench and the green valley shone below. Later, on the other side of the valley, a sprinkler at the plant nursery cooled me and, refreshed, I continued to Ivy Hatch and took tea at Ightham Mote where walkers with yapping dogs parked and embarked wearing wellies and T-shirts.
    Across Fairlawne land, at the avenue of limes, two girls on horses came through the gate two hundred metres away. They started at a gallop and went by me at a furious pace, shouting, good morning! And whooooo! And I wished it was me. I remember so well.
    A cup of fruit tea under the shade of Silver Birch by a silver stream on a hot afternoon is to be recommended. No one will disturb, you are alone and all is peaceful. And the Buzzard call was distant.
    The relentless heat bore bore down as I walked through the burgeoning wheat home and I was thankful of plenty of water and a cool shower awaited.

June arrived pleasantly

1st June 2014

    Pinch punch, it's the first of the month!
    Dee, Maisie and myself set off from Ightham Mote under the Sun and took the steep route for Seal Chart. Dee, as usual, left me behind as I puffed and panted up the hill, but waited for me with Maisie at the top and we looked out back over the tree tops and the green horizon. It was cool under the trees, which slowed my sweat and when my breath was caught, we started down the deeply trodden ancient trackway through the Common, high on the ridge. On the woodland verge, delicate pale yellow flowers, Common Cow Wheat, not a delicate name, nodded their heads as we passed. We walked in our ancestors' footfall past St. Lawrence's Church and down to Oak Bank Hall and The Grove. Here we crossed the road onto the golf course and followed the path to Godden Green for breakfast on the green opposite 'The Stag' pub under the warm Sun.
    In the wood at Godden Green, a Jay, such a beauty with blue wings, was being harassed by mother Blackbird who had a nest nearby, no doubt. And there was a clearing, with two large Beeches each end with the canopy creating a great hall and birdsong filled the space. From there we made our way to Knole Park; I was hoping to see new born fawns but we were probably a little early. We shall come back later in the month. Up in an Oak tree, Jackdaws were feeding their young in an old woodpecker's hole. There was a great chattering when mum appeared and shoved food inside. Out of the park and along the Greensand way, we stopped for another break on One Tree Hill overlooking the Weald. A family with young children walked by and the little boy said 'can we have our picnic now'? No, not yet, said dad. And on they went.
    We followed on after them but parted at Willmot Hill to go into the Sun and down to Budds and into the cool woods there. It had clouded over a little when we came out the other end, so we didn't have to suffer the heat crossing the wheat fields to Shipbourne. Going over to Ightham Mote, the family were in a meadow having their picnic and we waved hello. Then on to the cafeteria for coffee, and home.

Spring Bank Holiday Monday

26th May 2014

    I parked in Kilndown for a Spring Bank Holiday walk. On through the church-yard to Summerhill, Dog Roses and Elderflower proclaimed June. And at Rogers Rough, yellow Iris spilled over the ditches. Cuckoo spit dribbled from succulent stems on the high verges. My memories of the village are ingrained and when I visit, I am transported. I would walk to my maternal grandmother at Bedgebury Cross from Kilndown when five years old and remember the lane so well. Grandmother's house is still there, but extended now (and done well). Showers of rain went with me as I went from the Cross through the fields to the Great Lake where Grebes dived and ducks communed. Up at Three Chimneys Farm, the oast houses are now dwellings, but there is still a working farm, and the old house there still has three chimneys. Then into Bedgebury Forest to make my way to Forge Farm down the bridleway and along the disused railway to Hartley. The railway, which ran from Paddock Wood to Hawkhurst, closed in 1961. I remember travelling on the old 'Pull & Push' from Goudhurst Station to Hartley for 5d. and walking back to Kilndown Primary School as a treat before the line closed. There have been plans proposed to reopen the track bed for use by cyclists and walkers. But of course, wishing won't make it happen.
    I came out from the trees at Hartley and made my way to the War Memorial at Cranbrook for breakfast. Although the road was a little busy, it was a pleasant rest on the bench by the memorial and the rain had stopped. From there, I went into Angley Wood on the High Weald Landscape Trail for Goudhurst. The wood was peaceful for a bank holiday and I met just one runner to greet; a lady working hard to climb the hill through the conifers. After crossing the Hartley-Goudhurst road, I followed the footpath onto the Glassenbury estate, which wends its way to Smugley Farm, then through pens of Pheasant chicks and ducklings. Pheasants and Mallards are driven to the guns all through the woods and fields there. St. Mary's Church on the hill at Goudhurst came into view just before Smugleys and gave something to aim for, which was a cheese pasty and cup of coffee at Weekes the bakers in the village and I sat on the pavement and watched the passers-by. Downhill to Crowbourne, past my paternal grandmother's old place, then through Finchcocks Park and uphill, back to Kilndown and tea by the Quarry. An idyllic spot, with pond, overhanging trees and reeds and lilies just opening and orchids on the bank.
     But for these moments, life would be such a disappointment.

A hot one!

18th May 2014

    It was a 5.30 start for Tonbridge and I left Hadlow going south with the Sun and Moon the only objects in the still blue sky. At Golden Green, a mist was settling and at the River Medway, thickening. At the old WWII machine gun posts (never used in anger) by the river, I turned west. The Medway was once a working river; barges and boats plying their trade all the way from the Thames estuary to the wharfs in Tonbridge. The quiet slow river of pleasure craft and barges and fishermen on the banks belies the its busy history. At the Harlake Bridge, there is a memorial plaque remembering the thirty Gypsy hop-pickers and children drowned when the bridge collapsed in 1853 during a flood.. And there is a monument in St. Mary's churchyard, Hadlow, where the victims are buried.
    And I followed the ghosts along the footpath which hugs the riverbank and as the mist was burnt off, the sky and verdure was mirrored on the gentle water. Close to Porters Lock, a young Mute Swan and a white farmyard goose were grazing together at the bank and paddled away when I came, and the unlikely friends floated downstream, a little put out. Mayflower turning pink and Elderflower blossoming on the banks.
    Just before the Town Lock, there was a half submerged boat; its cabin under water and looking sad and neglected. It was a victim of the winter floods I suppose, and in need of rescue. I walked past the new riverside apartments on Vale Road and arrived at Tonbridge Castle as the horn sounded for another group of cyclists leaving for the annual 100 mile ride for charity. I met Dee, who was manning (or womanning) the refreshment tent. She had arrived at 6am to set up beverages and the event was well under way. She poured me a coffee, gave me a biscuit, we had a short natter, and I went on my way. And 750 cyclists went on their way.
    From the castle, I walked through Hildenborough, down through golden meadows of Buttercups and found the Hilden Brook. I sat by the tinkling stream for breakfast and listened to the birdsong.
    The uphill route to Shipbourne took me along the peaceful flower-bordered lane through Coldharbour and Hoad Common and a rest in the bus shelter away from the hot Sun. Two female walkers asked if there were any pubs nearby. I directed them to The Kentish Rifleman at Dunks Green. As they marched off searching for beer, I drank green tea.
    The homeward walk was cool enough in the woods, but through the deep emerald fields of wheat, it was burning hot!

A cold and windy spring morning.

11th May 2014

    Something woke me and Mani lit the bedroom. But Venus rose before me. A grey sky greeted me though, as I left to satisfy my weekly pedestrian wanderlust. And the village was silent, apart from the birdsong.
    Up on Gover Hill, the south westerly wind was fierce and cold; I put on gloves and coat and a Garden Warbler clung to a branch for dear life but sang prettily just the same. Into Hurst Wood, the wind died and the Bluebells were mostly gone. But new flowers replace those which take advantage of the leafless, open canopy, and Red Campion was splashing its colour along all the paths and lanes.
    In the orchard, the Walnut catkins were dancing in the breeze and the flowers ready. A sharp shower went with me to Doris's bench on the hill at Crouch, but abated and I drank tea with the cold wind in my face. The valley below was all green cultivation; everything on course for a good year. Swallows searched the air like Spitfires and watching the acrobatics was mesmerising.
     The land all about here would have belonged to the Culpepers and remain so until the 17th century. Old Soar Manor and Oxon Hoath Manor housed Culpepers for centuries, and other manors all through Kent and Sussex. I think the Culpepers were from Surrey originally, but where are they now. Maybe to the Americas? But the valley below me was worked for millennia by people who lived and died silently and anonymously.
     The walk to up Scathes Wood warmed me and I took tea at the edge of the trees on the seat hewn from a fallen tree away from the cold wind and people. A Robin flew away and I remembered Raggedy. Water had leaked from the bladder in my rucksack and soaked my notebook, dammit!
    The walk back through The Mote and Shipbourne along the paths and rides; the verges bursting and over-flowing with Queen Anne's Lace and my clothes dusted with confetti was a warmly satisfying journey home.
   

May Day

5th May 2014

    The day began chilly, with a slight frost. I waited for Dee as the Sun rose and warmed me, then we drove to Ightham Mote for a May Day walk while the spring flowers still illuminate the way. The car park was quiet and we were the first there; crowds were expected today, at this popular place. The Greensand Ridge beckoned and there was just a gentle mist over the southern hills and the air was clean. Puffing and panting on the uphill climb, Dee asked if I had eaten a pie for breakfast. I explained: old age comes to everyone who is lucky.
    The white flowering heads of Ransomes were spread gloriously over the wood on Willmot Hill, and the air was thick with the pungent smell of garlic. Over toward Rooks Hill, the early Bluebells were now going to seed, making the ground appear drab after the brilliant display. But One Tree Hill was still vibrant and blue.
    We sat on an old fallen tree in Knole Park in sunshine for tea, watched over by an inquisitive Roe deer, stamping his feet and smelling the air. He stayed with us all this time and made us slightly nervous and Maisie sat on the trunk watching back, never stirring. When we left, he bounced (stotted) away, boing-boing. What did he mean; you can't catch me?
    The noisy Parakeets were especially active above in the Chestnuts and their green backs were almost luminous in the sunlight; the Rooks' and Jackdaws' behaviour was almost genteel by comparison as they strutted about the park probing the ground. We came out of the park into the wood at Godden Green where large swathes of Rhododendron had been cleared to allow the growth of native trees. Of course, they provided cover if one was desperate for a pee, so we had to hold on for a while longer and look for a more suitable place!
    As we went on through Bitchet Common, we sampled the leaves of Jack-by-the-hedge, and decided that the smaller leaves at the top were very tasty and could be used in a salad very well. But the lower leaves made one look as if a lemon had been sucked.
    We stopped for tea on the Ridge overlooking the valley and watched two Buzzards wheeling and a Kestrel hovering below us, with the Sun on their backs. The day by now was warming and on the last leg to Shipbourne Church, I removed a layer. There were many walkers about close to the village; it had become a busy thoroughfare. And back at Ightham Mote, the queue at the restaurant was too long to contemplate buying cake and coffee there, so off we went home.   
    Tonight, as I put the cat out, and looked up, Venus and Mars and Mani were clear in the evening sky and I pondered on them.

The first Swallow

27th April 2014

    When I awoke last night, Jupiter dominated Mars and the starlight. This morning, I walked out into grey rain. The long wet grass at Oxen Hoath soaked my legs, but the birds continued to sing, just the same. Friesians were grazing in the top pasture, and took no heed to me or the weather as I walked through, and a Cuckoo called incessantly. The new canopy, as I entered Hurst Wood at Gover Hill stayed some rain and the Bluebells brightened the morning. When I reached Doris's bench, the rain had stopped and some patches of celestial blue appeared, but across the valley, the hill over at Seal Chart, was shrouded in cloud. May is in blossom and the hedgerows were cloaked with creamy sprays.
    Long Bottom Wood was a magnificent riot of colour: White dead Nettle, Yellow Archangel and Red Campion growing thickly along the path and Bluebells painting the woodland floor. I determined to follow the Bourne home (as much as the footpaths will allow), and joined the river at Basted Mill. Bluebells and Stitchwort together is a perfect combination for beauty along the river banks. The little river Bourne is best in springtime; with the newness of green and clean smelling air. Although, for Ransomes (wild garlic), it is a good year and is growing abundantly! The meadow beyond Dunks Green was be-spattered with white Daises and yellow Dandelions; like a Jackson Pollock work of art, and the first Swallow of the year wheeled low across the vibrant field.  At the camping barn by the river at Oxen Hoath Mill (now a fish farm), I stopped for tea, and an Orange Tip butterfly crossed my path, fluttering, looking for a maid. Lords and Ladies were all about me, with the purple phallic spikes emerging from the luscious verdant envelopes. Now the Sun was shining strongly and the temperature was rising, I removed a layer, to make for home and all was well with the world.

Good Friday walk

18th April 2014

    Di and Maisie arrived at 7am for our annual Good Friday walk. We drove in fine weather to the quietly calm Bough Beech Water,  parked on the causeway, and started off walking north for the Greensand Way. Uphill through birdsong and fields of Rape, by hedges and banks of springtime flowers, and startling a small herd of Fallow deer (which Di banned Maisie from chasing!), we entered Stubbs Wood above the hamlet of Boarhill, extremely puffed. Rose Ringed Parakeets had been roosting and were agitated by a Buzzard above and making a din! The view from Hanging Bank to the Weald was spectacular; the air crystal, the valley greening and Crowborough Hill twenty two kilometres south, a recognizable sight, as we caught our breath. At Ide Hill village, we stopped at the loos for a pee, then crossed into the wood, where Octavia Hill (co-founder of The National Trust) dedicated a bench, facing south across the Weald, to others who would come after her. The woodland walks on the Greensand Ridge are so peaceful; no traffic noise, and sparsely populated. Pretty cottages and small villages and hamlets are dotted along the way. We crossed green undulating fields, and along the way, greeted a chap with his little Jack Russell, who was clearing trees from a small copse, and a bonfire was throwing out a fierce heat, which was welcome on such a chilly day. Then up high to Scords Wood, where a bench is set for passers-by. The family of David Page JP MBE, who once owned the farm we walked across, dedicated the bench to him, saying that he loved the farm. We stopped at this quiet place for breakfast and enjoyed the view in the Sun.
    From there, we made our way through Bluebells and woodland to Toy's Hill, then out onto the lane to take us to French Street, another pretty hamlet, with well kept gardens and well kept stables of show horses. We said hello to a mare and her foal (keeping Maisie well back!). A bridle path took us along woodland rides over Horns Hill to Chartwell; Winston Churchill's house. We stopped at the restaurant there for coffee and cake, recovering in the sunshine.
    We left Chartwell via the farm (after a discussion about which way to go) and walked along a grassy flower garnished lane, with lambs bleating in the pasture, down to Puddledock Lane. The walk to Bardogs Farm was a lung-busting climb near Toy's Hill, but from there, it was all downhill along another grassy twitten, with Yellow Archangel and White Dead Nettle, pink Herb Robert, and at the Toy's Hill road, wild Strawberries. At the house gate where the footpath ended, there was a tray-full of home-made jams. Of all types and irresistible! I chose Gooseberry jam - £1.30 - bargain! Di chose Victoria Plum, I believe, and we paid by dropping the money into the post-box. Off the road again, for the last three kilometres, we went onto Hendon Manor dairy farm; a very well kept farm and a pleasure to see, as was the black and white 15th century manor house (I believe they supply Marks and Spencer with milk). We watched a pair of crying Buzzards, one playing at being a Peregrine: diving with folded wings and swooping! I'm sure it was just for fun. At Cooper's Corner, we cut across, back to Bough Beech Water and the wildlife centre there for a cuppa and rest before the drive back home.

The Fox and Hare

13th April 2014

    The morning to begin was grey and chill but soon pocket handkerchiefs of pale blue appeared. Up at Oxen Hoath Mr Hare ran from me, and, all of a sudden, Reynard darted from the undergrowth and chased Hare into the Loganberry canes. I would say that Hare escaped; he was fast! Neither could be seen as I looked through the canes and orchard beyond. Opposite, a new orchard has been planted with a variety of apple called Scrumptious. I look forward to a September tasting. The woodland floor was everywhere thickly blue and the Sun shone through. Out of Hurst Wood, into the Walnut orchard and the catkins were sprouting. Jack-by-the-hedge were flowering on the banks (leaves tasting of mustard and garlic) and joining the White Dead Nettle was a another Mint called Yellow Archangel. Along the canopied twitten to Crouch, Herb Robert was beginning to show its pink visage. And after breakfast, below Doris's bench, in Long Bottom Wood, Spotted Orchids stood under the greening Hazel's shade.
    I took a detour from the tinkling Bourne uphill along a path by Crowhurst Farm, and at  Bewley Farm, a young woman was giving her horse a lesson in standing still and giving encouraging pats when he was good. From there I rambled through pink Bramley apple blossom to Ivy Hatch and through Bluebells to Ightham Mote and sat in the hot Sun for tea as visitors came in happy droves to see the house and gardens.
    In Dean Park Wood, I sought out an old stump and sat among Bluebells for a final cuppa under the tree-filtered sunlight with insects buzzing about me, and watched as a Kestrel glided silently above the azure ground through the arboreal Eden. At High House Lane, I didn't walk the foot path off through the wheat fields as the crops were being sprayed, so took the green lane to Hadlow College instead and back across the rushing Bourne at the old Mill House for home.

The Seven Sisters

12th April 2014

    A fine Saturday morning, but cool. An excursion was planned to drive to the south coast and walk the Seven Sisters - the steeply undulating chalk cliffs between the River Cuckmere and Eastbourne. I was joined by Kay, my sister-in-law Juju and her husband Marky. After a pleasant drive down, we parked at the Seven Sisters visitor centre, Exceat Farm, and walked down the river-side. A Grey Heron stood stock still, waiting for breakfast to appear by the water's edge. And later, a Little Egrit too. We spoke to a group of Sussex Brown cattle, but they were skittish and refused to answer and looked at us accusingly. Near the estuary, we started the climb up to the top at Cliff End and followed the South Downs Way among the springtime flowers until we reached Crowlink. We stopped there for tea and looked over to Birling Gap where the winter's storms had undermined the cliff and a great chunk of chalk had slipped into the sea, leaving the buildings perilously close to the cliff edge. The old coast guard's cottage is to be demolished.
    We then took the north east path to Friston Forest past the hamlet of Crowlink and crossed the road at Friston and the church of St. Mary, a building of flint walls, and the oldest part, 11th century. We entered the forest which was awash with the yellow of Celandine. The forest was alive with birdsong and the peace absolute. We followed an old track west through the trees; the ruined walls edging the track were mossed and ivied. Mosses and lichens enveloped the trees in the damp valley. We passed West Dean where King Alfred the Great once had a palace, then climbed uphill a hundred steps back to Exceat tea rooms. We sat in the courtyard drinking coffee and eating ploughmans while Mr Robin Redbreast took crumbs from Juju's hand or he stood waiting on my shoulder expectantly.
   At home, I developed a cold, but Sunday awaits!

Coxheath Roundhouse

4th April 2014

    As the car was in the garage in Marden for a service, I decided to walk from there. And Goudhurst was the destination.
    I left Marden, past St Michael & All Angels medieval church, under the hazy Sun and took a path south, through pear blossom and fields (some of which were recently spread with muck - what a pong!), and with relief entered a Bluebell wood. The path took me over a quiet stream, then out into newly strung hop fields at Hugget Farm. From there, there is a dearth of public footpaths, so I trod the flower bordered lanes through woodland until Curtisden Green, passing Paygate, the old toll house on the Goudhurst road, and Bethany school for boys, a popular public school (or in the USA, a private school). Some boys were wearing themselves out in the playing fields and being especially noisy about it. Then I was off the road, downhill through pasture, until the Ladham Estate, where the lanes took me through blossomed orchards uphill to St. Mary's Church in Goudhurst (built circa AD1119, I believe). I sat under a leafy Horse Chestnut on The Plain by the pond and ate lunch and watched the ducks.
    Before leaving Goudhurst, I popped into Weekes Bakery and bought a Cornish pasty to scoff on the journey back. Leaf bud was bursting out everywhere but Mistletoe is still clear to be seen in the Lime trees. And downhill along the High Weald Trail, under overhanging Cherry blossom,White Dead Nettles threaten deceitfully and bees enter the luscious white, enveloping, complicated folds for nectar. I crossed over the River Teise past Nevergood Farm and up to Share Farm, through woods to Grovehurst. The pink apple blossom there was just emerging, with pear blossom, snow white all the way to Ash Farm. Then I was back to the river, where I sat at the edge of fields of bright yellow Rape for a snack. The heady perfume made me feel drowsy, like Dorothy in the field of Poppies. Onward, over the river again to a copse which was thickly carpeted with Bluebells, Wood Anemone, Celandine, Stitchwort and Milkmaids; the woodland floor was  spring's affirmation. Back toward Marden, on the hillside in a small copse, nestled among the Bluebells, was a large roundhouse, built of willow sticks and waterproofed, with a crude breeze block hearth and chimney. And above the doorway, was the legend: Coxheath Roundhouse. It was built on perhaps an Iron Age form, and made one feel a romantic notion of home long ago. No-one was there, so I ventured in, and into my imagination.

The joys of spring!

30th March 2014

    British Summertime, and the clocks go forward. I left an hour late, but not really, as the watery Sun was just rising. A pair of Goldfinches busied about me as I crossed Carpenters Lane: flashes of gold with red faces. I crossed the pasture over the college land; the air full of the sound of sheep and lambs bleating in the chill. As I went through the kissing gate onto High House Lane, two lambs, with the remnants of umbilical cord still dangling, spoke to me. One said, baa, the other said, baa. I said, hello! How are you? The little one said, baa.
    Celandine and sweet scented Milkmaids were joined by white Stitchwort (which often grows with sticky willy) on the banks of the lane. And on the path through Poult Wood golf course, I was entertained by a pair of Greylag Geese honking at me with early golfers looking on. I said sorry! for disturbing them. The golfers had teed off, so I went on my way. At Grange Farm, some progress has been made with the old oast house, and an out-building, standing on concrete stilts, has been completed with bright white weatherboarding. The lane to Horns Lodge was quiet, until a walker overtook me, as fast as a speeding bullet. Good morning, he said, as he sped past. I answered as quickly as possible, but he was gone. On the path for Tinley Lodge, among the Celandine and Milkmaids, Bluebells were flowering; early this year. I stopped for breakfast nearby. I sat on a log by an old Hornbeam and discovered that I had left without tea again! Still, I had my soup (savoy cabbage and bacon - yum!) with fresh home made bread, and plenty of water. I took the road to Great Budds, then climbed to Willmot Hill, to the cottage there, which had blue smoke floating from the high chimney. Looking east, Gover Hill, that great promontory, was thrusting out toward the valley and in the south east the unmistakeable image of Hadlow Tower, thrusting out of the misty distance. On the Greensand Way toward Ightham Mote, I picked some Ransomes to add to the stuffing for Sunday dinner. At the Mote, I bought a cup of coffee and relaxed outside the restaurant joining tourists, enjoying the sunshine and left, refreshed, for the final leg home.
    I left the Greensand Way for the Fairlawne estate along the bridleway, and passed through, wondering what Peter Cazelet's old racing stables are used for now. The pastures and fields were peaceful passing through to Dunks Green and in each, a Skylark sang. At Hamptons Road, bobtail rabbits scattered as I came from the footpath to the smallholding there. Down at the Bourne River, as I stood  on a wooden bridge listening to the bubbling water, a Blackcap sang, a melancholy song, hoping to entice a girl. But she may not have arrived from France yet. I followed the river back to High House Lane. As I walked up the lane, a cyclist went by, totally stark bollock naked! He said, good afternoon. I said, good afternoon. I wasn't sure that I saw what I thought I saw. Two walkers came behind me. I said, did I see that? They said, yes! And we laughed! Oh! The joys of spring!

A short walk

23rd march 2014

    Leaving Bedgebury Cross for the Great Lake, I passed Viscount Beresford's mansion, and wondered how the great are so often forgotten. At the lake, the water sparkled like diamonds and Canada Geese honked like old-fashioned car horns, with sheep and their new-born lambs bleating and enjoying the warmth on the hillside. From the top of the hill, looking at the mansion at the far side of the lake, the scene probably still looks as it did in the 1840's. The Marshall would like it.                                                                               Three Chimneys farm was busy, and I entered the forest, leaving the sound of work behind and walking along the sun dappled rides to the western edge, where a Sparrow Hawk took to the air and I watched as it circled high. The resident Buzzards were active, patrolling the fields to the north of the forest, always vocal. Having little rain recently, gave the ground time to dry out and walking was easier. There were boggy places, but few, and not enough to spoil the enjoyment of the woodland. The voices of spring were all about me and cock Pheasants with red cheeks displayed to the hens arrogantly, and with confidence. Partridges flew from my path, straight into the air; a fatal thing to do in autumn time. But now they are safe, from the guns, anyway. Out of the forest, there were visitors to the Pinetum, walking children and dogs. And on the pond at the visitor centre, Little Grebes chased each other with frantic legs running on the water, then diving, and bobbing up in unexpected places.
    I breakfasted there, then took a short-cut back to Bedgebury Cross and the car, just before a shower of rain doused the warm earth. I drove home and the banks of the lanes were painted with the colours of Wood Anemone, Celandine and Milkmaids, Daffodils and Daisies.

A beautiful spring equinox

20th March 2014

    I left for Coldrum Longbarrow at 2.15am and the silence was conspicuous. The street lamps in the village are switched off at around midnight now, so Robins have no light to sing by. There was a little light cloud, but  Máni's face looked down through the haze. Into Oxen Hoath, the perfume of the Balsam Poplars came to me in the breeze, and a vixen gave a strangled cry in the darkness over the Bourne way. Even in the woods all was eerily silent; only my footfall and the head torch beam enlivened the senses. But at Wrotham Heath, the sound of the motorways carried across, and there were two lorries at the service station as I crossed the A20. On the footpath which follows the M20 east, two great overturned Beech trees were blocking my way. With some clambering and climbing, and searching for a route with my lamp, I pushed my way through the maze of branches and emerged the other side slightly dishevelled. Then under the M20 and across a field of rape. Up high, a Skylark sang in the emerging light. On to Ryarsh Wood, where the dawn chorus seemed to suddenly spring into life, and finally, alone at Coldrum, I sat against a sarsen stone and poured a cup of tea and ate some soup for breakfast and waited in the half-light.
    There was a mist in the valley below. Máni was in the southern sky looking east expectantly, and Venus sparkled above the vague horizon. Ribbons, which were tied to the branches of the tree next to me as tokens, fluttered in the rising wind. The light gained intensity, then suddenly, there she was: Sól, just glancing; peeping over the mist. And then slowly, irrevocably whole, red and fierce, and Máni bathed in her light and I drank her health with a tot of mead.
    I left the Primrose encrusted burial mound along a different route back, to avoid the scramble through the fallen Beeches. I took the western path by the ancient Trottiscliffe Church and the lanes south to Wrotham Heath, back onto the Weald Way, to make my way wearily home. This was a special morning, a perfect morning. And now a time to dream.

All is calm

16th March 2014

    Now all is calm and Sól rose to a clear cerulean sky, and Skylarks were high and declaring their presence with frenetic song. The orchards were quiet; the Fieldfare have left for Scandinavia or Russia. Hurst was a peaceful haven, with only Robins singing and sunlight streaking across the path gave the wood a tranquil air. And Bluebell leaves were thickly greening the woodland floor. Then a Chiffchaff called its monotonous song. It flew all the way from Africa to annoy me! Chiff chaff, chiff chaff, on and on. Out at Crouch, the verges were bejewelled with golden Celandine, their petals like the rays of a sun, and purple Violets. And Milkmaids were blushing from the banks of ditches. Daffodils and pale yellow Primroses were everywhere along the lanes. At Doris's bench, tea was taken in the company of sheep and a cool breeze.
    In Long Bottom Wood, Comma and Tortoiseshell butterflies were abroad and a Peacock encircled me before settling on mud. At Basted Mill, a motorcyclist had stopped at the bridge and was feeding ducks with bread. The walk along the crystal River Bourne, under the trees, was an untroubled stroll among Pussy Willow and Blue Tits flitting and searching for insects in the branches. Wild Garlic was sprouting on the damp banks of the stream below Yopps Green (and shall be picked soon). Scathes Wood, up on the hill, was popular this morning, so I chose to breakfast at Ightham Mote in the Sun, and watch the people.
    In a ploughed and harrowed field, left fallow, blue Speedwell smothered the ground and mirrored the sky. Better time was made as the ground had dried after a week without rain and the path to Shipbourne was pleasant, for a change. The Chaser Inn was very busy with lunchtime customers enjoying a beer and a meal in the garden, and children played. On the way through Dene park Wood, I found a mobile 'phone, laying by the path. I thought that I would take it to a police station. I pressed a button and the messaging page lit up. So while a Buzzard cried above me, I sent a message to the person on the page - Kat. I said that I had found this 'phone in the wood, gave my own number and name and sent it. My mobile rang. It was Katherine. I said yes, I found the mobile in the wood; that I would take it home and await a call from the owner. She said that she would leave a message on her friend's home 'phone to say that I had her mobile. A pretty woman came later and with relief and thanks, retrieved her beloved mobile. It gave me a warm glow to return the young lady's property, and was the end of a perfect morning.

Peacocks and Brimstones

9th March 2014

    The morning was peaceful and blue. Mr Robin continued to serenade from atop the Willow behind the house and the frost was light.
    A message was on my mobile when I turned it on: are you going my way? Dee asked. I drove to Brenchley to pick her and Maisie up, and on we went to Scotney Castle. A Dunnock sang in a tree above us at the car park; a very springlike, perky tune. He wore drab clothes, but had a fine voice. The walk, to begin, was as last week: to Kilndown and Bedgebury. But this time we walked to Three Chimneys by the Great Lake. There were just two Great Crested Grebes, it seemed, on the whole lake, diving now and then. There was a slight mist rising and the water was calm. Then a few ducks flew over to settle near the south shore and voiced their arrival. On the hill to Three Chimneys, where lambs gambolled, we looked back, and the valley was pastoral perfection. Into the forest, a Roe deer, with its white arse bouncing across our path, surprised us as we walked south to the Pinetum and we breakfasted on a bench there, with the Sun bright and warm on our faces. Dozens of Brimstone butterflies, wings, bright and gaudy yellow, floated in the air, and one settled on Primroses by the bench, to taste the nectar.                                                                                      To leave the Pinetum and forest for Bewl Bridge Reservoir, we took the footpath via the radio and television mast and crossed the busy A21 with great care! The footpath down through a field of Rape, took us to the infant River Bewl. And the woodland there was filled with birdsong, butterflies and sunlight. The reservoir was calm and Peacock butterflies flitted along the path and alighted on the damp clay in the sunlight, with white-faced Coots calling from the water, and rowers pulling oars to commands from a motorboat alongside. Dingies floated gently with full sails and a peaceful air in the distance. And walkers, wearing unsuitable shoes, complained of the mud along the path. For the shortest way back to Scotney from the water, We took the decision to cross Chingley Wood. This would mean trespass, but there was a path on the map, although not a right of way, going north. I turned on the GPS to help find the path and we found the way out of the wood (sometimes following deer prints) to the gamekeeper's cottage on the A21, without trouble or hindrance! It gave the way through a frisson, and the relief felt was palpable when we entered Kilndown Wood on the other side of the road! Back at Scotney, the long hot walk deserved a cup of coffee and a large slice of cake from the restaurant there. We sat in the Sun, the half Moon was high, and the crowded space of the coach house forecourt was filled with laughter and joy as people relaxed, embracing the warm early spring day.
    When home, I realised that my walking pole was not in the car. Where was it? Who knows?

No tea!

2nd March 2014

    Midweek, Máni's arms were outstretched for Venus. She would have none of it!

    I cleared a light frost from the windscreen, before setting off for Scotney Castle. A little rain started as I arrived. The clock at the coach house struck seven as I left the empty car park. Daffodils were in bloom, and Primroses decorated sheltered banks. Blackthorn flowered the hedgerows. Spotted Woodpeckers drummed and Green Woodpeckers laughed as I walked up through the parkland of Oaks and sheep. Then into Kilndown Woods, and up to the avenue of Beeches of childhood play where lovelorn carvings, cut deep, are tearful memories. All the way, light showers rained down, but the uphill climb warmed my hands. I took the path through the churchyard in the village and greeted old friends. The walk was now downhill, past Priors Heath to Bedgebury Cross and on to the Pinetum. It came to me that I hadn't packed teabags. Perhaps I could have a cuppa at the cafeteria there. But it wasn't open. I was too early and no one was about. I ate my soup and took a drink of water and made for the forest. On the way, I watched a pair of Goldcrests dancing and flitting among the conifers. Such tiny, pretty birds.

    Away from the Pinetum and into the forest, the wind abated. My way was blocked a few of times by up-turned trees. Buzzards cried, but I couldn't see them through the tree tops. Then I could see along a muddy ride the Buzzards on the path. I disturbed them as they were feeding and they flew off with a noisy protest. A pigeon was spread-eagled and its breast stripped bare and red raw, its guts exposed. Feathers were scattered about. The birds continued to cry as I went on. I apologised, but they could return to their meal. At Three Chimneys Farm, the stables were busy; the task of mucking out was in full swing. The Sun made a short appearance from time to time and sparkled the rain. It was very muddy on the climb to Goudhurst from Smugley Farm. A pick-up truck went bouncing through with crates full of hen Pheasants; next season's fodder (although, I do enjoy a roast Pheasant). It is hot work climbing to the village. Goudhurst sits on top of a 120 metre high hill, and from the south side, not to be done in a rush. I popped into Burgess Stores and bought a packet of camomile tea to drink by the pond on The Plain and watched the ducks.
    
    I left the village going west downhill (probably steeper than the south side) through pasture. I slipped, and pulled something in my hip, so hobbled the rest of the way back to Scotney, glad of my walking pole. I followed the River Tiese in the valley, still in full flow after yet more heavy rain in the week, then made the uphill struggle to the castle. I was thinking of going to the restaurant there for a hot drink, but the place was heaving with visitors and the car park was full. So I drove home for a cuppa and some pain killers!

    

The beginnings of spring!

23rd February 2014

    As I stepped out, geese spoke and they flew west. There was just a light shower as I walked down Carpenters Lane, then the rain cleared. A strong cool breeze blew up the valley and over the hill and the tree tops rattled and squeaked. Deep into Hurst Wood, the woodcutter's shack was quiet, with stacks of logs ready for cleaving. The winter's wake was being cleared of wind felled trees, tidied and cleared; keeping the tree surgeons busy and the sound of chain saws was all around. The morning was dull and grey to begin with, but Snow Drops in places brightened the paths. In the woods, Dogs Mercury (in blossom sometimes), Lords & Ladies and Bluebells are piercing the ground, with daffodils bringing sunshine. Doris's bench, I left for more hardy souls, and the cold wind forced me to shelter in Long Bottom Wood for tea, although there were no other walkers about this morning.
    The river was much calmer, more its old self, and the water was clear. The Brambly orchard still had green apples lying among the rotting fruit, but the Fieldfare appreciate them. I left the river and breakfasted at Yopps Green with Chaffinches flapping and darting about me as if I wasn't there. All the birds were twitterpated, as Disney called the sexual habits of our avian friends. The sky brightened a little here as I supped my soup amid the antics of the birds.
    At Plaxtol, along the road, I stopped at the war memorial on Church Hill. This year being the 100th anniversary of that filthy conflict. All sides are dedicated to the Great War. So many courageous names from such a small parish. Among them, the name of Edward Cazalet, Second Lieutenant, 1st Battalion Welsh Guards. His family once owned the Fairlawne estate of farmland and woodland; one thousand acres from Hadlow to Borough Green. He died fighting for his country aged 22. The estate is now owned by Prince Khalid ibn Abdullah Al Saud: 'nough said.
    The wind was stronger and cooler as I went across country to Dunks Green. The footpath behind The Rifleman pub was lined with flowering Gorse bushes which were smelling sweetly of coconut. I startled a small black long-haired pig who was grubbing around the hedge and he startled me! Back at the river at the trout farm, there was a sheltered spot in a small copse where the river divides (one being the old mill stream) and a final cuppa was enjoyed in peace with birdsong.

A special day

16th February 2014

   There was a perfectly clear sky this morning; Venus was bright in the paling morning and Máni was in the west, his face was full and reflected his sister's light.
    The car's windscreen took five minutes to scrape clear of frost and then I drove to Ightham Mote along icy and flooded roads. The Elizabethan façade and the pale blue sky was reflected flawlessly in the moat. There was not a ripple. As I climbed the Greensand Ridge, the Sun rose, that wonderful orange sphere, as the Moon set behind the Ridge. Looking down to the valley, Hadlow Tower rose mysteriously from the mist and the tree tops floated on the soft sea. The fields and pasture were frosted white and a Skylark sang to the Sun. Into the wood, Woodpeckers drummed. Across the path lay fallen trees; Oaks, no longer majestic, Birch and a sorry looking Damson, victims of the storms last week. They were climbed over and under. Into Knole Park, I found a suitable log in the Sun for tea and watched a pair of Fallow deer with antlers locked, one was a young fellow and he wouldn't give up without a real fight. He was whining like a baby, and the horns clattered all the while. A group of five or six stags watched with bored expressions.
    I went on through the park, past Knole House. First built between 1456 and 1486 (on the site of an original house), it grew over the years to 365 rooms. After a chequered history, it came into the possession of the Sackvilles in 1566, to whom it still belongs, although it is managed by the National Trust. Then on, under the Chestnuts, where the Rose Ringed Parakeets roost and the Oaks where Jackdaws rooted around for acorns. The park is popular with joggers clad in tight lycra and people taking a Sunday morning constitutional. I came out of the park in the north east corner and to the north, the Downs were bathed in morning sunlight. The path took me down to Godden Green and I stopped for tea there, opposite the Bucks Head Inn. The aroma of eggs and bacon wafted over to me. But I had my soup!
    I turned south east from there for Bitchet Green, down the ancient track and on up through the large flooded pasture to a stile blocked by a fallen Birch. It was a struggle to weave my way through the branches, but it was necessary, because the way round was two kilometres back. Then up the steep hill through Bitchet Green, took me to Broadhoath Wood and Wilmot Hill. There is a bench there, under a Beech facing south. I stopped for tea(!) and soaked up the Sun. Blue Tits flitted among the branches and spoke, zeet-zeet, busily above me.
    Then it was all downhill back to Ightham Mote, following a brook in the woods, past the restored Hopper Huts, to the Mote. And the Sun shone!