26th January 2014
Yesterday evening, there was a great storm: Thor was crashing and banging about and sending down splinters of brilliant light.
As I walked out of the village at 6.45 this morning, at each lamp post, a Robin or a Blackbird sang in the yellow glow. Off the lane, into the wet pasture, there were lights at the sheds over on Park Farm, a kilometre away. Lambing time must be upon us. The sky was a little overcast, and looking east, with Geese flying over and Mr Buzzard crying, there was a blood orange gash low on the horizon. Then the sky softened; the backdrop was a scene from Gone with the Wind, or War Horse and I was the heroic silhouette. At Oxen Hoath, one of the Atlas Cedars had lost its top and a huge bough. The length laying across the path was twenty seven strides and the diameter, two strides. I clambered over. The north westerly was very cold and I considered changing my gloves for thicker ones, but into the trees at the top of the hill, the wind abated. A Woodpecker's drumming echoed through the wood. Near Crouch, looking down onto the Cobnut orchards, the trees were olive green, thick with catkins. The twitten through Crouch had been cleared of trees, but there was a lot of damage to garden fences. The countryside resembles a lumber-yard in places. As it is a little exposed at Doris's bench, I went on down to Long Bottom Wood, and at Basted Mill, I turned north, upstream beside the Bourne, to take breakfast out of the wind above the old mill pond where Mallards paddled and Coots dived.
The rain started as I continued north to Borough Green, following the river until climbing the steep hill to the village. Not a particularly pretty place, it is a sprawling crossroads. From there, I walked down Crouch Lane, to return home via Crouch. Past the Chequers pub, on the West Peckham road, close to Winfield Farm, I turned east across a field, to enter Hurst Wood again at the stables. I had another cuppa under a large Beech and sat in the roots, like in an armchair, in the lee of the weather. There were a few drips, but I was out of the worst, and the birdsong kept me company.
Through the wood, the rain wasn't so bad, protected by the coppice, but back out into the driving rain on Gover Hill, the wind had turned to south west and although a little warmer (not much), the rain was in my face. In the bottom pasture, a few hundred Herring Gulls had taken up residence and noisily occupied the place, enjoying the temporary pond in the field, displacing the Greylag Geese. They sounded quite put-out. My knees were a little damp, but the rain was kept at bay and my mud be-spattered legs took me home and warmth.
Sunday 26 January 2014
Sunday 19 January 2014
Spectacular Sunrise
19th January 2014
As I left for Brenchley, Mani peeped from behind rain-filled clouds and was showered on as I drove. Hartlake Road was closed because of flood, so I diverted through East Peckam. After picking up Dee and Maisie, the showers stopped and we left Kilndown to walk through the wood for Lamberhurst. Two Song Thrushes were scrapping in the road and one left hurriedly, beaten. Into the trees, a Tawny Owl hooted and the call reverberated through the wood as we went down to the River Bewl. The birdsong was much more noticeable this morning; almost springlike, was the clamour. Over the river, swollen and muddy, then across the pasture, the ground was extremely boggy, even on the rise to the hill-top. The sky cleared from the west, and we hoped for a good day. The walk along the Tiese into Lamberhurst showed what the water level was in full flood, with dead vegetation swept away, and the river angry still. We stopped and turned to watch as the Sun rose and burst through cloud with a spectacular display and beams were radiating from the perfect light. The houses by the river in the village had sandbags in readiness at the doorways for the next deluge, but the Chequers pub was still in business and offering a two course lunch for eight quid for the over-sixties! We followed the Tiese in its tortuous meanderings to the old hopper-huts. On a beam in the roof of one was inscribed: LES'S HUT 1954. There were hop fields all round here, but now it is all just a memory, and the fields have given way to corn and sheep and cattle. A light mist had settled here and the cold could be felt on the face. And past the mill, in a barn, cattle were sheltering with calves and one was slurping greedily at mum's teats. On the road bridge, the Sun shot through the mist and trees with softly radiant shafts and sparkled the water.
We sat against an Oak for a cuppa in the Sun, just off the Free Heath Road in Hook Green and warmed ourselves. Then the walk across winter wheat to Bewl water took us through sticky clay and then (relatively) dry sandy soil, so much easier to walk on. The Pheasant feeders still held seed and the markers for the guns were in place, but there was no gunshot to be heard. The Alpacas in a pasture close to Bewl Water were interested in Maisie, but she wasn't too keen on them and hid behind Dee and barked! And at the Water, we stopped for another break where soup was taken to warm us in the cold wind driving across the reservoir. The sounds of the people in sailing dingies carried in the wind even as we walked uphill through Chingley Wood to the Post Boys on the A21. At an up-turned tree, hiding under the roots in the sunlight, his colours bright, was Cock Pheasant. He didn't stir, and Maisie didn't see him. I think that he will live a long life! Then it was the last leg back to Kilndown through Cats Wood, the Priory and Shearnfold Wood. At the chicken farm, Maisie touched the electric fence and screamed with shock and ran like a thing possessed. She will learn to stay away from the fence one day. Above us, Buzzards circled; one, two, no five! A great cacophony, calling to each other. They stayed overhead as we went through the wood and they gradually dispersed after their meeting.
At the Kilndown Village Hall, a 6th birthday party was in full swing. What happened to teacakes and jelly with best friends at home? Everything seems to be done at great expense these days. The simplicity of life is long gone, when we were all poor. Now we must impress our child's friend's parents with displays of opulence.
Then home, hot shower and rest after a hard, muddy walk, with aching legs and back!
As I left for Brenchley, Mani peeped from behind rain-filled clouds and was showered on as I drove. Hartlake Road was closed because of flood, so I diverted through East Peckam. After picking up Dee and Maisie, the showers stopped and we left Kilndown to walk through the wood for Lamberhurst. Two Song Thrushes were scrapping in the road and one left hurriedly, beaten. Into the trees, a Tawny Owl hooted and the call reverberated through the wood as we went down to the River Bewl. The birdsong was much more noticeable this morning; almost springlike, was the clamour. Over the river, swollen and muddy, then across the pasture, the ground was extremely boggy, even on the rise to the hill-top. The sky cleared from the west, and we hoped for a good day. The walk along the Tiese into Lamberhurst showed what the water level was in full flood, with dead vegetation swept away, and the river angry still. We stopped and turned to watch as the Sun rose and burst through cloud with a spectacular display and beams were radiating from the perfect light. The houses by the river in the village had sandbags in readiness at the doorways for the next deluge, but the Chequers pub was still in business and offering a two course lunch for eight quid for the over-sixties! We followed the Tiese in its tortuous meanderings to the old hopper-huts. On a beam in the roof of one was inscribed: LES'S HUT 1954. There were hop fields all round here, but now it is all just a memory, and the fields have given way to corn and sheep and cattle. A light mist had settled here and the cold could be felt on the face. And past the mill, in a barn, cattle were sheltering with calves and one was slurping greedily at mum's teats. On the road bridge, the Sun shot through the mist and trees with softly radiant shafts and sparkled the water.
We sat against an Oak for a cuppa in the Sun, just off the Free Heath Road in Hook Green and warmed ourselves. Then the walk across winter wheat to Bewl water took us through sticky clay and then (relatively) dry sandy soil, so much easier to walk on. The Pheasant feeders still held seed and the markers for the guns were in place, but there was no gunshot to be heard. The Alpacas in a pasture close to Bewl Water were interested in Maisie, but she wasn't too keen on them and hid behind Dee and barked! And at the Water, we stopped for another break where soup was taken to warm us in the cold wind driving across the reservoir. The sounds of the people in sailing dingies carried in the wind even as we walked uphill through Chingley Wood to the Post Boys on the A21. At an up-turned tree, hiding under the roots in the sunlight, his colours bright, was Cock Pheasant. He didn't stir, and Maisie didn't see him. I think that he will live a long life! Then it was the last leg back to Kilndown through Cats Wood, the Priory and Shearnfold Wood. At the chicken farm, Maisie touched the electric fence and screamed with shock and ran like a thing possessed. She will learn to stay away from the fence one day. Above us, Buzzards circled; one, two, no five! A great cacophony, calling to each other. They stayed overhead as we went through the wood and they gradually dispersed after their meeting.
At the Kilndown Village Hall, a 6th birthday party was in full swing. What happened to teacakes and jelly with best friends at home? Everything seems to be done at great expense these days. The simplicity of life is long gone, when we were all poor. Now we must impress our child's friend's parents with displays of opulence.
Then home, hot shower and rest after a hard, muddy walk, with aching legs and back!
Sunday 12 January 2014
A cold and frosty morning.
12th January 2014
I ventured into out to the cold darkness and birdsong, across the Bourne at Bourne Mill, and into frosty fields. At High House Lane, looking back, Hadlow Tower was silhouetted black against the reddening morning. My footprints snaked across the whiteness. I walked the lane gingerly over the ice and was relieved entering the footpath for a more reliable foothold at Poult Wood. The golf course was deserted but for a groundsman raking a bunker in the low light, and ducks voiced their disapproval at being disturbed from the pond there. Grange Farm still had to be skirted. Work on the old farm buildings and oast houses continues. The tiles have been stripped from the roofs and some groundwork done. Five white Doves, perched in a line on the finger of a cowl atop an oast, cooed gently. I passed Carrotty Wood north of Tonbridge, then walked down Horns Lodge Lane, still icy, and a woodpecker drummed. The Sun, that perfect orb, rose behind me into the blue. At Coldharbour, I took the old bridlepath to Tinly Farm, then onto the frozen sods through winter wheat to Shipbourne. The five bells of St Giles Church were ringing out a jolly tune as I walked up the fields and was ear-splitting going by. I sat on a bench in the Sun on the village green for tea and passers-by greeted me with a smile, and the bells rang on.
I left the bench for Dunks Green through Home Farm at Fairlawne, then stumbled across the frozen plough into the little wood where a stream flows through. The moss-covered trees and undergrowth there gives the place a primeval air. The lane to the village was very slippery and my walking pole kept me upright. Sitting on the bench at the front of the Kentish Rifleman Inn, the sky began to cloud over, and I ate hot leek and potato soup.
From there, I left for Oxen Hoath, over the Bourne again at Roughway Mill and zigzagged up through the orchards, just recently pruned, and down again to Hamptons. In the wood there, Mr Reynard came with a hen Pheasant gripped between his jaws. Head up and purposeful, he crossed my path without seeing me and continued on his way, perhaps to offer to his vixen. At Oxen Hoath, I sat on Joan Bray's bench for a final cuppa. Hadlow Tower was again before me in the valley and shafts of gentle white light burst through the cloud to embellish the Weald. Fieldfare chattered and Rooks cawed about me and a bitter South-easterly cut into my face and my hands froze. The ground was beginning to soften as I walked through the parkland for home; maybe rain is on its way.
I ventured into out to the cold darkness and birdsong, across the Bourne at Bourne Mill, and into frosty fields. At High House Lane, looking back, Hadlow Tower was silhouetted black against the reddening morning. My footprints snaked across the whiteness. I walked the lane gingerly over the ice and was relieved entering the footpath for a more reliable foothold at Poult Wood. The golf course was deserted but for a groundsman raking a bunker in the low light, and ducks voiced their disapproval at being disturbed from the pond there. Grange Farm still had to be skirted. Work on the old farm buildings and oast houses continues. The tiles have been stripped from the roofs and some groundwork done. Five white Doves, perched in a line on the finger of a cowl atop an oast, cooed gently. I passed Carrotty Wood north of Tonbridge, then walked down Horns Lodge Lane, still icy, and a woodpecker drummed. The Sun, that perfect orb, rose behind me into the blue. At Coldharbour, I took the old bridlepath to Tinly Farm, then onto the frozen sods through winter wheat to Shipbourne. The five bells of St Giles Church were ringing out a jolly tune as I walked up the fields and was ear-splitting going by. I sat on a bench in the Sun on the village green for tea and passers-by greeted me with a smile, and the bells rang on.
I left the bench for Dunks Green through Home Farm at Fairlawne, then stumbled across the frozen plough into the little wood where a stream flows through. The moss-covered trees and undergrowth there gives the place a primeval air. The lane to the village was very slippery and my walking pole kept me upright. Sitting on the bench at the front of the Kentish Rifleman Inn, the sky began to cloud over, and I ate hot leek and potato soup.
From there, I left for Oxen Hoath, over the Bourne again at Roughway Mill and zigzagged up through the orchards, just recently pruned, and down again to Hamptons. In the wood there, Mr Reynard came with a hen Pheasant gripped between his jaws. Head up and purposeful, he crossed my path without seeing me and continued on his way, perhaps to offer to his vixen. At Oxen Hoath, I sat on Joan Bray's bench for a final cuppa. Hadlow Tower was again before me in the valley and shafts of gentle white light burst through the cloud to embellish the Weald. Fieldfare chattered and Rooks cawed about me and a bitter South-easterly cut into my face and my hands froze. The ground was beginning to soften as I walked through the parkland for home; maybe rain is on its way.
Sunday 5 January 2014
Mud and flood.
The birdsong, as I walked through the village would cheer any man. After another week of storms, the air was still. Jupiter was low in the west, as bright as it can be. The fields and pasture were white with a frosty rime which crinkled and crackled as I went. There was a mist and the voices of geese travelling west were above me. The latches of the three kissing gates through the parkland were frozen, and could only be freed with a clout with my walking pole. As I went up the through the pasture, over my right shoulder the dawning horizon glowed orange and magenta and I came out of the mist. Looking out from Gover Hill, the Sun rose and illuminated the tree covered hills over the valley. Hurst Wood was cold and dim and only at clearings would it brighten. The leaves crunched underfoot. At the stables, a handsome Mr Reynard hobbled through the paddocks with a gammy leg. He scented a fence pole and limped on his way. The horses were unconcerned; so was Mr Cockerel, who crowed incessantly! The footpath through Crouch was completely blocked, so I took a detour past Horsnayles and the Chequers pub to Doris's bench. On the fence behind the bench, was a conifer wreath for Doris. It was decorated with sliced citrus fruits, cinnamon sticks and baubles. I said 'hello' to the black faced sheep and my hands froze as I drank my tea, looking down onto the mist.
The walk along the river from Basted Mill was cold and misty and my hands didn't warm until I climbed back up to the Greensand Ridge and Scathes Wood. I sat in the Sun at Ightham Mote and ate hot pea and bacon soup. It was pleasantly warm there. Struggling through the mud to Shipbourne, a young lady with a blonde pony tail, whizzed by me as if the path were dry! I felt quite foolish. We hardly had time for a greeting and she was gone; her rucksack disappearing into the distance. On the other side of the village, there was a Holly wreath for Joan and Frank Chapman on their bench. I didn't stop for tea there, but carried on to Dene Park Wood. The walk through Dene Park and Clearhedges Wood was hard, tiring, exhausting. The mud was deep; the ground boggy. Springs were bubbling up all over. Trees were over the paths and had to be negotiated; paths were flooded and diversions were made. Back at the Bourne, the water was brown and in a hurry. And all this time, the sky was clouding. At Bourne Mill, the weir was mad with a rushing noise as I passed through for home and a welcome rest.
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