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.
Monday 24 February 2014
Sunday 16 February 2014
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!
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!
Sunday 9 February 2014
A cold wind across the valley
9th February 2014
It often rains in England, but this is silly!
The birdsong could only be heard when the wind abated a little. A grey blanket covered the sky, and the day came slowly and the rain stopped. There were no geese in the pasture at Oxen Hoath and the strong south west wind carried me uphill through the mire, into Hurst Wood, and Njord blustered and whined in the the tree tops. Here, the faux springtime birdsong rang through the coppice. I walked north east until, out into the wind again, I came to Offham; an old Saxon village built in ragstone with the Roman road running through it. There is a quintain on the village green, and if I were mounted on a great steed, I may have charged! Breakfast, of butternut squash, sweet potato and red chilli soup, was in a stone bus-shelter to keep from the wind. Although the temperature was 6C, it felt much cooler and my hands chilled, in spite of the soup.
I made my way west after breakfast, for Platt Wood, buffeted by the wind, past the King's Arms, through a fruit farm (following deer prints) and, across the road, the busy Wrotham Heath Golf Course. The way through was badly marked and I spent some time looking for the path on the far side and was directed by a kindly golfer. The Sun appeared from time to time and little patches of pale blue raised the spirits. It was quiet in Platt Wood and I warmed up before emerging at Pigeons Green (Snow Drops aplenty along the verge here). Then I was back into Hurst on the west side, walking down the Wealdway and out of the wind again. I stopped for some tea where the coppice had been cut. Bluebells were emerging; little green fingers probing the light. The Sun was directly ahead of me now; blinding and brilliant. The track-way south was muddy and boggy and very hard work and my back was hurting. Further south, the track is better-kept and the going was easier. Families were out walking and greeted me, saying, 'lovely morning'!
Walking into the wind, still strong and cold, out onto the pasture at Oxen Hoath, I eschewed the thought of stopping at Joan's bench for tea, and struggled on home, scattering Herring Gulls which had settled on the flood.
Then, took a couple of pills, and put my feet up to watch the Winter Olympics!
It often rains in England, but this is silly!
The birdsong could only be heard when the wind abated a little. A grey blanket covered the sky, and the day came slowly and the rain stopped. There were no geese in the pasture at Oxen Hoath and the strong south west wind carried me uphill through the mire, into Hurst Wood, and Njord blustered and whined in the the tree tops. Here, the faux springtime birdsong rang through the coppice. I walked north east until, out into the wind again, I came to Offham; an old Saxon village built in ragstone with the Roman road running through it. There is a quintain on the village green, and if I were mounted on a great steed, I may have charged! Breakfast, of butternut squash, sweet potato and red chilli soup, was in a stone bus-shelter to keep from the wind. Although the temperature was 6C, it felt much cooler and my hands chilled, in spite of the soup.
I made my way west after breakfast, for Platt Wood, buffeted by the wind, past the King's Arms, through a fruit farm (following deer prints) and, across the road, the busy Wrotham Heath Golf Course. The way through was badly marked and I spent some time looking for the path on the far side and was directed by a kindly golfer. The Sun appeared from time to time and little patches of pale blue raised the spirits. It was quiet in Platt Wood and I warmed up before emerging at Pigeons Green (Snow Drops aplenty along the verge here). Then I was back into Hurst on the west side, walking down the Wealdway and out of the wind again. I stopped for some tea where the coppice had been cut. Bluebells were emerging; little green fingers probing the light. The Sun was directly ahead of me now; blinding and brilliant. The track-way south was muddy and boggy and very hard work and my back was hurting. Further south, the track is better-kept and the going was easier. Families were out walking and greeted me, saying, 'lovely morning'!
Walking into the wind, still strong and cold, out onto the pasture at Oxen Hoath, I eschewed the thought of stopping at Joan's bench for tea, and struggled on home, scattering Herring Gulls which had settled on the flood.
Then, took a couple of pills, and put my feet up to watch the Winter Olympics!
Sunday 2 February 2014
A lull in the weather
2nd February 2014
I stepped out into the still morning and Venus was brilliant, preceding the Sun in the pale light. Looking south, Mars was caressing Virgo's luscious thigh.
I followed the songs along Carpenters Lane and then into the bottom pasture at Oxen Hoath, where a lookout warned the grazing Greylag geese, and hundreds of voices took to the air as one. The calls were deafening as I walked up through the parkland, and I apologised for disturbing their repast. They didn't hear. The great V circled until they settled over Clearhedges way. Sól rose quietly, a hint of lemon yellow on soft cloud in the east. The waterlogged ground squelched as I made my way to the Big House. The fallen Cedar had been dragged from the path, awaiting a saw. And up into Hurst Wood, the going was easier, so I determined to stay on higher ground if possible. Mr Robin Redbreast followed me a little distance, singing so prettily, and I took the path going north east, past the front of the gamekeepers cottage, saying 'hello' to the pony there, through coppice to the conifer plantation and the MoD exercise grounds. Then out onto farmland at Comp; the chattering Fieldfare busied the winter wheat, and finches of all sorts, the hedgerows. Pigeons Green was quiet, there was no one about and the lane to Platt was running with water. St. Mary's Church at Platt was quiet too, and it was 9.15am. At the crossroads in Borough Green, I turned south for Basted Mill. I sat by the Bourne in the Sun and ate leek and potato soup for breakfast. The soup was hot!
Leaving the river, I went up hill, on the lane, toward Crouch, past The Plough pub and left the lane through fields of rape (looking quite good, despite the rain), and a Skylark was up and trilling. Behind a windbreak of Poplars, at the edge of the field, there was a small plaque with the message inscribed: In loving memory, Brian Hallet, 1933 - 2013. With it, was a small Christmas tree in a pot, decorated with baubles, and a bunch of flowers. A pleasant spot to spend eternity. Back into Hurst Wood, I had a second cuppa at the Beech, but this time facing the Sun, which was shining in my face, warming me.
I was greeted along the path from time to time, by horse-riders enjoying the day through the wood (two of which were Polish, I think). Then I was back at Oxen Hoath parkland. On Joan's bench, drinking tea, I watched Mr and Mrs Buzzard circle and wheel in the Sun-light, sometimes harried by Rooks, but seemingly unconcerned. back along Carpenters Lane, on the grass verge, there was a patch of yellow Creeping Cinquefoil which shouldn't be in flower until June. Such is the state of the climate!
No more rain, please!
I stepped out into the still morning and Venus was brilliant, preceding the Sun in the pale light. Looking south, Mars was caressing Virgo's luscious thigh.
I followed the songs along Carpenters Lane and then into the bottom pasture at Oxen Hoath, where a lookout warned the grazing Greylag geese, and hundreds of voices took to the air as one. The calls were deafening as I walked up through the parkland, and I apologised for disturbing their repast. They didn't hear. The great V circled until they settled over Clearhedges way. Sól rose quietly, a hint of lemon yellow on soft cloud in the east. The waterlogged ground squelched as I made my way to the Big House. The fallen Cedar had been dragged from the path, awaiting a saw. And up into Hurst Wood, the going was easier, so I determined to stay on higher ground if possible. Mr Robin Redbreast followed me a little distance, singing so prettily, and I took the path going north east, past the front of the gamekeepers cottage, saying 'hello' to the pony there, through coppice to the conifer plantation and the MoD exercise grounds. Then out onto farmland at Comp; the chattering Fieldfare busied the winter wheat, and finches of all sorts, the hedgerows. Pigeons Green was quiet, there was no one about and the lane to Platt was running with water. St. Mary's Church at Platt was quiet too, and it was 9.15am. At the crossroads in Borough Green, I turned south for Basted Mill. I sat by the Bourne in the Sun and ate leek and potato soup for breakfast. The soup was hot!
Leaving the river, I went up hill, on the lane, toward Crouch, past The Plough pub and left the lane through fields of rape (looking quite good, despite the rain), and a Skylark was up and trilling. Behind a windbreak of Poplars, at the edge of the field, there was a small plaque with the message inscribed: In loving memory, Brian Hallet, 1933 - 2013. With it, was a small Christmas tree in a pot, decorated with baubles, and a bunch of flowers. A pleasant spot to spend eternity. Back into Hurst Wood, I had a second cuppa at the Beech, but this time facing the Sun, which was shining in my face, warming me.
I was greeted along the path from time to time, by horse-riders enjoying the day through the wood (two of which were Polish, I think). Then I was back at Oxen Hoath parkland. On Joan's bench, drinking tea, I watched Mr and Mrs Buzzard circle and wheel in the Sun-light, sometimes harried by Rooks, but seemingly unconcerned. back along Carpenters Lane, on the grass verge, there was a patch of yellow Creeping Cinquefoil which shouldn't be in flower until June. Such is the state of the climate!
No more rain, please!
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