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!