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.
Tuesday 30 September 2014
Friday 19 September 2014
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.
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.
Wednesday 10 September 2014
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!
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!
Saturday 6 September 2014
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.
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.
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