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.
Wednesday, 27 August 2014
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!
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!
Thursday, 21 August 2014
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.
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.
Thursday, 14 August 2014
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.
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.
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