Hot mid-week special!

17th July 2013

   Marden is flat. So a walk from here is challenging, but the only way is up! I left Marden at 9am, and cut across toward the River Tiese. The footpath was dotted with glossy red wild cherries, like drops of blood. The cherries are sweet, but not fulfilling. Out in the fields, along the track, Fox poo was crammed with cherry stones, his main diet! At Little Cheveney farm, I came out onto a lane over a stile and was met by workmen repairing the road. They looked extremely hot working their pneumatic drills in the Sun. The day's heat was increasing, but there was some shade along the paths and tracks by the river.The path drifted away from the Tiese and followed a dried-up brook for a while. In a short distance, the path took me up toward Haymans Hill and the orchards there. I walked along a windbreak avenue of Lime and Hazel, with some shade. And then into Horsmonden, to stop on the village green for lunch, under an Oak.
   My thermometer read 29C in the shade. A lone swift searched for insects above, and the only birdsong was a Collared Dove and House Sparrows. A Small White fluttered by, and plump ladies waddled across the green calling, cooee! to friends out shopping. After coffee and some nibbles, I set off again for the return journey to Marden via Swags Farm. The farmhouse there is a beautiful old black and white building in the valley, and the old barns have been converted into dwellings. These barns would, of course be lost, if it wasn't for the money spent on renovation, but it is sad that they are lost to the working farm and the farming industry. The remnants of a pear orchard survive along the track leaving there; saved as a decorative feature to delight the visitor. The fruit was filling out well; It would be more delightful if they were ripe.
   I took an ancient track north, at Yew Tree farm (notices up - planning permission sought to convert old barns), down, through vast fields of pale blue Linseed. At The Poplars, a Kestrel alighted the top of a pole and was not concerned about me watching him from below. From August Pitts farm, the footpath was badly marked, overgrown and obviously not frequented. I took an age to find the route, and the Sun beat down, the grass seeds worked their barbs through my socks and pricked my ankles. The path led me along three kilometers of open farmland. My thermometer read 32C; it was a joy to reach The White Hart at Claygate!
   A short rest there and I was away again for the last leg alongside the railway track. In spite of the heat and discomfort, I could enjoy the flowers which grow all along the hedgerow: bright yellow Woad, lovely pink Centaury, Vetches of all colours, and by the River Tiese, the Field Rose, tumbling and dropping onto the water, pure white petals and golden centre. In the sky above the railroad, a Buzzard cried and took the currents of air beneath his huge wings, to glide effortlessly, higher and higher.
   I was finally brought back to Marden and drank the last of my water. That was a hard walk. But I am a VIKING!