Home and dry

11th August 2012

    It was warm and sunny and with puffy clouds to rival Constable, as I left home this morning. A cat was chasing a mouse across the road at the Mill. The cat stopped and the mouse escaped; I apologised for distracting her, but she was well fed, I told her.
    Into Oxen Hoath, the fields were dry, parched and sun-bleached. Rabbits bobbed their tails escaping and the cows grazed contentedly. A young Buzzard, very pale, came to me and circled just overhead. He was silent but seemed to be curious. I could see every feather. Then he alighted a branch and watched me leave.
    The fruit was ripening in the orchards and the irrigation pumps were working. The Loganberries were soft and juicy. I looked back and the rising Sun lit the Gothic Tower in sharp relief. Into the wood at Gover Hill, Beech mast rained down on me: squirrels were feeding on the unripe kernels, and my feet crunched on Hazelnuts robbed in the same way by those pesky Americans. The songsters were silent - just a few cheeps, except Mr Robin Redbreast who will always sing if asked. A Crow cawed as he flew over the wood and the sound echoed eerily.
    The Walnuts and Cobnuts looked fine and promising as I went through Allen's Farm orchards; better than last year, which was disastrous. Along the bridleway, the Damsons in the hedgerow were green and plump, and those in the Sun were purpling, but bitter yet! At Basted Mill on the bridge over the Bourne, I said 'hello' to a Mute Swan. Of course, he didn't answer me. Along the peaceful river, the water was tinkling musically over stones, playing a soft melody; or drifting silently as the river wended its way through the trees. Rosebay is setting but Great Willowherb is still tempting bees to its pink offering. Bramley apples are almost ready to join Blackberries in a pie! The Sun warmed and Speckled Woods, Meadow Browns and Commas greeted me as I went through the golden wheat and barley fields. The black, claw-like seed pods of Vetch, lined the lanes and Sorrel's dark brown seeds filled my boots.
    As I rested in Scathes Wood, looking out to a field, thousands of fairies floated in the air, being released from thistles on the uncultivated edges. And Rosebay seeds joined them, like cottony feathers, dancing and moving at the will of the breezes. The clock at Ightham Mote chimed eleven as I left the wood.
    The Green at Shipbourne had been mowed, as had the meadow beyond. Apples reddened in cottage gardens. The rides in Dene Park Wood had Fleabane (a lousy name for a sunny flower) to prettify the way, with their plump centres and sunburst petals. Out of Clearhedges, a Buzzard perched on a tree and ignored me; a Peacock butterfly sunned in the dust and objected to my shadow, so moved on to a better place. A man had left his tractor and was laying stretched out on a bale of straw, taking the Sun, in a wheat field. Then continued his baling as I made my way homeward in the increasing heat.