Hops!

18th August 2013

     The ground was damp from the night's rain and it was cool. Low dark purple clouds scudded eastward with a pale blue backdrop. Collared Doves coo-cood softly all about me but there was no other voice as I left for Goudhurst. I parked at the loos and walked up the hill. As I passed the pond, the fountain started. Not very impressive, but better than the piddling squirt which was there before. On the hill at the church, all was locked and bolted. Then I went down the hill to Smugley farm. And dozens of young Pheasants went before me, still with their camouflaged plumage but panicked and cheep-cheeped and ran in all directions to escape me. This path brought me to the Bedgebury road and I followed it to Marlingate and the avenue of beautiful Limes (Lindon trees) to Three Chimneys Farm. The ground was littered with the fruit of the Limes and the leaflets; little balls on a wing.
    From Three Chimneys (after purchasing some courgettes for 30 pence, money into a jar!), I went across to the Great Lake at Bedgebury. Grebes were diving, and a great arrow of Greylag Geese honked their way to the lake, the formation broke and they landed gracefully, with under-carriage down. I could hear Mr Buzzard crying over the forest, but couldn't see him.
    The lane to Kilndown from Bedgebury Cross is a dark green corridor in summer, with little sunlight. The smell was as always: earthy, with leaf mold, damp and fern. The verge in the sunlight at Rogers Rough was overflowing with Great Willowherb, as tall as me, and still delicately pink. The Church clock struck nine as I went by and the steeple between the old school and the mock country cottage, reminded me of past times.
    And then into Kilndown Wood, down to the River Bewl, and into hop gardens at Little Scotney Farm. I had breakfast in a garden with the familiar scent of the flowers which were hanging from the bines. They will be ready in maybe two weeks, but the old ways will not be used to pick them. It is was heartening to be in the well-kept gardens and memories came flooding. The hops are used in a National Trust bitter beer. Very good it is, too. Comma Butterflies seemed to favour the gardens and were busy about the place as I drank my coffee sitting on an old garden-pole.
    The path then took me through sheep and a half dozen nanny goats (with a handsome Billy), along the River Tiese to Lamberhurst. The path goes under the carriageway to the village, and is a wild flower paradise with sunny Fleabane; wild Angelica, popular with butterflies and bees and Bistort and Ragwort everywhere. Velvety brown Reedmace standing proudly erect, edged the path to Lamberhurst village where I took another break at the War memorial opposite the old school.
    The clock in the tower struck eleven as I left for the final leg back to Goudhurst, through the golf course and then through field after field of golden wheat, gently moving in the warm breezes. Along the track, among the blackberries, Great Mullein of the brightest yellow and with furry leaves commanded the hedgerows. I heard Mr Buzzard again and then saw him, soaring over Kilndown Woods, fingers spread wide. Some wheat had been harvested over near the Goudhurst road. By the Green Cross Inn, I feasted on the sweetest, fattest blackberries, then made the ascent to Goudhurst, the final steep 100 metre climb; but the reward is the view North West over the Tiese valley and the patchwork countryside of the Weald.

I saw Máni watching me last night.
His face, lit by Sól, was askance.
What did he want from me?
But he is dead; he will not answer.