Mr Robin Redbreast sang a dawning melody as I prepared to pick up Dee and Maisie. The Sun was lemon yellow, bursting through clouds low in the east, and the sky above was cerulean blue. We drove to Goudhurst and parked by the village hall. The church on the hill was open and busy as we walked through the churchyard, along Maypole Lane and downhill to Smugley Farm, tripping over juvenile Pheasants on the way. They have found their voice, but the cocks don't yet have the full livery of colour. Maisie chased a few, but was unsuccessful. At Pattenden, the vision of the avenue of Limes with filtered sunlight playing on the dusty lane to Three Chimneys Farm, was a from a time when troubles were for the future. Boyhood adventures were played out here.
At the farm, on the hill in the field to be crossed, were cows and their calves. Dee balked at the thought of crossing, especially with Maisie. I told her that these cows had chased me a couple of years back to protect their calves. I had to run and jump a fence to escape! We decided to carry on into Bedgebury Wood and circumvent any trouble. In the grassy verges, purple Scabius and delicate yellow Hawkweed coloured the greening, away from the trees. Blackberries were consumed as they were presented; glistening, irresistible. We arrived at Bedgebury Cross thirty minutes later than planned, but we were safe. We huffed and puffed our way (or, at least I did) uphill to Kilndown and had breakfast by the old quarry, where fish jumped and the sky was reflected in the water.
Down through Kilndown Wood, it began to rain but the canopy of Sweet Chestnut kept us dry. When we came to the Hop fields, the rain had stopped, the Sun shone, and we reminisced about our childhood days spent hop-picking; with mum at the picking-bin or playing with bows and arrows using the hop-string. And paddling in the river, but always they were happy, sunny, days. Later when older, we would help in the oast house, shovelling hops into the pocket from the dryer to be pressed. A two bob payment for each pocket pressed. The old kitchens were still there at the hopper-huts: hearths back-to-back with a roof to keep off the rain, and a bar to hang the pots. Londoners, down to pick the hops, would cook there dinners there.
From there, we walked toward Lamberhurst and crossed the River Tiese at the foot-bridge to make our way back to Goudhurst. All the wheat was in and the ground was ploughed and harrowed. Rooks and pigeons were picking up whatever was left by the harvester. Further along the river, we came opposite the Hop fields. Dee asked why we didn't cross over the river there? I said that I couldn't swim; she said that she would give me a piggy-back across. Cheeky bugger!
Back at the river, on the Goudhurst road, we watched the water glistening and sparkling from the bridge at the old Hope Mill; the water running fast with energy for the Medway. And then the climb for Goudhurst through the fields. At a stile, four ponies were being entertained by a mother and three children, feeding them grass. We wanted to climb over, but the ponies became interested in Maisie. Maisie wanted to escape these great beasts, and there was a great hullabaloo! We went over safely in the end, and reached the top of the hill to enjoy the view across the Tiese valley. Horsmonden Church was lit by a beam of sunlight from the south, to be framed by the ancient farmland it has served for a thousand years.
Then home, after a final cup of tea, to make Blackberry and Apple jam!
Bitter-sweet Blackberries,
Bitter-sweet memories,
Life now, is reparation for
The life lived before.
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