A tale of two rivers.

19 October 2013

    Last night, I looked Máni full in the face. A mist surrounded him; it came from his cold breath.
    It was a Saturday walk this morning and as the barometer said rain, I chose a route with as much tree cover as possible. Kay loaned me her waterproof (which annoyingly zipped up on the left), so I should stay dry.
    The sky was blue-grey and heavy with rain. Sudden is the realisation that there are no Swallows, House Martins and Swifts. They are for Africa!
    I parked in the car park by Lamberhurst Village Hall, and followed the River Tiese down Brewer Street. The brewery is long gone now and stylish country terraced houses are in its place. Along the river, the rain began and on went the coat. The leaves were turning gold and rust; the bracken flattened and yellowing, turning brown and will soon be brittle with death. Crab apples were in the hedgerows, and should be collected for jam. In the fallow fields, Wood Pigeons, Rooks and bronzed Pheasants rooted among the remnants of the harvest, and seeing me, left with much flapping and clapping. The Pheasants with tail down and head erect, ran, hell for leather, resisting the urge to fly for just a while. But then took to the air, kuk kuk kukking, which is death for them.
    Furnace mills and corn mills worked their trade along this river for hundreds of years. Now, a few have been converted for dwellings but most are gone, and some romantic ruins remain. Past the ruined Abbey at Bayham (the work of Henry), a man was repairing a puncture on his bicycle and pumping furiously in the downpour. We nodded to each other knowingly as I passed. Over the crossroads at Hook Green, the rain eased and eventually stopped as I went across open farmland. Over the Wadhurst road, at Blue Cats Farm, there was the dull thud, thud of gunshot from over Scotney way: Pheasants being driven and put up by beaters for the guns. A brace of Pheasants for Sunday lunch would be a fine thing. Then into Pearsons Wood, out of the rain, picking up a few chestnuts on the way, and on to Bewl Water.
    The water was choppy and only fishermen were braving the wind and rain. Forty five years ago, I walked the Bewl valley to Three Leg Cross, driven by teenage lust. The valley was flooded in 1975 and the Bewl above the bridge is a memorial to loss. There were Coots in a sheltered bay on the water, a commune silently bobbing up and down with the waves. A cup of honey green tea was taken on a bench facing the water as I was sketching the past in my mind.
    On up through Chingley Wood, acorns crunching underfoot, the meadow had been mown and next spring was wished for. The London-Hastings road was almost impossible to cross; where was everyone going? Eventually, I crossed into Cats Wood. There were signs of deer and badger along the path, and all the while, golden Birch leaves were falling like confetti. Up through Shearnfold Wood, and another break for a cup of tea in the bus shelter in Kilndown village, recharged me for the last leg back to Lamberhurst.
    Plenty of Chestnuts were collected through Kilndown Wood. Enough for a pie! Down at the River Bewl again, Indian Balsam still flowers in this sheltered place. All the forges and mills are lost to Bewl Water. Iron was last forged there 300 years ago. From the River Bewl, and across to Scotney, it was a final gentle stroll along the Tiese back to Lamberhurst, through the golf course, in the rain!