A Wet Sunday

13 October 2013

    Yesterday eve, streaks of magenta radiated from the west and the half-moon glowed behind a thin misty veil.
    But the morning brought heavy rain and Sól warmed other places. I followed the tree-lined hedgerows to Clearhedges Wood and all was quiet under the leafy canopy; just pattering above. Mr. Robin sang some ditties and Mr. Buzzard mewed in the rain above. The light was dim, so tree roots were a hazard along the path. Over Puttenden Road into Dene Park Wood, dog-walkers dressed in long waxed coats and wide brimmed hats, called greetings over the sound of the wind as they passed. I took a path north through the wood to the fast flowing brook; over the little wooden bridge, up through the twitten, then out into the open, down Buck Lane, across the meadow and the Green to Shipbourne. Here, I took refuge in the bus shelter for a hot cup of tea.
    I made my way past St. Giles' Church with the bells peeling, for Cold Blows Wood to Budds, through open, ploughed and harrowed fields: the Kentish clay reluctant to release my boots and the rain from the west driving into my face. I zipped up, pulled my hood tight and looked at the world through fogged, rain spattered spectacles. Once through the wood, I cleared the lenses, the better to see over the stile into Mote Road. And then up, up to the the cottage on the Greensand Ridge, into low cloud, picking a few rain sodden Blackberries on the way. Gangs of Blue Tits preceded me as I walked the hedgerow; out, along and in, calling sisisis and chattering as they searched for insects. Hadlow Tower was perhaps just visible in the gloom 7 or 8 kilometres distant, as the Crow flies.
    Mostly downhill now, I followed the rivulets of rainwater flowing down the track to Ightham Mote (a 700 hundred year old moated house bequeathed to The National Trust for the nation by Charles Henry Robinson, of Portland, Maine. A fine, upstanding American). I was hoping that the restaurant there would be open for tea. It wasn't, I was too early, so I carried on through Fairlawne and Home Farm, then into the wood behind Puttenden Manor Farm, to find a log under the trees to take a break. Rain filtered through the trees which cooled my tea a little. I exchanged my sodden gloves for dry ones, and continued to Dunks Green, behind The Rifleman pub, down Hamptons Road, then followed the Bourne (really swollen now) home.
    The rain did not let up all morning. I was soaked through to the skin (my jacket leaking somewhere!) and glad for a cup of hot tea and a warm shower. But - an adventure, just the same. After all, I'm a VIKING!