Mars was pursuing Jupiter across the early morning heavens, then merged with the citric sunrise as Jupiter escaped. It was chilly and sharp when Dee arrived with Maisie at 7am. The fields were misty in the valley. A skein of Greylag Geese flying west, joined a skein flying south. They circled above, honking noisily, then arranged themselves into a new formation and flew west, satisfied now. The deep orange Sun burst through the mist up on Oxen Hoath, while we picked walnuts from the ground and secreted them into our bags. The sheep ignored us as we ferreted in the long grass and only looked on with mild interest when a nut was found!
Further up the hill, the pickers were at the Loganberries already, but in the orchard, Dee grabbed a couple of Galas for our breakfast. Straight off the tree, they were crisp and cool. Maisie was chasing rabbits in the top field and had to be called before we left the mist and entered the wood on Gover Hill. The only birdsong was from Mr Robin Redbreast and the song was melodious and cheerful as he followed us a short distance. We took the path through Hurst Wood to the Cobnut orchards which border the wood. I picked a few nuts and Dee, who couldn't stop, took off her gloves and stuffed them full to overflowing. Most of the orchard had been picked; a back-breaking job, as they must be picked from the ground after falling.
Past the crowing cock and onto the bridleway to Crouch, damsons supplemented breakfast (some were a little sharp!). The hedgerows here were planted with damson and progress was difficult with so much fruit. We are still hunter-gatherers at heart. Blackberries are still good in many places and will be for a while yet. At Doris's bench, we had tea and, with the Sun on our backs, and the valley's changing colours before us, pondered the agricultural changes in our lifetime. Once the valley was planted with hops, for a hundred of years or more; now all is fruit, wheat etc. and sheep. This is not a bad thing.
At Basted Mill, we picked a large Shaggy Parasol mushroom each, and slipped them into our bags. Will they go with roast chicken, we wondered? The little River Bourne was running clear and fast; it's character changed now; the bank's greenery just a remnant of the height of summer. Uphill and through the Brambley orchard, picked now, the Sun warmed to threaten the removal of a layer or two. The hedgerow by the green lane to Yopps Green was busy with bees of all sorts on the Ivy flower, joined by a solitary Comma butterfly, not hibernated just yet. We stopped for a break under the Beech in Yopps Green, sheltered from the hot Sun. Then vintage motorcycles of all types: Nortons, BSAs, Vincents, Arials, HRDs and even an ancient Harley, trundled on their way to a rally somewhere, through those country narrow lanes. Beautiful old machines lovingly restored, and in spite of the disturbance, wonderful to see.
We left via Plaxtol through fields of plough. The furrows were difficult to negotiate and all attention had to be on our footfall to avoid stumbling. Maisie chased Pheasants and was dashing all over the fields, the furrows not concerning her. At Dunks Green, we wanted to rest on the carved bench in front of the Rifleman pub, but it was occupied by a canoodling young couple, so we continued on our way, not wishing to disturb their peace. Greengages near Puttenden Manor was recompense, however, and we had a final break by the Bourne under Birch and Sycamore with the sound of the tranquil water quite soporific. The warm and pleasant spell was broken by the need to continue, so we packed up and made our way to Hadlow. The Buzzards were surprisingly quiet over at Clearhedges. By the river, on the field edge, a badger had dug a sett, and filled small holes around the entrance with poo: stay away! As we came onto plough near Hope Farm, a Grey Heron was standing erect and magisterial. Sir Herne surveyed the field as we walked past, and as we were not considered food, he ignored us. Hadlow Tower pointed the way home.
Gloves full of pixies!
No comments:
Post a Comment