Mud and flood.

5th January 2014

    The birdsong, as I walked through the village would cheer any man. After another week of storms, the air was still. Jupiter was low in the west, as bright as it can be. The fields and pasture were white with a frosty rime which crinkled and crackled as I went. There was a mist and the voices of geese travelling west were above me. The latches of the three kissing gates through the parkland were frozen, and could only be freed with a clout with my walking pole. As I went up the through the pasture, over my right shoulder the dawning horizon glowed orange and magenta and I came out of the mist. Looking out from Gover Hill, the Sun rose and illuminated the tree covered hills over the valley. Hurst Wood was cold and dim and only at clearings would it brighten. The leaves crunched underfoot. At the stables, a handsome Mr Reynard hobbled through the paddocks with a gammy leg. He scented a fence pole and limped on his way. The horses were unconcerned; so was Mr Cockerel, who crowed incessantly! The footpath through Crouch was completely blocked, so I took a detour past Horsnayles and the Chequers pub to Doris's bench. On the fence behind the bench, was a conifer wreath for Doris. It was decorated with sliced citrus fruits, cinnamon sticks and baubles. I said 'hello' to the black faced sheep and my hands froze as I drank my tea, looking down onto the mist.
    The walk along the river from Basted Mill was cold and misty and my hands didn't warm until I climbed back up to the Greensand Ridge and Scathes Wood. I sat in the Sun at Ightham Mote and ate hot pea and bacon soup. It was pleasantly warm there. Struggling through the mud to Shipbourne, a young lady with a blonde pony tail, whizzed by me as if the path were dry! I felt quite foolish. We hardly had time for a greeting and she was gone; her rucksack disappearing into the distance. On the other side of the village, there was a Holly wreath for Joan and Frank Chapman on their bench. I didn't stop for tea there, but carried on to Dene Park Wood. The walk through Dene Park and Clearhedges Wood was hard, tiring, exhausting. The mud was deep; the ground boggy. Springs were bubbling up all over. Trees were over the paths and had to be negotiated; paths were flooded and diversions were made. Back at the Bourne, the water was brown and in a hurry. And all this time, the sky was clouding. At Bourne Mill, the weir was mad with a rushing noise as I passed through for home and a welcome rest.