A lull in the weather

2nd February 2014

    I stepped out into the still morning and Venus was brilliant, preceding the Sun in the pale light. Looking south, Mars was caressing Virgo's luscious thigh.
    I followed the songs along Carpenters Lane and then into the bottom pasture at Oxen Hoath, where a lookout warned the grazing Greylag geese, and hundreds of voices took to the air as one. The calls were deafening as I walked up through the parkland, and I apologised for disturbing their repast. They didn't hear. The great V circled until they settled over Clearhedges way. Sól rose quietly, a hint of lemon yellow on soft cloud in the east. The waterlogged ground squelched as I made my way to the Big House. The fallen Cedar had been dragged from the path, awaiting a saw. And up into Hurst Wood, the going was easier, so I determined to stay on higher ground if possible. Mr Robin Redbreast followed me a little distance, singing so prettily, and I took the path going north east, past the front of the gamekeepers cottage, saying 'hello' to the pony there, through coppice to the conifer plantation and the MoD exercise grounds. Then out onto farmland at Comp; the chattering Fieldfare busied the winter wheat, and finches of all sorts, the hedgerows. Pigeons Green was quiet, there was no one about and the lane to Platt was running with water. St. Mary's Church at Platt was quiet too, and it was 9.15am. At the crossroads in Borough Green, I turned south for Basted Mill. I sat by the Bourne in the Sun and ate leek and potato soup for breakfast. The soup was hot!
    Leaving the river, I went up hill, on the lane, toward Crouch, past The Plough pub and left the lane through fields of rape (looking quite good, despite the rain), and a Skylark was up and trilling. Behind a windbreak of Poplars, at the edge of the field, there was a small plaque with the message inscribed: In loving memory, Brian Hallet, 1933 - 2013. With it, was a small Christmas tree in a pot, decorated with baubles, and a bunch of flowers. A pleasant spot to spend eternity.  Back into Hurst Wood, I had a second cuppa at the Beech, but this time facing the Sun, which was shining in my face, warming me.
    I was greeted along the path from time to time, by horse-riders enjoying the day through the wood (two of which were Polish, I think). Then I was back at Oxen Hoath parkland. On Joan's bench, drinking tea, I watched Mr and Mrs Buzzard circle and wheel in the Sun-light, sometimes harried by Rooks, but seemingly unconcerned. back along Carpenters Lane, on the grass verge, there was a patch of yellow Creeping Cinquefoil which shouldn't be in flower until June. Such is the state of the climate!
    No more rain, please!