Coxheath Roundhouse

4th April 2014

    As the car was in the garage in Marden for a service, I decided to walk from there. And Goudhurst was the destination.
    I left Marden, past St Michael & All Angels medieval church, under the hazy Sun and took a path south, through pear blossom and fields (some of which were recently spread with muck - what a pong!), and with relief entered a Bluebell wood. The path took me over a quiet stream, then out into newly strung hop fields at Hugget Farm. From there, there is a dearth of public footpaths, so I trod the flower bordered lanes through woodland until Curtisden Green, passing Paygate, the old toll house on the Goudhurst road, and Bethany school for boys, a popular public school (or in the USA, a private school). Some boys were wearing themselves out in the playing fields and being especially noisy about it. Then I was off the road, downhill through pasture, until the Ladham Estate, where the lanes took me through blossomed orchards uphill to St. Mary's Church in Goudhurst (built circa AD1119, I believe). I sat under a leafy Horse Chestnut on The Plain by the pond and ate lunch and watched the ducks.
    Before leaving Goudhurst, I popped into Weekes Bakery and bought a Cornish pasty to scoff on the journey back. Leaf bud was bursting out everywhere but Mistletoe is still clear to be seen in the Lime trees. And downhill along the High Weald Trail, under overhanging Cherry blossom,White Dead Nettles threaten deceitfully and bees enter the luscious white, enveloping, complicated folds for nectar. I crossed over the River Teise past Nevergood Farm and up to Share Farm, through woods to Grovehurst. The pink apple blossom there was just emerging, with pear blossom, snow white all the way to Ash Farm. Then I was back to the river, where I sat at the edge of fields of bright yellow Rape for a snack. The heady perfume made me feel drowsy, like Dorothy in the field of Poppies. Onward, over the river again to a copse which was thickly carpeted with Bluebells, Wood Anemone, Celandine, Stitchwort and Milkmaids; the woodland floor was  spring's affirmation. Back toward Marden, on the hillside in a small copse, nestled among the Bluebells, was a large roundhouse, built of willow sticks and waterproofed, with a crude breeze block hearth and chimney. And above the doorway, was the legend: Coxheath Roundhouse. It was built on perhaps an Iron Age form, and made one feel a romantic notion of home long ago. No-one was there, so I ventured in, and into my imagination.