Woodland and River
The clouds are big and fluffy. They are grey and white, and moving in the fashion of ships at sea. I look out from the hill across the expanse of heath land and my eyes meet with the distant ridge of hills. On the hills the sun makes the tree covered slopes brighter in places. A faint sound of whistling in some individual evergreen tree on the windy heath land hill.
I walk along by the pig farm field. Many crows and jackdaws bide in the trees here, and in the field along with the pigs. Their cawing makes the area seem sad even though the sun shines at times. As I walk, the black birds peel out of the tree line ahead of me, into the field cawing.
A single crow I hear has a distinctive cry like a seagull. It is a common occurrence among crows for the odd one to have a unusual caw.
The pigs bathe in the sun and mud while the fresh pink piglets are active.
I know the appearance of the wayside plants so well. Stem forms and leaf shapes in many of their stages; my eyes are used to them. So it becomes quite clear when there is something different in the appearance of the herbage. A small knot grass caterpillar stands out in its colourful red, white and brown hairy suit, as it sits still on the green low leaves. The sunshine lifts its colours.
On coming out of the woods, the path leads on to the farm road of Horncroft farm. Although it is not a working farm anymore, the house, outbuildings and yard have not changed since what seems like the mid 1800’s. The surrounding meadows and paddocks are beautiful and wild. This is a picture of old England!
I take a country lane opposite the farm road. This lane through the woodland is very green, and still holds the essence of summer. The canopy of branches meet above me.
Still on the road, I am leaving the woods behind now. I look ahead into the open pasture land. Ivy covered buildings. Hedges dividing meadows, with the occasional tall, old oaks in the hedge line.
On the cold grey road, a hornet struggles without heat.
I enter the quiet, enclosed green path between the fields. The wildlife knows as well as me how quiet this path is. It is a haven. Any small sound my boots make is amplified by the natural silence. I crouch down to look at a toadstool. Two jays start cawing their alarm to the rest of the wild creatures from a tree nearby. They persist, and then the crows join in. If I had been walking, the uproar would have been much less than it was as I moved along. But my still, crouching form spooked them. Presently there is silence again, and a woodpigeon’s single note in the distance somewhere restores the calm.
The white section of a woodpigeon’s eggshell is just visible through the brown leaf litter. The edges are deeply jagged. The egg was robbed from the nest then eaten most probably by a squirrel, then left here.
Between the trees, the light reflects a green, open meadow to me. There is a gate that is overgrown with brambles and grass at the bottom. The gate is sloping, looking like it has been pushed. The old metal gate there sits, half falling into the meadow. No one passes through it now. At one end of the gate there is a small gap. Short wavy black hairs are found stuck to the bramble leaves there. A dog passes through here on its roving away from its owner.
The nettles have grown up undisturbed on one section of the quiet path. This shows how quiet it is along here. I believe no human has trod this way for weeks now.
Some jays in the distant trees of a hedge line start up alarm. Maybe there is a
Fox or
Stoat about there.
The path is so overgrown with stinging nettles and grass that I forget there are deep ruts running along it in places. Water runs along in these ruts and they are wet all year round. As I tread through the long grass with my mind in a calm state thinking of nature, my left foot swiftly sinks three foot down into a hidden rut. I go down and over in a half roll on my side, getting stung by nettles several times as I try to right myself.
Recovering from my fall my heart is beating firmly. And after gathering myself up, my eyes fall upon the olive green body of a
Grass Snake. It stares at me. The yellow marks on its head are really clear in the sun, and its black tongue shines when it flicks in and out sensing my presence. My heart beats even more as we regard each other. I prepare myself to catch it for an intimate formal meeting and move my feet closer together. But the snake is fast. and turns to slide out of reach up the hedge mound.
At the end of the quiet path I cross the meadows, making my way to the river.
Through the green open meadows I pass. This is where I feel at home!
In the woods before the river I like to see what I can find. The smell of foxes comes to me. They live here. Beneath some fallen ivy I see the azure colour of a thrushes egg in the dead leaves. The thrushes egg has dark brown, almost black flecks, thinly scattered over it, becoming thicker at the base of the egg. It has been plundered by either a squirrel or a bird, it is hard to tell by the state of this shell.
Where a tree has fallen and the roots have risen from the earth, there is a smooth bare mound. There are a collection of
Rabbit droppings on the mound. This is one of the
Rabbit’s look out spots in the wood.
On returning to the main path, the high balsam, nettles and teasel tell me I am close upon the river. The balsam, although a dominant intruder in Britain, is to me a refreshing plant when in flower by the river. Its shades are gaudy pink and white, and the plant to the touch has a lovely subtle, soapy perfume.
It is late afternoon when I meet with the river. It is calm to view, and the meadows on either side are peaceful. Not even the wind makes noise.
Above, the engine of a plane is heard. The peaceful glider leaves the tow plane as the line is released. The glider takes its own course in the grey lonely sky. By and by another tow plane with glider behind comes along.
Looking across the meadow I see a small briar bush on its own in the sea of brown grass flower spikes. On the end of an arching stem I can see the round shape of the robin’s pincushion gall.
While walking along by the river, I recall to myself this summer and last summer, when I walked and spent many hours here, finding eggs shells of the water birds, watching the young fry of the river fish in the warm shallows, dipping for water creatures with an old jam jar found in the woods. I remember with happiness, the hot days I was along this way and paddled in the margins on the soft sand of the river bed, sometimes wading out into the deep centre of the river. I remember the sights that I would always be sure to see along this way, and one that evoked the atmosphere of the riverside where ever I was in the world, was that of damselflies that would settle on some static piece of debris floating on the river in the sun. It does not feel like summer now in mid September, even though it is very warm and sunny at times, and generally mild.
The surprise of a pure white swan on the dark slow river.
Martins hawk for flies above the meadow grass flower spikes. They will be journeying back to Africa the next time I pass by here.
At the end of the river path is the bridge across the road. I turn onto the road and walk along it. I pass many houses with clipped hedges, cut lawns and bright flowers. A contrast to the woods and meadows, but a pleasant one. Cars speed by and people go about their Sunday recreations in their gardens in the village. Once again I get the sensation of being a traveller, the natural way!
After turning off the road into the woods, I met a man slow of speech. He seemed to be thinking deeply as he spoke, and he had the calmness of the countryside about him. I recognise this as it is something I see in myself. It grows within the person that decides to spend time in the country. This made the man easy to talk with. He originally asked me the direction of a nearby farm, and then we spoke about the countryside in this area. The clothes and bag he wore made him appear like he had just begun to take up walking as a hobby. He had covered some distance already like me, so we parted at this late hour, and on our own ways we went.
Woodlandguy
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