R.B. Traditional – Walks Into light

Cross-hatched fading lines scar the early morning sky above me. My eyes squinting against the rays of the early sun, I can just make out the distant speck of an aeroplane high up, leaving behind it another vapour trail, its destination unknown to me. Perhaps it’s heading for warmer climes with its cargo of sardine-packed, happy people yearning for a two week break in the sun, sitting on a beach crowded with other like-minded souls sipping chilled wine or lager? I know where I’d rather be and as the old saying goes, “Home is where the heart is.”

A little further along the path I come across another trail which emerges from underneath the hedge, crosses the path and then quite distinctly heads across the dew-soaked grass and disappears off into the distance. The ground is a little too firm here up on the ridge to look for paw-prints but from the tiny bristles of coarse grey fur left behind on the underside of the hawthorn I surmise that it has been made by a badger going about its night shift before heading home to its sett as the sun had started to make an appearance. I follow the trail for some distance out into the field, where my suspicions are confirmed. There are a few shallow scrapes made into the soil and the sweet musky smell of badger droppings wafts toward both mine and the dog’s nose. 

Spring has suddenly made her entry after months of gloom, rain, rain and more rain combined with storms which have relentlessly battered the shores of our small green isle sitting alone in the north-west Atlantic for the past five months. Bird life is now becoming much more prevalent out here in the countryside, the dawn chorus is in full swing every morn and many of the summer migrants have returned from faraway regions, all leaving invisible trails of their journey in their wake.

It is time for the coarse fishing season to come to a close and once again to hang up the rods, clean and put away the reels and although I should have done exactly that by now, the creel still sits where I left it in the kitchen upon my return from my last angling foray of the season. Along with the rod, only my net and bait tin have been correctly stored away in the barn. Without any doubt the lovely lady of the house will be reminding me shortly, possibly this evening, that the tackles are becoming a trip hazard and that she remembers similar laziness on my part this time last year and the year before that!

Luckily for us older chaps our lady folk have better memories than we do. I should of course take heed as during the time leading a toward mid-June, the closest that I will come to casting a line will either be in my mind’s eye, in a dream or two, or indeed reading about piscatorial adventures within the many angling books which weigh heavily on the bookshelves of our old cottage. Mostly though, I will be out following various paths, armed perhaps with a pair of binoculars or a camera and more often than not accompanied by my trusted canine friend enjoying the many other delights that the countryside has to offer us.

A little further along my route, I stop to look at the ancient narrow tracks which have been etched into the greensand escarpment before me. These have clearly made by many generations of sheep, farmed high up on these pastures for countless years, the giveaway being the little pieces of wool and droppings which abound on the trails. Proceeding onwards and walking down through the hollow between one small copse and another, a very distinct path has been made between the two stands of trees, perhaps by a fox or a deer? I relish the intrigue of my wanders; one never knows quite what one may see or find and then I find it a deer-print pressed into some soft earth…wonderful.

Settling down upon the old wooden bench outside the church and taking a break, my spaniel lying obediently (for once!) by my feet, I ponder life and watch the spring activity unfold before me. Bird-song is ringing out like an orchestra without the conductor, young lambs skipping around in the field opposite with their mothers looking on protectively, daffodils, primrose and cowslips in bloom and in the valley below I can clearly see that it is awash with the blossom of blackthorn.

Looking a little closer upon the banks of these paths we have and will now travel, the earlier flowering wildflowers abound; lesser celandine, wood anemones, lady’s smock, campion and early bluebells to name but a few. Occasionally I will come across an unfamiliar specimen which is photographed for later reference in one of our many books upon my return to the cottage.

Many creatures have territories and within those usually quite defined areas they will criss-cross and regularly leave behind distinct tracks, paths or trails. Often these have been made over many years and are embedded if you like into the fabric of the landscape. Of course, there are many which are too small to see without getting down on one’s hands and knees, created by much smaller beings but in essence they are just small trails in smaller territories.

Man of course has had the biggest impact upon the landscape, criss-crossing not only terra firma but the rivers, seas and if you think about it, in comparatively recent years, the skies too.

As we traverse our regular earth-bound trails, I often wonder when and by whom these were made. Many are ancient, being old droves where livestock would be moved from the grazing meadows in the valley below during the late autumn up onto higher, safer ground for the duration of the winter months. It is also a route perhaps used for taking animals and other produce to market and these can run for many miles. Certainly, one such path which runs along the south facing slope of the North Downs on the opposite side of the valley is famous for its spiritual significance, leading from Winchester to Canterbury, the Pilgrims’Way. Although this by-way became used more famously after the murder of the Archbishop Thomas Becket in 1170, its existence can be traced back to prehistoric times…someone always leaves their mark.

I have recently been re- reading Robert McFarlane’s marvellous and enlightening book The Old Ways, in which he enjoys a voyage of discovery of his own, following in the footsteps of our forefathers. The book inspired me again to look a little closer at my own territory. I remember, as a lad, using a little path which led from the village in which I was brought up to a hamlet some two or three miles distant and close to where I liked to fish. In those days one side of the path was mostly hop fields, the other side, apple orchards. The aromas upon the nose where magnificent come late September, a heady mix of cider and ale in the making, perfect for the liquid enlightenment which I was to embrace in later years. The existence of this route was easy to understand; it was used by the residents of the hamlet to attend church in the village on Sundays. I was often to be seen by the congregation travelling in the ‘wrong’ direction with my rod and tackle bag,heading for the river instead, although I’m sure the Lord would have approved of my youthful embracing of the natural world.

There were many other discoveries of ‘secret’ paths in my youth, the path to the “Banyard” with its little known stock of wildies, the one through the sweet chestnut woods which led to an ancient and possibly haunted ragstone quarry. Another was a trail through a private estate at Hamptons where I discovered three shallow lakes which homed big roach and some mighty carp. This continues to be the case as I delve further and deeper into the countryside surrounding me, looking for answers and seeing where mostly forgotten trails lead me. Seeking knowledge is a wonderful distraction to have whilst taking the obligatory but necessary hiatus from my wanders with a rod, whilst all around me nature wakes from her winter slumber to regenerate and multiply.

The paths which we take to find those hidden gems are often ones we’ve walked a hundred times or more over the years and each time we walk we essentially leave a trace of ourselves behind and although we’ve never yet met the shadows left from of our previous passing… we still see the boot and paw prints in the soft earth before us.

Writing & Images – R.B. Traditional, March 2024