“The blue sky, the brown soil, the grass, the trees, the animals, the wind, the rain and stars are never strange to me; for I am in and of and am one with them”
W.H. Hudson (1844-1922)
I must admit that I can’t remember what time it was that morning when I clipped the lead onto my spaniel’s collar and slipped out of the back door of the cottage with the words “take as long as you like” from my girl, echoing in my ears…she’s one of a kind.
It had been a tough few weeks both mentally and physically and I felt drained on both counts. I needed some time to myself to think, without interruption from other sources. I think the modern parlance is to have some ‘me time’. However you like to describe it, it doesn’t really matter. Sometimes one just needs time to breathe and clear one’s head. For me, there is nothing like a ruddy good wander along paths familiar, and some not so familiar, to immerse oneself in the natural world, far from the constant drone of humanity.
Down the lane we headed and into the coppice woodland where bluebells, wood anemone, stitchwort and yellow archangel were gradually giving way to red campion, wild garlic and honeysuckle which grew amongst the tangle of old timber, the smell of which brought back evocative memories of a carefree youth. These days, that very existence would probably be described as ‘feral’; so be it.
As we climbed the path toward the orchard, blackcaps, song thrush, wren and nuthatch made their presence known to the ear and what a delightful soothing melody it was. I often have a chuckle when I occasionally meet other walkers who appear blissfully unaware of the beauty of nature’s chorus, by being plugged into their podcast or music via earphones; each to their own I suppose, but surely life is but brief?
The orchard was in full blossom and a spaniel being a flushing dog, the boy was soon in between the rows of trees putting pheasants up in flight as he often does, despite my efforts to curb his enthusiasm with a piece of sausage which appeared to pale into insignificance compared to following his instincts. He was soon back at my side though, looking rather pleased with himself, tail wagging profusely but panting and in need of a drink, which he duly took from a muddypuddle…dogs, eh?
We wandered on toward the old manor house through a delightful cow parsley bordered track. A group of yellowhammers flitted through the adjacent hedgerow. We unintentionally startled a jay and its cackling alarm call rang out as it fled through the spinney. I reasoned that it was probably up to no good; they are known to rob the eggs from other bird’s nests and although handsome are winged bandits of the highest order, as is their close cousin the magpie. Having said that, the jay is known for burying acorns to see them through the lean winter months and then forgetting where they have hidden them, resulting in oak saplings springing up, often where you’d least expect.
At the end of the track the landscape widens into open farmland atop the greensand ridge and at this point there was a decision to be made; wander straight on to the farm and manor, turn left and back towards the cottage or go right and down from the ridge and into the Low Weald? We paused for thought for a moment, both of us looking at each other for the answer and then, being impatient for me to act, the boy upped and led the way toward the manor and I was rather glad of his decisiveness.
History tells us that the manor was built in the 1340s as a fortified abode and in the fifteenth century became the home of the Wotton family and later the birth place of Sir Henry Wotton (1568- 1639), ambassador to Venice under KingJames I, who wrote “Lord of himself, though not of lands; and having nothing, yet hath all”, in his book The Character of a Happy Life (1614). I rather like that line and can connect with his thoughts centuries after it was written.
As we entered the farmyard, Harry was busy going about his morning duties. We exchanged our usual pleasantries and promised to enjoy a pint together once lambing was over. “Only three ewes to go” he said with a hint of relief in his voice. It had been a tough winter and early spring for the farming community hereabouts, extremely wet for months,followed by weeks of icy northerly winds. Finally though,some respite was upon us, not quite shorts and desert bootsweather but a layer or two of clothing could at last be shed.
After leaving Harry to his work the boy and I came to another decision-making moment, take a left turn to toward the church and onwards across the fifty-acre field which had recently been planted with peas or take a right down the lane and into the unknown. Again, the boy had a plan in his head, and we headed down the track toward pastures new but not before taking in the magnificence of the view across The Weald; with a squint I could just make out the odd landmark on eastern fringes the Romney Marsh some twenty odd miles away. Just that sight alone lifted my spirits, for it had been weeks since I last visited that most hallowed landscape and I missed it dearly.
Having ambled some half a mile downward we were greeted by the sight of a pair of swallows taking insects on the wing, with such grace and agility they captured the moment and we sat and watched them, being in no particular hurry to be anywhere.
Although not exclusively found near water I sensed that there may be a pond or the like at the bottom of the slope and so there was. I opened the gate and a pair of mallards took flight, followed by a moorhen making a hasty retreat from the field to the relative safety of a reed-bed. It’s always a treat to find a hidden pond and I sat for a while scanning the surface for signs of fish. The odd dimple made by small rudd was apparent and then, as my eyes tuned in, I saw some bubbling and clouding up of the water, tench? carp?
Very carefully, so as not to be seen or make a noise I altered my position to avert the glare from the surface of the pond and then I spotted the culprit, a wild carp…perfect! This was the first time since the end of the coarse angling season back in mid-March that I’d thought about fish or indeed going fishing. But it could wait, there were still six weeks left until the start of the coming season and I wouldn’t dare break the spell of the 16th of June.
From the corner of my eye a flash of blue caught my attention; it couldn’t be could it, surely? A kingfisher made its presence known by perching on a dead branch on the far side of the pond, my late mother’s favourite bird. Memories came flowing back of the time I’d taken her to a spot on the river many years ago and we had shared a wonderful hour or so sitting on the bank with a small picnic, watching a pair of these fascinating birds catching fry and taking them back to their nest to feed their young…that moment shared will remain with me for the rest of my life.
The boy was becoming impatient to head off again and I followed his lead around the perimeter of a large field planted with barley, collecting the odd crow feather as we went. My mind was beginning to feel refreshed; my mood had lightened somewhat but the best was yet to come…
As we approached the headland which bordered a large woodland, I could hear a familiar but not often heard sound, a sound like liquid gold being poured out by angels in heaven, the song of a nightingale, its melodies seemingly changing with every recommencement. I stood awhile and peered deeper into a clearing, hoping that I’d catch a glimpse of the elusive little fellow and was struck by the very beauty before me. I was peering into a natural cathedral, lit by shards of sunlight and decorated with dog rose and carpeted with swathes of cow parsley, nettles and ground elder, such splendour could never be created by man.
I had great difficulty in tearing myself away from that special place but the boy was in need of a drink so we journeyed on until he found a stream tumbling down from the ridge high above and slaked his thirst with the cool clear spring water. We sat together on a sandstone boulder and I caressed his coat behind his ears with my fingers, a tactile moment between friends. I have probably said it before but there’s something rather special about sharing life with a dog. The adoring looks, the wagging tail, his happy demeanour all rub off in troubled times, a perfect partnership.
Onwards an upwards we tramped, through adjacent grazing pasture, dotted with oak and hornbeam, occasionally looking back over toward the lowlands as the sun gained strength and warmth. Jacket off and carried under the arm, we met the inhabitants of this particular field, Texel and Suffolk rams, the former being quite large and muscular in appearance and being rather territorial gave cause for concern to the boy who took a wide berth, constantly looking to see if he was being followed by one of the brutes, his wariness made me chuckle as we headed home…
The saying goes that ‘time is a great healer’ but sometimes just a little time in the countryside is all you need to put things into perspective…“have nothing, but hath all.”
Dedicated to the memory of my late mother Ruby Rebecca May (1929 -2025), a country girl who gave to me much more than life itself.
Writing & Images R.B.T. Late Spring, Kent – 2025
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