The midnight hour is close to hand. Similar but different.
Wandering through the glowering gloom. Catham Wood. Me, Tarka, Zippy. 5pm.
Hopelessly late to check the cows. But off we go. Across the fields of squelch and squish, streams babbling down the road, a dark sky, somewhat foreboding but a little light in the far west to give hope. Off we trot. Across Martyn’s desolate rape seed field, nothing left now but hard stalks that make the dogs wince as they bound. I cut across diagonally, in fear of being left in the woods in deep black. Half way across I lose Zippy, she is off on a pheasant hunt no doubt.
Endless calling, getting slightly annoyed. Becoming shouty. Oh, she knows her way home, come on Tarks, lets head on. The skies are bruised.
Martyn Heyne ‘Carry’ plays. The oak is burning in the grate. Heat, wine, warmth and chilled tunes. The ingredients for some country melodrama.
We step over the make shift style and down into the steep woods. Can’t quite make out where I am stepping. Twigs and deadwood brush stroke my face, we dive deep. No sign of Zippy. Crack, twist, shift of leaves, on we step, over fallen trees, covered in a blanket of soaked moss, over a stream, at least that’s it what it felt like. Down, deeper, then a sudden rush of black, bang, wallop, silver collar, it’s the Baggle, alias Zippy, huffing, panting, smiling but slightly apologetic. At least that’s what I imagine as I can only see her collar. Her body has merged with the gloom.
On we go, deeper, until a rise and we’re on the flat, I can see lights twinkling in the distance, a noise of rush and woe, the commuters are streaking home.
Suddenly we’re on the lane and we shoot over it and we can make out some dark shapes, huddled in the distance. The bullocks. The electric fence is flashing, I can just make out the fence, 12 cows, yep they’re all here. Yep, they have water.
The cows barely register my existence. The dogs duck the electric and we’re back in the wood. It seems so much darker now.
No it is dark.
Bonobo – Ibrik – plays, cracking soulful chill.
I had a Chunk pie from Mole Valley today. So, I realise my walk back needs to be high energy. Burn them calories baby.
We march, we strut, the dogs suddenly gone and I hear barking, a badger, Monsieur Reynard? A roe dear, a white tale a bouncing, flashing by.
I stop. My glasses have steamed up, I’m hot. My flat hat is off. I can barely make out anything apart from some light at the top. Feint silhouettes of trees, keep going, bracken brushes my legs, I stumble in rabbit holes, back over the fallen blanket moss tree, speed walking, its so wonderful, I don’t care if I fall, the soft damp leaves will comfort me, dead branches brush my shoulders, brambles scratch my face. Then we’re back at the top, I can see headlights way in the distance. Down the steep hill from Chittlehamholt on to the A377.
The sensible decision would be to head back over the fields. But its more fun to walk along the top of the wood, we bash on. I literally can’t see anything, scrape, pull, tangle, trudge. Simple things. So wonderful. My vision so retarded. Makes it so much more interesting. Like being in a new world. Gloomy dusk does the same thing to the environment as snow does to sound. Finally we’re at the road. We jump over the broken wire and I can make out the Nap in the distance. Lights a twinkling. Happy guests drinking wine beside the woodburner, the world beneath them.
#nap@langabridge
The walk was a thriller. My neighbourhood isn’t paralysed, it’s just dark and stormy. Maybe more Hot Chip than Micheal.
