Today the rain is sporadic, which is a great improvement on yesterdays constant deluge. I decided to walk the ancient ridge path from the Outdoor Centre to Croft Bank Farm as the wood would provide a natural umbrella.
The first part of the walk cuts through fields where lambs are no longer small and fragile, running to hide behind mothers fleece, but robust and stocky, standing their ground as I walk by. Their mothers in contrast look dishevelled, thick winter coats no longer needed hang from them. Like white tattered bunting rubbed off fleece scraps adorn fences and low branches.
The wood feels gloomy, almost subterranean. Yellow orchids, muddy underfoot. Bluebells, dogwood and carpets of green. The sound of a bee and the squelch of my feet accompany the song of a twittering robin. Purple violets hold my gaze whilst a wren flutters past just registering on my peripheral vision. Gentle rain recommences on the canopy of leaves. Below the fern so green is both prehistoric and architectural in form.
The stillness and permanence of an ancient landscape recorded in the doomsday book appears as was were it not for the distant sound of agricultural machine.As the rains volume increases its rhythm and volume, it is joined by a woodpeckers sporadic rapid drumming.
The scent of wild garlic, now in bloom, is delicious. The garlic's white flowers, loose globes held high on tall stems are bright chandeliers in the gloom.
The woods canopy, like the vaulted ceiling provides the perfect stage for the song of birds to resonate against.Tucked into the undergrowth wild strawberries flower promising future fruitfulness.
Exiting the wood through the farmyard littered with agricultural debris of rusted tractors going nowhere, weeds growing where once engines were housed. From a nearby field the low lonely bellow of a bull as I pass mallard on the pond and sheep on the verge. I finish the walk quite wet with rain both sinew and soul exhilarated.
