Misty morning on the Forest

All week the weather has been clear, sunny and dry during the day with rain showers in the evenings until yesterday when it started to cloud over during the morning. Today my part of East Sussex was socked in with very low cloud. As I drove Mrs C to work we passed through the town of Crowborough the highest town in this area which was totally submersed in dense foggy cloud, just like you see in those classic horror films or the video games about 'Silent Hill' that our son used to play. I half expected zombies or mutants with chain saws to blunder out of the murk into the path of my car (well this is deepest, darkest Sussex after all).

Once Mrs C had been safely delivered to her place of work, I put my new Nick Drake CD on and drove Little dog up to the Forest for her exercise. The haunting tunes and lyrics from this talented but doomed musician seemed very appropriate as an accompaniment to the dismal claggy weather outside of the car. Little dog was fast asleep in the passenger foot well with her paws clamped firmly over her ears; she has no taste.

There were no other vehicles in the car park at Stonehill as we pulled up leaving tyre marks in the soft grass and mud. Little dog was now fully awake and frantically trying to clamber over me like a dog possessed in her attempt to get out of the car. Having finally realised that she was not going to be left behind she calmed down; apart from her tail which was wagging fit to bust.

I love mornings like this as all the fair weather walkers stay at home and so we have the Forest to ourselves. As we set off down the Misbourne Valley towards the Airman's Grave the only sounds that I could hear were the call of a distant cuckoo followed by the disembodied bleating of a lonely sheep somewhere lost in the fog. Little dog took no notice, she had her nose stuck firmly to the ground following an interesting scent.

We were accompanied by a crow flying low from tree to tree. I love these birds in their sleek black shiny plumage, they are very intelligent and mischievous. However if I was at all superstitious I would probably be less happy with it's presence. In celtic mythology the crow was believed to be an incarnation of the Morrighan, the goddess of battle and war. She was the one who decided if a warrior walked off of the field of battle or was carried off on his shield. There is a lot of superstition surrounding crows and ravens, in some mythologies they are seen as divine messengers of the gods and in others they are believed to be harbingers of death.

A couple of years ago I was walking in the South Downs near the village of Telscombe, a pretty little hamlet in a steep sided valley (not what I would readily call 'Deliverance' country). As I walked through a farmyard I caught site of something black out of the corner of my eye, it was a dead crow hanging from a post. Looking across to a tumble down barn I saw several other similar black corpses hanging from the eaves. I felt my hair standing on end and thought that I could hear the faint sound of duelling Banjos, needless to say I didn't hang around. In folklore hanging up dead crows was meant to ward off other birds from crops, I assumed that this practice had died out years ago but evidently not.

Anyway back to our lonely silent walk in the fog. We continued down the ridge when in the distance I noticed a sudden movement in the middle of the wide track. I initially thought that it was a couple of sheep but then as the cloud parted I could see that it was a pair of Fallow deer. They saw Little dog and me at the same time but because we were a good hundred yards from them they did not immediately bolt. I had my camera with me and was able to get a few pictures before they disappeared into the dense gorse. The photographs are very grainy as they were taken at maximum zoom into the murk. I like the effect however as they remind me of impressionist paintings, not quite up to the standard of Monet or Sisley though.

I circled around the valley in the hope of sneaking up on the deer from the opposite ridge but without any success, they were staying in the deep wooded valley well away from an excited Little dog. Back home there is a thick claggy fog building up in the bathroom as Little dog sits glumly in the bath while I wash all the muck out of her coat. It's a tough life being a scruffy Spaniel!!!

Not quite the A.T. ( A walk form Eridge to Home)

This time last year I was travelling alone across France to the little town of St Jean Pied de Port in the foot hills of the Pyrenees. I was about to start my walk across Northern Spain on the Camino de Santiago de Compostella. Four of the American friends that I made during my journey along the way are just starting out on a three week walk along part of the Appalachian Trail in Georgia and I am incredibly jealous of them. They did invite me to join them but unfortunately I have too much on this year to spare the time or money. But I will be with them in spirit and hope to hear about their adventures when they get home.

The sun has been shining all week and thinking about the A.T. I am again getting itchy feet. So there's only one thing for it, I need to go for a longish walk to shake off the cobwebs and get some fresh country air into my lungs. Easter weekend is already mapped out visiting friends and family so I only had one day to spare for walking and that was yesterday. Rather than drive some place and walk in a large circle I felt that a nice linear walk of about twelve or thirteen miles was in order. Little dog was to accompany me and at her age this is probably the maximum distance that I felt was good for her, as long as we took it easy with plenty of rest stops (or am I using her as an excuse for my own aching knees).

Often when I've driven Mrs C to work in Tunbridge Wells I have been curious as to what the countryside between there and Home is like, so Little dog and I were about to find out. With my small day sack packed with map, compass, fleece, lunch and a brew kit, Mrs C dropped us off near Eridge which was approximately thirteen miles or twenty Kilometres from home. Little dog was shivering with excitement as she usually does at the start of a walk, or was it trepidation (did she know how far it was back to her bed).

The countryside between Eridge and Crowborough was stunning, the leaves on the beech and birch tree's were a vibrant green and the masses of bluebells were covering the woods with a carpet of purple flowers. We crossed over several small streams all of which were stained a rusty red colour, this is due to the high concentrations of iron ore in the ground. During the late medieval and tudor ages  this iron ore was mined and smelted in small furnaces powered by charcoal, to make cannons for the Army and Navy (not the Department store! Mrs C). The industry died out in this area during the Industrial revolution when it became cheaper to smelt the iron in large furnaces in the Midlands fuelled by coke from the coal fields of Nottingham and South Yorkshire.

Our route lead us into Crowborough Warren passing close to the Army camp and along the bridleway to the old Packhorse bridge where we stopped for a short break, before climbing gradually up to the top of the Forest. The sun was shining and there was a slight breeze which made it ideal conditions for walking. The path now lead us down hill to the village of Fairwarp, where with great difficulty I managed to avoid the Pub and we stopped for lunch in a field adjoining some woodland. Today I didn't have to fight Little dog for my lunch as I had bought a Peppered steak pastie, she took one piece of it and promptly spat it out. She did eat most of the biscuits though.

Revived by lunch and a brew of tea we carried on through the woods and up a steep hill into some open fields full of sheep and new born lambs all sporting bright red numbers on their flanks. Normally sheep are timid creatures and run a mile from Little dog (who is always kept on a short lead in their presence) but with lambs to protect they were getting quite stroppy and kept stomping the ground with their front hooves to warn us off. This warning appeared to work as Little dog was in a bit of a hurry to get away from them.

Our next stop was on a bench placed in a sunny spot next to the crossroads at Coopers Green where we spent a lazy twenty minutes sun bathing and preparing ourselves for the last few kilometres to home. It was now about 2:15 pm and we had been out and about since 8:00 am and my feet were feeling a bit hot, little dog looked no different and appeared as if she could go on for a few more miles.

We slowly pulled ourselves up and dragged ourselves wearily home through the streets of 'Royal' Uckfield which as we all know are paved with gold. As we walked up hill on the last two hundred metres of our journey Little dog started to show the first signs of being knackered, however on recognising our road she picked up her pace and bolted for the finish line. Within ten minutes of being home she was snoring soundly in her bed while I enjoyed a well deserved cup of tea.

Mad Bag Lady and Man Flu

It's official! Little dog has finally turned into a 'Mad Bag Lady'. She has now reached the grand old age of thirteen and half years and is starting to show her age (apart from when I take her for a walk when she reverts back to being a young girl). She has also become very grumpy. Each evening at about 8:30 p.m. for no particular reason she will stand in front of me and bark incessantly for several minutes before crashing out in her bed.

On top of this her bladder is not what it used to be, every night I am woken up in the early hours to let her out for a pee. Mrs C could let her out but she has perfected the art of feigning deep sleep and not hearing (ignoring) Little dog's frantic barking. When out on the Forest she has the habit of wading up to her middle in the muddiest puddles that she can find taking on the appearance of a drowned rat (That's Little dog, not Mrs C).

As a result of all these early morning visits to the garden wearing only my dressing gown I am now suffering from sleep deprivation. I have also caught a chill which has brought me down with a dose of Man Flu, and everybody who has suffered, knows how serious this malady can be. Never mind though because the sun is shining and the bag lady is insisting on going for her walks. So I've been a brave little soldier and dosed myself up with vitamin C and Lemsip and we have been out and about on the Forest again.

Yesterday we followed the path alongside a steep sided gorge with a small brook, down the valley towards the Airman's grave. It was quite muddy and slippery underfoot and the path was edged with short growing gorse plants. Watching Little dog mince her way through these prickly little plants was quite amusing until on a particularly muddy section she pulled rather sharply on her lead causing me to fall over. It wasn't quite so amusing when I landed in the prickly gorse. All the larger gorse plants were in full bloom, it was such a beautiful sight to see the Forest carpeted in brilliant yellow flowers set against a bright blue sky with cotton wool clouds..

Good Friends and 'Antient Townes'

Mrs C and I have had a busy weekend catching up with dear friends who we haven't seen since the New Year. Today we enjoyed a delicious lunch at the 'White Bear' public house in Featherbed lane, Chelsham, a quaint Sixteenth Century Inn which has become very popular over the past few years. The last time that I visited many years ago it was frequented by bikers but they appear to have hung up their 'Hogs' and bought sports cars or conservatories as part of their mid-life crises.

Yesterday we met some other great friends in the 'Antient towne' of Rye on the edge of Romney Marsh and close to Camber Sands, again enjoying a lovely pub meal followed a few hours later with afternoon tea in a quaint little Tea Room. I took this opportunity to break out the old Kodak and take a few snapshots of the medieval streets and panoramic views from the tower of St Mary's church.

Rye is a small town that lies approximately two miles from the sea on an escarpment at the confluence of the rivers Brede, Tillingham and Rother. In medieval times however the town was an important sea port set in a wide bay and surrounded by the sea. It is part of the Confederation of Cinque Ports (pronounced 'sink') a series of  coastal towns in Kent and East Sussex set up for trade and Military purposes, usually with and against the French.

Unfortunately for the wealth of the town the rivers began to silt up due to Longshore drift and local farmers reclaiming land from the sea on Romney and Wallend marshes. The town was finally cut off from the sea in the 13th Century after several violent storms changed the course of the River Rother and also destroying the town of old Winchelsea, two miles to the west. With the silting up of the rivers and the coming of larger ships with deeper draughts the trade shifted to other ports with deep water harbours.

After Rye's economy began to decline the local enterprising merchants and fisherman switched to smuggling. Initially they smuggled wool which was heavily taxed but by the Seventeenth Century all manor of goods were being smuggled through the town. Eventually luxury goods such as lace, tobacco and brandy were being illegally landed and smuggling became a serious criminal activity. The most notorious of the smuggling groups was the 'Hawkhurst' gang who based themselves in the Mermaid Inn. They landed and stored their illicit contraband in tunnels underneath the Inn and were also responsible for numerous murders for which they were subsequently hanged.

Today, with its historic roots and charm, Rye has become a tourist destination with many fine places to stay, shop and dine. We had a fantastic time exploring the old medieval town and poking around in the many antique shops and are already planning another trip to the town in the near future.

My Camino de Santiago (Cold Comfort Farm & Santa Claus)

The Albergue that I had chosen turned out to be a serious mistake; it was a very pleasant stone built building which would be lovely and cool on those hot Spanish summer days. Unfortunately the weather was unseasonably cold and consequently the Albergue was unseasonably freezing cold. My fellow peregrinos and I spent the evening sitting outside in order to maintain some body heat. It was so cold that I woke up several times throughout the night shivering in my thin sleeping bag.

The following morning we shared a frugal breakfast of coffee and sweet cakes for three euros each (paid for in advance). It was a disappointing waste of three euros, I am sick to death of eating sweet cakes and croissants and crave real food.

Myself, Jacques, Amy (a lovely woman from New York via Florida and Honduras - name changed again etc) and a group of other peregrinos set off together in a long crocodile along the road out of town towards a looming wall of a hill called the Alto Mostelares that we could see a few kilometres away. The traverse up this wall was slow and painful but on reaching the top we were rewarded with panoramic views in all directions. The dusty road ahead stretched out down hill and into the distance reminding me of the yellow brick road in 'The Wizard of Oz'.

The sun had come out and the Meseta looked magnificent in the early morning light. After descending the hill we came to a small picnic area where we rested, enjoying a well earned cup of coffee and some fruit that we purchased from a local man for a small donation. Back on the road and an hour later we approached a small stone building set all on its own next to the tranquil Rio Pisuerga. This building is the 'Ermita de San Nicolas' which is a small Albergue dedicated to Saint Nicholas (Santa Claus) owned and run by an Italian Confraternity. The 13th century building has no electricity, telephones or other modcons and it is illuminated by candlelight.

We were welcomed inside by a volunteer Hospitelero, a man with a bushy white beard and rotund figure who bore a passing resemblance to the hostels namesake; no red coat or reindeer to be seen anywhere though. He offered us rest and a drink of water and was happy to sign our credencials. Apparently if you spend the night here the Hospiteleros wash the guests feet before supper as an act of penitence. Unfortunately it was too early in the day to consider booking a bed for the night.

We crossed the bridge and into the Provincia de Palencia from the Kingdom of Castilla and into the old Kingdom of Leon. This is a land of extensive cultivation, mainly wheat but also some vegetables and vines, well served by rivers and canals which provide irrigation for the crops.

Our lunch was taken in a small bar in the village of Boadilla del Camino where I enjoyed a regional delicacy of Empinade, a kind of pastie filled with tuna, tomato and onions. This once thriving village with several hostels serving the needs of pilgrims has become a shadow of its former self with the population falling from 2000 in its heyday to less than 200 today; there are signs of a reawakening however with the opening of a new albergue and shop.

Jacques and I left the village via the church with it's nesting storks in residence on the tower and along a farm track that led to the Canal de Castilla. This canal was constructed in the 18th century to transport the cultivated crops and provide water to drive the corn mills. The rest of our day was spent walking along the peaceful tree lined towpath to the town of Fromista where we intended to stay the night.