Cookham Idyll

A couple of weekends ago now (how quickly the summer goes) R and I caught the train to Cookham to spend an afternoon walking along the drowsy bank of the River Thames and climb Winter Hill, where we would picnic in honour of the fullness of summer. Follow the Thames west of London up towards it’s source and you will barely recognise it as the murky waterway that bisects the city’s heart; indeed, follow it as far west as Oxford and it has another name – the Isis.

The day was hot and sunny with a refreshing breeze as we approached the flank of the Hill along a towpath riotous with wildflowers. The breeze however kept dragonflies and damselflies to a minimum, though we did get to see this little marvel, a female Beautiful Damoiselle.

Cookham is famous as the home of the visionary artist Stanley Spencer, who painted biblical scenes as if they had occurred in his native village. After viewing some of his oddly hallucinatory work in the Stanley Spencer Museum the landscape, already vivid in the summer heat took on a strange intensity as if I were looking directly through the artists eyes. Cookham is also a home to the arcane practice of Swan Upping, the ceremonial rounding up of mute swans by the Queen’s Swan Markers, the Worshipful Company of Vintners and the Worshipful Company of Dyers. Cookham, in short,  is as beautifully English as it gets, and more than mildly eccentric to boot.

One of the best reasons to visit this part of the world (apart from it’s singular beauty) is the chance to see Red Kites. Once almost extinct in the UK and still globally threatened, these spectacular birds ride the skies like no other bird I’ve ever seen, and around Cookham and Winter Hill there is a sizeable local population. On a previous visit we’d been startled by a tawny flash erupting from a wheat field right in front of us as one of these birds shot into the sky, leaving us gasping with disbelief. On that occasion we didn’t know that these birds were locally common, and while eating our picnic on the hill’s crest we shook our heads in wonder while watching more than one bird flirting with the breeze at eye level no more than twenty yards away. On this visit we got our first sighting while in the beer garden of the Bounty Pub,  taking turns with the binoculars to watch a soaring pair while we slapped on sun cream, drank a sustaining coffee and prepared for our climb.

Don’t get me wrong; the climb is hardly arduous – I don’t know for sure but I’d be surprised if Winter Hill tops two hundred feet. It’s steep though, and the sun was bright and harsh. Lush vivid green meadows nodding with wildflowers clung to the slope and as we climbed it’s steepest point our hot faces drew level with Harebells, Clustered Bellflowers,  Scabious. Butterflies commute busily between patches of flowers and at the top rabbits, unafraid, graze near the sheltering brambles.

The view from the top of Winter Hill on a beautiful late summer day repays the modest effort a thousandfold – the flat lands of the Thames roll out like a richly patterned carpet, and in the dancing shade of oak and ash we sat down to drink it all in.

No picture could do justice to the panorama of many coloured patchwork fields, the toy like train on it’s track, the subtle glint of the Thames below. We unpacked our picnic of strawberries and wine and toasted the sun dazed landscape.

Exploring the crest of the hill I was delighted to find some fat new Parasol Mushrooms growing up through dried out cow pats – Parasol mushrooms are good eating, but I’m always a little nervous about id’ing mushrooms in the field so we left them unmolested.

Further along I found this beastie gorging it’s-self on Ragwort. It’s the gaudy caterpillar of the just as gaudy Cinnabar moth, and it’s football jersey colouration serves as a warning to predators – keep away, I taste bad, I will make you very sick! It’s food plant – Ragwort – is full of poisonous alkaloids which the caterpillar stores safely in it’s body, rendering it, too, poisonous. They have a voracious appetite and will completely devour their host plant down to the ground, which will sometimes result in the caterpillars turning cannibal in the absence of anything else to eat. As this was the only Ragwort plant to be seen, and as it had already been quite comprehensively munched, and as there was only one caterpillar doing the munching… well I have to come to the conclusion that this greedy creature may well have been the sole survivor of a cannibal feast.  Enough of the grisly nature lesson – don’t you think our stripy friend would look well sitting on a fully opened parasol mushroom – just like the caterpillar in Alice In Wonderland? The landscape may be full of gentle beauty, but just a quick glimpse of it at a different scale reveals a strangeness to match anything Lewis Carrol dreamed up.

Eventually it was time to dawdle our way back down and catch the train back to London. We thought we’d seen everything we could possibly want to see as we strolled along the river, scanning the waters with our binoculars for nothing in particular. Then I spotted this Great Crested Grebe diving, and soon it had a plump fish in it’s beak. Curious as to why it did not eat it’s prize immediately I kept the binoculars trained on the bird and was lucky to see it swim to it’s mate and give the fish to her – she could not dive for her own dinner because their chicks were riding upon her back, their fuzzy grey heads peeking out between her wings.

The Long Man of Wilmington

A misty spring morning a couple of weekends ago saw a group of us set out to explore the Long Man of Wilmington.  At the start of our walk, in a valley buried in cloud and noisy with birdsong we couldn’t quite believe we would see anything, but as we climbed the haze lifted to give us one of our first truly glorious spring days and a vast panorama dissolving into the horizon.

On the approach to Windover Hill we chose to first climb the ridge to the top, thus hiding the Long Man from our view until we had picnicked at the top and made our descent. Spurred on by the exhilarating song flight of skylarks, buffeted by chilly winds and squinting in harsh sunshine we gained the top of the ridge, sank down into the stubbly grass and unpacked our goodies. Our bellies did very well for themselves, but perched on the precarious ridge with our legs braced against the drop we also feasted on this…

I’ve walked in higher places but this still felt like the top of the world. Where we sat and gobbled our food it was possible to steal a glance at the giant inscribed on the hillside  just below our feet, but he’s so huge (and designed to be seen from below) that we could not make much sense of what we saw. Once we’d eaten it was time to go and inspect our enigmatic friend.

It seems no-one can agree on much where the Long man is concerned; although he looks ancient there are many who believe him to be a relatively modern creation. There is controversy over whether his outline was changed during a restoration attempt, and whether he is a war god wielding weapons or a man standing in a doorway. Even up close he is not as he seems; as we descended the hill and approached the white outlines which we had assumed were scratched directly into the chalk hillside they resolved into a kind of narrow stone pavement laid into the turf.

Whoever made him, he was designed to be seen from below and at a distance, and this is the best way to look at him and make your own mind up. He is an astonishingly powerful presence even if, as we agreed, it did look as if someone had botched up his feet a bit. I couldn’t see the war god in him at all, preferring the interpretation of someone standing at an entrance, hands on either side as if flinging open a set of doors, paused before entering or emerging. Of course no-one really has a clue or ever will, and therein lies the Long Man’s true secret… he makes you see what you want to see, we are all free to interpret him as we wish.

At a distance the sinuous curves of Windover Hill took on the aspect of a sleeping woman, curled up on her side.  “He’s being born!” D exclaimed, and once he’d said that we could all see it too.

Winter Sunset

Yesterday I wrote of walking in a once-in-a-generation icy landscape, and mentioned that I had been transfixed by the sunset at the end of the walk. I’m going to save my words today and just show you the sunset that kept me outside that little bit longer.

Want to see more of my cold weather pictures? Here’s a link to my account of  the rest of this Icy Hampshire Winter Walk, and another to Frosty Winter Fields.

For more beautiful and fascinating images of the sky around the world, visit Skywatch Friday!

Deep Freeze

At the start of the year, a week’s worth of sub zero temperatures accompanied by thick freezing fog transformed the Hampshire countryside around R’s parents. One short stroll in this uncanny landscape has to count as one of the most extraordinary walks I have ever taken anywhere.

The rolling contours of Hampshire’s giant industrially farmed fields still stubbled with the remains of last years crops had become a brittle confection, sugar dusted. Hedgerow branches hung furred with ice, which crackled and popped delicately if you touched it with your tongue.  As we set off a flock of fieldfares whirled like bonfire ash, gleaning the frozen ground.

Visibility shifted – from ten yards to fifty then back to ten. At times the silent world rolled under my feet as would a treadmill, the landscape ahead not just invisible but wholly absent.

The bold silhouettes of my companions, sharp as cardboard cut-outs, faded to grainy photocopies then neatly dissolved into the white.  All landmarks obliterated, the hard crackling ground under my feet became the only certain thing.

An occasional game crop – sunflowers or corn (left standing as fodder for Hampshire’s vast population of doomed pheasants) lent the landscape an almost apocalyptic air, frozen flower heads bent under rimes of frost an inch or more thick.  For a moment I could picture refugees pouring through devastated frozen fields should a failing Gulf Stream plunge Britain into another ice age.

Crossing the empty fields felt like crossing a fog bound ocean, landmarks islanded in whiteness and fading in and out like ghosts. A spinney loomed out of the ground like a surfacing leviathan.

At our approach individual trees picked themselves out delicately in a lacy monochrome, sugared and perfect. Passing its edge the spinney now took on the aspect of a snow globe, and we the tiny people in it. A short detour among the trees revealed a world in negative – silver branches against a darker sky. White, silver, platinum, all in finer calibrations than you would ever suspect a human eye could see and way beyond the capabilities of my camera or my prose. Apart from the fieldfares at the beginning of our walk we didn’t see another moving thing, and the hedgerows were uncannily silent.

The fog began to clear, revealing a cheerless wintry sun hung in an opalescent sky. Colour seeped gently back into the landscape. At the end of our walk I paused to admire the sky while my small companion excitedly explained the complex world of Harry Potter. Everyone else seemed in a rush to get into the car, and I can’t blame them, but the sunset had me rooted to the spot.

To see the first set of my cold weather pictures, take a look at the previous blog post Through The Wardrobe. There will be more cold weather pictures soon!

Moon, Sun and Mountain

It seems strange that I’m finally getting round to writing about the midsummer sunrise at the Autumn equinox, but life keeps rolling out under my feet like a gorgeous carpet and given the choice between writing and walking… well, how am I supposed to sit still long enough? Since I’ve finally found the required sitzfleish, I’d better get on with the task at hand.

The evening of our hike was clear and beautiful with a vibrant, never-ending sunset. We ate a huge dinner, prepared lavish supplies, and as we called the cab that was to take us to the start of the track a delicious sense of anticipation made my stomach flip.  Snowdon, or Y Wyddfa, is an easy hike especially by the track we were taking, but I’ve never climbed a mountain in the dark before. The cab driver dropped us at the end of a quiet lane right on the start of the track.

As his headlights receded and the darkness enveloped us I was tempted to switch on my head torch, but it didn’t take long for us to get our night vision. The best way to see in the dark is NOT to use a torch – it’s surprising how much light there is in the night sky, especially on midsummer night when the moon is full. In fact the higher we climbed on the shallow trail, the more light there was. Despite being way past midnight the sun was barely below the rim of the horizon, and a strange red gloaming hung in the northern sky. More eerie by far however was the moon, wreathed in high cloud ahead of us, a silver lantern at the summit of Snowdon.

The silence was absolute, and as we strode through the foothills the twinkling lights of Llanberis winked at us miles below.

Then, they winked out. The point at which we had walked so far into the hills that all signs of human life abruptly vanished was one I will never forget. Now it was just us, the moon and the mountain. Or was it? Ahead, a bright light would abruptly appear and jerkily vanish; other walkers ahead of us on the trail and using their torches to see the path. Curious, I tried my torch and the mountains simply vanished, the only things left were stones lit by the narrow beam. I switched it off and revelled again in the dark shapes of the mountains. Walking without light can play tricks on you though. A jumble of pale granite rocks that I was eyeing as a good place to tighten my bootlaces stood up, shook themselves, and bleating indignantly trotted off the trail in search of a quieter place to sleep; a pale shimmering band of river metamorphosed into the shining metal tracks of the mountain railway. All felt mysterious, changed.

The last section of the hike became steeper and the trail a little more challenging, but even so it was clear that we were going to do it in less than three hours. We’d be at the top well before sunrise, and the higher we got the colder it became, the still air enlivened by a freshening breeze. We would have a chilly wait; I thought with relish of the hot drink and flask of good Scotch we’d packed earlier.

The track became tame, paved with carefully hewn stone slabs. We topped the wide ridge leading to the summit and a bracing gust of wind pummelled us awake. The horizon glimmered red, the herald of a new day. Ahead of us on one side of the Snowdon horseshoe the knife edge ridge of Crib y Ddysgl glowed dully.

To our right rose the summit of Snowdon, and after drinking in the view of the mountains and hills of Snowdonia receding into the haze we climbed the final few metres.

Others had got there before us; some had camped within view of the summit and were beginning to stir – making tea, brushing teeth. We almost walked into some men who were huddled at the base of the triangulation point on the summit itself until one grinned and spoke and I saw his teeth gleam in the pre dawn light. The summit itself is not a particularly wild place – the accessible climb ensures a steady stream of walkers and the Snowdon mountain railway carries hundreds more visitors to the top. It can be as busy as Piccadilly Circus up there, but on this early morning there was still plenty of room to find a quiet place. The colour in the sky intensified, spread; then miraculously about twenty minutes before it was due, the sun appeared – and quite high in the sky!

We were seeing a mirage – an upside down reflection of the sun projected onto the clouds from below the horizon line, a sneak peep at the beauty that was to come.

The colour strengthened, intensified, the mirage dissolved. We clambered to the top of the triangulation point just in time to see the sun hit the horizon and the bowl of the Snowdon Horseshoe catch fire.

Crib Goch flared in the burgeoning ruby light like a blade in a forge. Lakes and mountains marched out toward the horizon, a tapestry of indigo, crimson and gold. We were cold, we were tired, but neither of us noticed.

We had climbed the easy route but Snowdon is deceptive; from the peak of the mountain there is a dizzyingly sheer overhanging drop, and peering over it makes you feel as though you are flying. As if to add to this illusion a single herring gull joined us, hanging perfectly still in the jaws of a shrieking wind, lit underneath by a delicate rose light.

The brilliant flush of sunrise subsided quickly into a pale and watery dawn, and we noticed with consternation that clouds were gathering swiftly at our backs. No time for dallying, we needed to get down from the mountain as fast as we could, and chose the Miners track which is steeper but faster.

We paused briefly to look back at Snowdon’s immense shoulder. Just then, whirling grey cloud boiled over the ridge and obliterated the summit, leaving the dawn hikers above us with zero visibility.

We continued our descent as fast as our tired legs would allow us. We kept just ahead of the cloud, which billowed and swirled and poured into the passes above us like a pursuing demon.

The fine drenching rain became a stinging torrential downpour, and the steep track of jagged rock became a shallow rushing stream. Our way afforded no shelter for miles, and we ate breakfast sat in the open, overlooking a storm whipped lake Glaslyn and watched closely by a herring gull. No longer the transcendent flyer of the summit sunrise, its savage yellow eye regarded us balefully as it tried to find the courage to steal our sodden celebratory chocolate cake. I cursed at it cheerfully and waved my fist, and it backed away, hunching its shoulders. Normally I will leave a little something for the wild inhabitants to enjoy but R and I were ravenous as dogs so by the time we set off again there wasn’t a single crumb left.

We tottered the remaining few miles like exhausted drunks, with magnificent views all around obscured by cloud and lashing rain. Every so often a party of Three Peaks Challenge walkers would loom through the fug, but I have to say I did not envy them their drenching, viewless climb.

By the time we reached Pen-y-pass and the safety of the youth hostel bus shelter it felt as if we were being water cannoned from above; the rain was making the gravel dance as if shot and the din it made on the wooden roof of the shelter was astonishing. A hapless Three Peaker, arms windmilling furiously, chased his waterproof trousers as they flew across the car park, whipped out of his hands by the wind as he’d tried to don them; then the bus appeared and we scrambled still dripping to our seats. Midsummer day was about as filthy as can be, but I wouldn’t have missed welcoming it in for anything in the world.

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