We enjoy living near the top of a hill very much indeed - it was high on the list of priorities, not just for the vista which is important for the soul, but all the other extras that come with it......especially if you don't live at the very top. There is always something then to look forward to.
I take in the view of its crown slightly to my west every day - I have got to know its moods, sounds and notice the changes as the seasons move through the year. There was a short period in my life when I forgot such things. I failed to notice them, but it all came back and they are now as deep and as part of me as they are ever going to be.
From down here just watching the wind whistling through the beech, ash and elm is enough some days, but to get the best out of it you need to be up on it, in it and almost let it envelope you. Selfish I know, but I have on occasion called it my hill - it is not mine, it is our hill. It belongs to all of us even though it is owned by others who may not always see it, love it, enjoy it and have its best interests at heart as perhaps others who have deep likings for it.
Today the wind is blowing. It's a cold wind ahead of much colder days to come, but my window is open and I can hear the wind on the hill as it tears through the trees. No other sound is necessary. I often have this certain window open to get my fix - sometimes to hear the constant call of tawny owl who call day and night to their pals down the hill by the river, hear the raark of raven, tappity tap of yaffle, chatter of rooks or observe the silent hunt of peregrine which hunt on the hill away from their cliff top nesting sites by the sea.....after a few years I am starting to know it, understand it by watching and listening from down here or up there on it.
I often walk up there alone. It is wonderful however with my children as they notice many of the lovely things that I do not and there is nothing like walking in an environment with so much to offer so near to home. The great comfort that the home fires are not too far away. In spring and summer my eldest son walks home over the hill and I can hear the chatter and laughter of teenage boys from some way away....he too is getting his fix. I get most of my fix alone. I like it like that as I get the best of both worlds, but it just so happens that alone is when it sees me right.
From the top I see Eggardon slightly to the north east, the hillocks that line the route of the old railway line towards Maiden Newton and to my north, south and east the delights of Marshwood, Pilsdon, Golden Cap, Thorncombe Beacon, Colmers Hill and Lewesdon to name just a few. My path to the top is part of a longer route known as the Monarch's Way. This 625 mile route was the escape route of King Charles II in 1651 after being defeated in the Battle of Worcester.
What gives me greater pleasure is knowing the hunted protagonist of Rogue Male (1939) by Geoffrey Household used this section of path between Sydling St Nicholas, past my house and up over the hill as he headed towards North Chideock......fiction I know, but pleasing all the same. As I look west I pick out his route and imagine the deep lanes which I can almost follow by naked eye as they drop into a network of otherworldly places. Places I have likings for almost as much as this hill.
Such places are always on the cusp of being interfered with, "improved", tampered with, mis-managed for the benefit, usually, of one rather than the masses. Without folks who have the passion and love for such places they can be lost. Sometimes beyond repair and more often than not it is those who do have such passions for them who can feel like they are the in the wrong.....too over sensitive. Let's just say I am one of those.
My visits to the hill have lately been tarnished with such thoughts. Overzealous clearing of hedge, scrub and undergrowth has been carried out in earnest, quickly as if someone or somebody has a plan they wish to execute quickly.......execute?
I have always been nervous of centrally driven Government targets which have little to do with local need........you see it here where over the years parishes have grown along communication routes to eventually join larger settlements and in the end almost all the space between has been lost.....this is what I fear for the hill. Some are hoodwinked by the terms often used on the back of such developments knowing that it may just give them extra weight to a development - affordable, smart housing, community, environmentally friendly, shared ownership, eco.....
For now, I will keep listening to the wind and look forward to my next visit....I'll stop calling it my hill, it's our hill, our land.
It's been a tough few weeks - one of those periods where even stopping to reflect has been difficult. On a dark windy solstice day I decided I needed to take time out to just take stock and listen to the wind as it whispered through the trees.
My favourite local hollow lane, holloway, dark lane or deep lane is just up the road from me. It's short unlike some of its more famous neighbours, but I find it the most atmospheric. Iv'e foraged here, brewed tea, slept, day dreamed and generally switched off, but today I just wanted to take in the air. I see it in all seasons, but like it with its thin winter cloak.
It worked. As soon as I dropped down into it I knew I had done the right thing. The quiet, other than the eery tune of wind above, was just the tonic - I walked, slipped and stumbled its full length before turning back for the steep climb.
I found, or it found me, the perfect yule log which is now drying by the fire for the festive days ahead. Some holly to green the house and all is looking good. Make time to stop. There will hopefully be more opportunities in the dark days ahead, but for now I am content to have heard the sound of the wind on this the shortest of days.
Every time I go fishing these days it seems to absolutely piss down. I don't mean just a shower, but really thrash it down.......oh yes, and you can add a bit of wind too for good measure.
I don't mind really, but as all anglers know it is a real chore drying everything out at the end of the day. This particular trip was one I was looking forward to. Not that I don't look forward to fishing, but going to this place not only brings me the anglers joy but it does something to my soul - I have been at one with this particular landscape for a big chunk of my life. At times we were not on good terms, but now I just sort of roll into its folds and take it all in. I don't want anything especially and certainly do not take it for granted.
I left the car in glorious sunshine and just as I joined the fisherman's path the skies darkened and all hell broke loose. The walk to the nook that I wanted to fish is treacherous at the best of times, so I must have looked like an old boy in his carpet slippers wending his way........unscathed, I arrived at where I thought the ancient carp would be.
The bird song here is mixed - the usual chik and chak of rooks on the wing coupled with the occasional woodpecker were all that I heard. Sometimes there are surprises, but not today. Who ventures out on such a day? A fool? No, not I. I have a brolly, a brolly that has seen better days but under the canopy of oak and beech it will help shelter me a little.
My simple bait is fished so close to the bank that I dare not move, so I am thankful to have a screen of bramble and sallow to shield my movement. As the rain and wind get louder I see the odd vortex, then bubbles which betray the location of feeding fish and so the wait........the float twitches, hands shaking, hovering over the rod should the float rise and sit flat on the surface or slide away............it's gone and all hell breaks loose.
The wind keeps spinning in the trees high above and the rooks keep calling and all too soon the light leaves the day - I could be anywhere at any time in this ancient and spiritual landscape, but I for one will give thanks before I leave.
The past few fishing trips have seen me looking down more often than not. Usually, I spend most of my time looking up - I have been aware of movements on the overgrown fisherman's paths and have seen more frogs and toads this year than I have done in recent years. This is a risky business. The last thing our friends need is a size 10 Dr Marten ruining their day.
The other day I was conscious of some overexcited twitterings at my elbow - my elbow was resting on a helpful log. A newly fledged wren had, at that moment, left the nest and the parent was helping it on those first big steps. This is likely to be brood number two.....or possibly three. After they departed I bent down and found the most delightful Hobbit House - completely moss lined in the underside nook of the log. The years turning in miniature.
The Dorset magician wordsmith William Barnes was right - his poem of the same title is well worth a read before you proceed.
It never ceases to amaze me how such items of ephemera survive in this modern world of instant, throw it away and want it now. I am glad it does survive - these items, mere trifles, were saved from the rubbish bin. I have a vague recollection of playing the card game as a child - the pack is dated 1975 with artwork by Althea Braithwaite. Done at a time when the National Trust actually printed good guides / ephemera (Rena Gardiner) and didn't rip you off for a pot of tea and a slice of cake like they do now.
The Tree Card Game has the most delightful box - so imaginative, with every bit of available space illustrated with leaves, berries and birds.
The booklets are Nature Conservancy Council (1978) and Forestry Commission (1973) and are full of interesting facts and advice......from a gentler time. A time I think some of us really crave these days?
The build up to the big day is like no other - well, maybe Christmas, for I have the same feelings and likings at both times of the year. The Glorious Sixteenth is such a day in the traditional anglers year. Plans laid down, tackle accumulated, cakes made and my dreams will hopefully become reality.
As regular readers will know, my season starts as it always has done. Same place, same friends, same old, same old - I wouldn't have it any other way. My pal Demus said many years ago on opening day "we are living the dream, enjoy it, for it may not last". I know what he meant, we were living the dream and thankfully we still are, but as always on opening day I think of those who are no longer with us and who enjoyed these days so much. Never forgotten.
Whisky toasts are made at midnight, the magnificent rocket is launched to many an ooh and aahh and we laugh like naughty school boys........living the dream.
The tools of our trade are quill floats and all home made affairs. Each one has a story and as each season passes more stories get added. Our bait is simple. Like our floats, our group grows older each year, but our love of these most special times grows ever bigger in our fisherman hearts.
This tree caught me out for a while. Always a landmark on my journey heading towards Cranborne Chase, it never appeared to move in the wind - any wind. Even in the most violent of gales its branches would remain still.
I parked up by it a few years ago for a closer inspection and all was revealed - almost hoodwinked, just like a Tory Party manifesto.
I was excited and dreading these few days away on the South Downs in equal measures. Excited as it was going to be my first long distance walk totally self sufficient and carrying my gear for all eventualities and sleeping out wild as I walked west to east.
The dreading part, I guess, was because there was going to be absolutely no possibility of pulling out - I had a place to be. A place to navigate to and I had to be there for a certain time.
I had made a pact. For the last twelve months I had known I would be here as it was arranged, agreed on, hands shaken, embraced and promise made. If you do that you can't go back. Especially if it's your closest friend and as the plan is made he looks at you, deep into your eyes and says "promise me you will be there son, I will be and you will know that I am there too" - I agreed. My dearest friend passed away in the dark days of January and it has been difficult for everyone - hard to move on and shake the sadness. I found a note that had been written to me, again it pressed the point in the loveliest manner that I had to be at our meeting point. It closed with see you there.
For the first time in months my mood had lightened as I climbed the first killer incline of the day - it was as if every weight had been lifted from me and I was soaring like the skylarks around me. I cried, screamed and laughed at the same time - it was as if I had found something, found the activity that helps me to move on. Not only in walking terms but in my life. The lines you carve walking are good for you. You hear, notice, plan and think - you also remember and that was what this pilgrimage was all about.
My destination was nearly two days walk away, so I had plenty of time to think and remember times past - I was not alone as I know I had a shadow, a presence alongside me which was not only keeping me company but gently motivating me to keep going, keep plodding - you will understand it told me, you will see what all this is about and it will make your life better both now and in the future.
A magical night under the stars is something I am used to at remote ancient pools whilst fishing, but up here looking to the North Downs it sparkled. At times it felt like I was the only man alive.......the last man standing.
I reached Chanctonbury Ring knowing little of its history. My friend had camped here in 2007 and we talked often about the power this place seems to have. Also, the vista is special, you can see it from some way away and it sort of pounces on you as you get close.
This was indeed our meeting place.
I arrived early, for it was here where I was to camp, but carried on and decided to come back later in the day. It was busy and even with many day walkers about when I walked up onto and into the ring it felt like a veil came down over the place - I didn't feel uneasy but there was a feeling I was being watched. I noticed straight away that no birds sang here, they did in the neighbouring trees, but not here. I continued to the River Adur and thought no more of it.
I returned later in the day, water replenished and feeling weary as now the wind had got much colder and the rain was heavy at times. As I returned to Chanctonbury I was pleased to see it virtually deserted. I walked around and found the place which I thought would not only give me the best view of sunrise but also give me the clearest view of the path ahead as it curled eastwards. A slight dip on the ring was adequate for my back-packers tent and offered slight comfort from the ever increasing wind.
As the day shortened to evening I brewed some tea, said some words to the trees and decided to see what the night would bring. The evening reminded me very much of my worst weather experience fishing at the Wizard's Cauldron a deeply haunted place that I have written about here before.
The noise of the wind was incredible with driving rain of such force I was glad of my shelter, sleeping bag and hip flask. At 2am the wind and rain suddenly stopped - a Tawny Owl hooted in the tree just behind my tent - this was followed by a shriek heading from the trees out of the ring into open land and away from the ring. The wind and rain started up again, I sipped from my flask, looked at pictures of my friend and I knew he was here - I felt I was being protected.
They say the veil is at its thinnest on this night as it is on all hallows' eve and midsummer's eve, but not once did I feel concerned, just aware that I was not alone - being watched and now possibly protected.
Dawn came and the weather departed. Still alone I walked the ring, spoke to my friend, the trees and welcomed in the first day of May. I felt all was well and getting better - a promise kept, a meeting had taken place and a journey of discovery was ahead of me.
The Chancontbury Morris Men arrived as they have always done on this morning. A quite delightful and moving experience to welcome this most special day. As they departed I lifted my pack to my back and left this place..........knowing in some ways that I may not ever return for I have my memories and I had kept my promise.
My good friend Demus picked me up and took me for breakfast which was a most pleasurable end to my trip - he then told me a story I had not known. I have the book by Robert Macfarlane (The Old Ways), but it is still some way down in my reading pile. Demus told me if I had read his chapter on Chanctonbury Ring I may not have seen my journey through to its end. I'll let you discover that story for yourself, but my friend was both shocked and amazed to see what I had found at sunrise on May Day.
The stone you see below, complete with perfect hole, was left just outside my tent. It was not there as I arrived, it appeared during the night. Such a stone is known to bring you luck and protection. In Sussex they are known as Hag Stones, Witches Amulets, Fairy Stones or Odin Stones. The stone is exactly the sort as found at the ring, but rare with natural hole.
I was glad I had made my journey to this place and whatever happened that night I know it was meant to be.
