On Walking: Wednesday 6th November

It’s early, early enough for my eyes to feel fat, for silvered strands of cobweb to catch on my face. The dogs nag to be let off their leads. They rush around, noses down,  greedy for the night-scents.

The sledging hill is frosted, and I slither down past badger-plundered cow pats to the spinney. The spinney’s mainly beech, and its beauty in the first shafts of sun light takes away my breath. Golden, amber fire.

I’m supposed to be in a hurry, but all this richness has caught at me. Up over Bramshill, the clay-red path is strewn with black, business-like slugs, neat and intent, half the length and width of my ring finger.

At the very top of the hill, the valley is half-couched in mist, but the thick band of fir woods are free, the oaks above them catching fire in the sun.

I can hear crows and pheasants, smell the skunkiness of a fox. Far away I can hear the road, carrying people to work, children to school. I stop at the wonky stile onto Clump, look back. The rosettes of thistles are glittering, thousands of them.

There’s a blackthorn beside the stile, heavy with round, lilac-bloomed sloes. I touch my finger-tip to one, carefully, leaving my print.

Author: mrscarlielee

Mother. Writer. Wearer of frocks with wellies. Loves Dancing, Frivolity and Good Books. Tweet @MrsCarlieLee

To have my latest posts sent to your inbox, please press the 'follow' button on the top right. Thank you!

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

%d bloggers like this: