Holmhill Bog passage

Holmhill Bog passage

Ober Valley

The veiw into the Ober valley told me it was time to turn around, all though there are two bridges close by, there'd be no crossing the Ober this morning.

Snow glow

 

Geoff loves the snow so much he glows.

Another snowy walk

 

I was surprised to see how much snow had survived out in the forest. I wasn't expecting anything like this, snow still covers much of the open ground. The day is clear and cold, it feels colder than yesterday, and the snow is dry and crisp. Where there's not snow there's ice, it's horrible under foot, difficult walking. Worth it though, another day of snow.

Narnia

The forest was so quiet, so still, the stands were holding their breath. The woodland was the winter woodland of stories, Mr. Tumnus could've appeared at any moment and I wouldn't have been too surprised. Less than two hours after it had started the snow has all but stopped. A transient beauty, made more beautiful for it.

Geoff in a snowy scene

 

I like this shot of Geoff in a snowy scene.

Snow way, man.

As I sat drinking my morning coffee listening to the sound of rain, it was still dark outside. I wasn't looking forward to this mornings walk. I set off from Anderwood with a sigh, expecting a wet walk, though it wasn't rain that fell but snow! Oh, huzzah. The prevailing wet had meet the cold, and snow was their progeny, It was coming down at a fair rate, and settling too. We don't often get snow in these parts, and even when we do it doesn't last. So you've got to make the most of it. The walking was wonderful, the forest was quickly being transformed into a magical winter wonderland. When it snows the timeless child in you steps to the fore. Everything felt lighter. I felt an deep calm come over me as we walked through the falling snow, and it felt so good. I could've wandered the stands all day.

Fall

Most of the leaves have left the trees and litter the the ground around them. Lying in the water filled ditches reflecting on where they came from. Fall is almost done.

Henry Parker & David Ian Roberts @ The Wight Bear

 

I can't remember where I first heard Henry Parker, but on doing so I was immediately prompted to buy his 2019 album Silent Spring. An album of timeless folk. His new album in collaboration with David Ian Roberts Chasing Light is in the same vein. Folk has always been the voice of the proletariat, the people, music that keeps alive an oral tradition conveying story, history and fable, whose origins disappear into the mists of time, it's important, as are the stories it tells. This afternoons' performance at The Wight Bear in Southborne was part of messrs Parker and Roberts album release tour. The duo graced us with two captivating half hour sets, the quality of musicianship was superb, with exquisite melodies beautifully rendered, folk music of the highest order. Parker and Roberts represent contemporary folk at it's best, masterfully breathing fresh energy into the medium, ensuring the traditions continuing appeal. Wonderful stuff, we were afforded a real aural treat, music that stirs ancestral memory and touches the soul. The venues owner has a no talking whilst artists are playing policy which I salute, never more essential than when listening to performances such as this, allowing us to bask in its fine detail. Lovely. 

Now, to say the Wight Bear is bijou under plays just how small it feels, though what it lacks in size it more than makes up for in character and warmth. What a smashing venue. I'd not previously been here, though immediately felt at home. Really friendly regulars, everyone appeared to know everyone, and even if they didn't they made you feel that they did; the staff where the same, very welcoming; and the range of craft beverages is expansive. I said it felt small, although it must have a tardis quality about it, there were people sitting chatting, others making lino cuts, others milled about, whilst massages were available in their small snug at the back. What a remarkable establishment. Well worth a visit.

Fabulous afternoon, big thanks to all. Check out Henry Parker and David Ian Roberts Chasing Light on bandcamp, as well as Henrys' back catalogue.

The Triquetra

 

Placed in a natural fissure on a sturdy forest gate post, a Triquetra crafted from braided natural fibres. Bracken maybe, thinking about it. A symbol commonly associated with triads such as the Triple Goddess in paganism and later with the Holy Trinity in Christianity, a symbol familiar to the Celtic, Norse and Germanic peoples. Whoever created this one may have done so with a specific purpose in mind, or it could just have been art for art sake, either way, nice.  The world needs more magic.

Manicured

I think many people would be surprised at how extensively the forest is manicured. From the regularly burning heather and gorse, the continuous combating of invasive saplings on the open heath, and the battle to eradicate rhododendrons, right down to single out of place trees, a hell of a lot of effort is put in to keeping the forest looking chocolate box perfect.

Dirty face

Love it. 

Ober Water morning

 

The banks of Ober Water perfectly illustrate the New Forests' captivating beauty and air of natural magic in late autumn. After our recent bout of aptly named anticyclonic gloom, the suns' return was welcomed, although weakening, the sun still retaining ample strength to illuminate the stands and stream; you could even discern a modicum of warmth. A radiant morning.

Green Ford

 

Green Ford

 

Wakey wakey

Now don't go all trump derangement syndrome on my ass, I'm going to posit a potential positive of the orange man's election. Yes, I know he's a maniac, misogynist, a climate denying, rights repealing, erratic, highly dangerous maniac who's not fit for office. But, his emphatic election victory has brought about change. Beyond the bourgeoisie and far left, who've doubled down on their assertion that anyone not them is a Nazi, I sense the body left have had the scales begin to fall from their eyes. For the first time I'm listening to leftwing commentators question the efficiency of coding the working class, all their concerns, in fact, everything about them as base and deplorable. Of abandoning the class struggle in favour of identity politics. It's about time we woke up!

I genuinely believe that the majority of people are on board with progressive policies around race, sex, gender, orientation, the climate, equalities, you name it, right up to the point that we start babbling mad Shit. And if you question the mad shit, the rigid orthodoxy aggressively pushed and policed by the far left and bourgeoisie activists, you're a heretic. Contrary to advertised, the left has become anything but inclusive. If we want to affect change we need to build coalitions, build consensus, and to do that we've got to engage in good faith discussions with those outside of our collective silos. People with different ideas and perspectives to ours. Obviously the dyed in the wool ideological ultras on both left and right will resist, but beyond that I think the majority of people across the political spectrum are hungry for genuine change, not worthless rhetoric.

The last 10 years of rightward slide vividly highlight where our current divisive narratives have got us. The left are losing hearts and minds. The far right is gaining ground hand over fist, as the left eviscerates itself in its pursuit of unattainable ideological purity. We've got to replace inflexible orthodoxy with nuanced thinking, otherwise we'll have no one else to blame for fascism but ourselves.

14 Pebbles #4

We passed through Burley Old this morning following one of our regular routes, past the hollowed stump of the ancient tree whereupon the 14 pebbles were found expanded to 20. The circle had transformed again. Several of the pebbles I'd collected in Purbeck have gone, as had the tiny white stone, and new ones had been added.  I enjoy that the circle is changed by passers by, that's how I found it,  and wondered if the creator of the original pebble setting has had a hand in any of the subsequent transformations.

It's frothy, man

 

It's frothy, man.

Boiling mound

 

Thought to be Bronze Age in date 2500BC to 700BC there are in excess of 1600 boiling mounds or burnt mounds in the New Forest, mounds of severely fractured burnt flint. It's believed they're the result of heated stones placed in wooden troughs or leather bags filled with water, in order to.....?  Well, it could be to cook with, or brew, or tan, for a sweat lodge, or for all  manner of things domestic, or the prehistorians catch all, ritual. There was some research into Irish burnt mounds suggesting they were used in the textile production process. This mound, 4m or so in diameter, has a narrow path cutting through it, creating a natural sondage clearly showing the burnt flint deposit in section, a nice cross section of the entire feature, from the thin covering horizons down to the prehistoric ground surface the it sits on. Nice.

Churned

 

Timber extraction is a messy business, and when coupled with wet ground conditions, a really messy business. Tracked machinery causes terrible damage to the forest floor, churning the buggery out of it, wheeled vehicles are little better. It seems that no matter where you go throughout the forest extraction or clearing of one kind or another is under way; the volume of timber coming out of the stands must be extraordinary. Without restoration the scars of this work will be visible for years.

Autumn reflected

 

Autumn reflected

Unusual find

Racing along a narrow track through the heather I spun around as something caught my eye. It's amazing how your subconscious runs a program in the back ground which will register the out of place. On inspection I saw something definitely man made, and as soon as I handled it I had an inkling, and then when I turned it over I knew exactly was it was, but not what from. It's a ammunition clip, but for something higher calibre. Turns out to be a clip for a .55 Boys Anti Tank Rifle. The Boys was introduced into service in 1934, and although initially effective against light amour, it soon became redundant as the Second World War progressed and amour developed. The Boys was replaced in 1943 by the more effective and versatile PIAT. So when and how did this clip find its' way here?

Murrays' Passage

Misty through Murrays' Passage, this morning. The passage, a track crossing the boggy valley of Long Brook, created in memory of one Admiral Murray who was apparently killed whilst out hunting in the forest in 1901, or so says the small monument in the valley bottom.

Highland hues

Highland Water in autumn.

Aw nuts.

Well, the results are in, and it's decisive. It's been a shit year for sweet chestnuts. I'd called it wrong last year, so tried to give this year the benefit of the doubt, but no, the nuts this year really have been poor. Of course, that may not be universal, but about our roams it was a case of lots of early droppers little more than sacks, followed by a weak crop of below average size nuts, and few and far between. Could just be a bad year? Maybe. It has been poor across the board, I can’t think of a wild food that's had a particularly good year, neither fruit, nut or fungi.

Forest pool

Throughout the ages the extraction of gravel, sand and clay from about the forest has left  innumerable quarry sites. Many of these old quarries seasonally fill with water, and some hold year nearly all round. They create welcome wildlife oases throughout the forest.

Samhain

The turning wheel has arrived at Samhain, last harvest, the meat harvest, and the end of a cycle. As we prepare to enter the darker half of the year, we take stock, reflect, and give thanks for our blessings. How was it for you? Did the seeds you planted back in spring bear fruit, did your plans pan out, were your goals achieved? I hope so. Out and about everything is dying back, the leaves are turning, adopting russet hues, and the forests' flora and fauna go into hibernation as the land slides into slumber. A well earned period of rest. Quiet and still, it's time to take a moment to honour those who've passed beyond the veil, to remember them. Brightest blessings at Samhain. /|\  

Stranger

A stranger in a strange stand. A radiant young beech shines alone, cloaked in her autumn tints amongst a stand of dour oaks reluctant to accept the coming fall.

Autumn tints

Autumn tints

Purbeck

A walk in Purbeck, along the Jurassic Coast, our first World Heritage Site, a landscape of natural wonders, and a memory repository of countless Sundays exploring, of adventures, not always undertaken safely nor in appropriate conditions if truth were known. Since the early 80's Purbeck has been a place that has called to us, so many memories of days roaming its' wild landscape with dear friends. A treasure trove of fond memories. Walking those same coastal paths this morning, scrambling amongst boulders and scaling slides with one of those dear friends was a welcome exercise in timelessness.

Houns Tout

 

I'd seen that the coastal path down from Houns Tout to Chapmans' Pool was closed back at the Summer Solstice, though this is the first time I've seen the landslide that caused it. Hell of a slide. A whole section of the cliff has gone, the coastal path with it, slumped towards the shore. In time the fences will be moved a few meters inland and a new path established, for now though it's a fair detour inland from Houns Tout to Kingston and then seaward again to Chapmans' Pool. Nice though. The Purbeck coast is in flux. It was ever thus.

Low Vol.1: The Delirium of Hope

 

Man! What a stellar graphic. Low, Volume one: The Delirium of Hope collects issues 1-6. Old now, the original comic run began back in 2014, new to me though. Masterfully written by one of the genres finest scribes Rick Remender, it's a hell of a tale. The main protagonist is a die-hard optimist in a world which really doesn't warrant it. Set on a future Earth being slowly consumed by our expanding Sun, and with humanity reduced to a handful of great cities deep in the oceans, searching the stars for hope, waiting for a reply. A dystopian world, where humanity has lost itself as it lost hope, drifting into baseness. Spoiler, it's not full of laughs, it's a gritty, brutal tale of a clock ticking, and of hope keep getting a kicking and getting up again smiling, well, not smiling. Perfectly paced prose coupled with phenomenal illustration drive a captivating story. The art of Greg Tocchini is something else. At first a little disorientating due to the busyness of the panels and freeness of style, but once attuned, wow, gorgeous lines, dynamic and expressive, and a wonderful palette and use of colour. Tocchinis' panels are sensational. Such a good read.

Rainbow

 

That's two chances of a pot of gold then.

Jewelled webs

The astounding levels of productivity shown by the forests' spiders never ceases to amaze me. The gorse were again festooned in their bejewelled gossamer creations this morning.

Apsey bridge

Aspey Bridge over Ober Water.

Alien worlds

 

The forest was shrouded in mist again this morning, giving it an air of alien world. 

Old Apsey ford

 

Morning at Old Apsey ford.

In a rut

The roars of stags showing off echo through the forest, a show of dominance, we hear him long before we can see him. Strutting around his well established rutting ground, a fair harem around him, he's alert for any challengers, he needs to be, it's a winner takes all game.

Mythago Wood

I've just finished reading Robert Holdstocks' Mythago Wood for the umpteenth time, and it's star remains undimmed. Man, I love this book. I can't recommend it highly enough. Holdstock deftly weaves threads of reality and fantasy, between threads of archaeology, history, and folklore into a compelling tale, brooding and atmospheric. With characters that are believable, well developed, with dimension and depth, complicated; and a world that is at once wholly recognisable and fantastical. Beautifully written he masterfully evokes the atmosphere of the wild wood, and the magic of a landscaped soaked in history, monument, and lore. Ryhope Wood is a timeless English wood, a remnant of the original wild wood that once covered this post glacial isle, it ignores all natural laws and defies reality. A landscape where the genesis of myths are formed, become flesh, live out their stories and regenerate for changing times; Mythagos, variants of timeless archetypes roam the woods. The Huxleys' home sits within the influence of this mysterious wood, a family beguiled by a wild beauty and the magic of Ryhope Wood, who end up consumed by both in a pursuit back through time, ancient stands and stories. The potency and purpose of myth and story, their cultural importance, are explored; how stories shape our lives and our experience of the world.  Our ancestors lived in a world of magical phenomena and mythical characters, an oral world, a world shaped by stories. Through the magic of Ryhope Wood I feel Holdstock encourages the reader to experience woods differently, through an awareness of the magic that surrounds us, and to be open to it. Mythago Wood is an enthralling read. If you love the natural world, if you find wonder amongst the stands, and if you're open to letting your imagination run. Then this is a book for you.

Sergeant William Lawrence

 

There's this amazing gravestone in the graveyard of St Nicholas' Church, Studland. The grave of Sergeant William Lawrence of the 40th Regiment of foot. Born in Briantspuddle 1791. William had one hell of a life. A child of 14 when he first saw war on the other side of the world, he served with honour in some brutal battles, and to be a member of the Forlon Hope, well, that's some heroic shit right there. When he returned to Studand after the Napoleonic War with his French wife they became the landlords of the Wellington Inn which stood just up the hill on the other side of the road from, and was later replaced by, the Bankes' Arms. Hell of a life.

Golden dawn

 

Not the clear sky foretold by the weather wizards, though a lovely early morning nevertheless. Our first walk these ways since the beginning of spring; through the summer dogs need to be on the lead, and anyway, the beach is often rammed. This morning the beach was ours. Geoff ran in huge circles, occasionally ducking into the sea or rolling in the sands, he loves it here, from the moment we hit the sands he was off. Me? I just soaked up, it was so peaceful, just the elements and us, a little piece of wild to unwind in. Beautiful. The Isle of Purbeck retains a certain wild magic all of it's own, ever present and almost tangible.