Boxing day

I dragged 3, once woodland pixie folk children, now lured away by the glamour of dancing pixels as supplied by modern technology, namely the heXbox360, around the forest. The first half hour passed in a haze of complaints, goads and inflammatory remarks, all designed to cause me to anger and to turn back, ending their torturous walk and returning them to the comfort of their virtual lives, lived on the battlefields of an ethernet world. I bit once, but used the frustration raised to bolster my resolve and strengthen my desire to march these fallen woodland warriors across the land; I found my pace and off we went, marching in silence across the countryside.

The land is wet under foot, the frost of recent weeks have melted away leaving sodden ground, even on the higher terrain this moisture persists; the heathers and grasses are slicked in dewy dampness which transfers to your legs with ease. The skies were leaden, grey, heavy and clung to the horizon as if lethargy had gripped them and they were unable to take flight. We crossed the slightly swollen, Blackensford Brook, which will later become Black Water, where two streams join and the brook begins proper. Then we break cover,out of the enclosed woodland of North Oakey Enclosure making our way up hill to Sandy Ridge. On Sandy Ridge you can see up to the valleys of Bratley Water and Backley Bottom, headwaters of those two streamletts which feed Blackensford Brook. The forest air was cool, the land was quiet and still, yet the place felt welcoming.

After 40min walking at a fair pace, the silence was broken by the sparks of reasonable conversation, stayed and cold at first, later becoming more warm and convivial as guards were dropped and normal discourse was resumed; one though remained entrenched in teenage attitude, unable or unwilling to compromise. Once we walked in joy across these lands, laughing and wondering at the world around us, all has changed now...maybe as the wheel turns, new days of joyful walking will return. By now we were on the high ground of Backley Holms, a grassy lawn popular with the ponies; soon we turned and began back towards Mark Ash; through Backley Enclosure, planted in 1829 and its tall slender straight oaks, so uniformly planted.

As the final assault on Pound Hill, the last hill, was upon us, murmurings of approval and talk of enjoyment where muted, apologies for unreasonable attitudes were made and a glimmer of light was possibly glimpsed by one father, tired of the fighting associated with teens.