Tanks for the memory

An icy cold has fallen and the forest has replied with the stalwart resolution of experience; winters have come and gone, the land enjoys the rest and doesn't fear the frigid embrace of Jack Frost. Quiet though, the infrequent sounds of bird song are restricted to the sporadic chirps of the remaining few brave inhabitants of the canopy. Little stirs today, no horses, no deer, not even the squirrels are to be seen, all hunkered down, reserving their strength for what they knows to come. Moving through the mature Oaks and Beeches of the Old enclosure, where the majesty of the wooden leviathans (many over 300 years old) who tower over you is tangible; towards Black Water in the valley beyond.

The ground now was covered in heavy vehicle tracks, laid down long ago; I'd seen tracks like these before and astonishingly they are tank tracks created during exercises during World War Two. In 1943 huge numbers of Churchill tanks roamed the countryside. It's easy to imagine these tanks lumbering trough the woods between the large wooden hulks, every now and again converging where access dictated, before dispersing and moving on. A stately Beech at the top of the rise is marked by a large arrow shaped scar carved in its trunk; assuming by the appearance of the scar, that it's contemporaneous with the nearby tracks; presumably it used as a marker. The path of the tracks continue down from the rise, sweeping East as they approach Black Water; a small stream, although still a formidable obstacle to a tank, before being truncated by a 1960's plantation.

Here Black Water flows quietly through open Oak woods, few obstructions hinder it, allowing its lightly peat stained waters to glide gracefully by. The Black Water river gravels are unusual in this stretch, if recorded on a context sheet they would be: flint 90%, clay 10%, regular, rounded to sub angular, 60% 5mm to 20mm, 30% 20mm to 40mm, 10% 40mm>. Other streams have far less regular gravels, both in size and shape. I'm fond of this stream, often stopping on its gravel banks to build small fires and rest a while. Today though, it wasn't I that was creating smoke in the woods. Forestry types were in action nearby, you could hear the buzz of their chainsaws in the distance; shortly afterwards the sweet smell of wood smoke filtered slowly through the trees; shortly followed by light smoke, its movement barely discernible in the stillness. After a few moments though, the smoke became heavier, dense, no longer sweet smelling but over powering and acrid; rapidly it filled the shallow valley. I'm no kipper; t'wos time to move on ... smokin! Later, looking back from the ridge the smoke had now engulfed the wooded valley completely, hanging motionlessly on the windless late afternoon air. Returning, the sun was finally bidding farewell for the day, disappearing beyond the low cloud that had begun by topping the horizon and was now blanketing the entire sky. A good day.