At Bolderford Bridge, near Brockenhurst, the 3 streams that make up the headwaters of the Lymington River are united; first Fletchers Water merges with Highland Water, shortly after Ober Water joins for the final stretch to the sea. They represent the longest streams in the forest. All 3 streams originated in the high central plateau of the forest, the head waters of Bratley and Highland Waters are less than a kilometer apart on Ocknell Plain and Mill Lawn Brook near Pickets Post.
The only remaining straight section of Fletchers Water, about a kilometre long, between Fletchers Thorns and Highland Water, looks marked for 'restoration', spray can pink dots and pollarding instructions adorn those chosen to fall. The rest of the stream, all the way from its beginnings as Bratley Water, through Blackensford Brook to Black Water and sections of Fletchers Water have been remodelled, their surrounding stands restored to bog woodland. It's always been a bit of a weird walk, unnatural feeling and unlike other sections its restoration wont be lamented.
Damp mists fill the stands of Fletchers Thorns (1829), sweeping amongst the trunks, through the naked canopy and along the course of the recently remodelled Fletchers Waters; Fletchers Water, now shallower, with restored meanders, flows vigorously towards its destiny, swelled by melt water and recent rain. As intended, the remodelling of the stream has encouraged water to flow beyond the banks, spilling into the surrounding woodland, filling any shallow gully or hollow and creating a new alien landscape. Changes necessitate frequent and awkward diversions from my chosen path along the bank in order to negotiate the newly created watery obstacles. Above a pure white Egret glides through the canopy, using the stream to navigate deep into the forest hinterland; their presence a testament to the improving water quality of the forest streams and the increased fish stock there in.
Snow still lingers in the fields and on hillsides of the Purbecks, ice still crusts puddles and a chill wind swirls through the land. From the heights of Nine Barrow Down a speeding steam train can be seen racing along the restored line towards Harmons Cross, between Corfe and Swanage; a sight of yester year.
Poole Harbour is cold and forbidding, its icy waters lapping upon a frozen shore whose sandy matrix has surrendered to frost and now displayed the characteristics of set cement. Icy fingers augment this shoreline, the paths of water draining from the wet heathland, now resembling thick weathered bottle glass melted then re solidified. Around us a cold wind blows through the shore side shrubs and grasses, off across the mill pool still waters of the harbour, whilst residual snow can be seen on the distant Purbeck Hills.
Still -2 in the afternoon and although the snow stopped falling several days ago now, its remains endure in the sheltered parts of the forest, while where water stands or covers any open land it has frozen solid; winter retains a firm grasp on the land.
Winter Solstice, the shortest day, the longest night. Snow blankets the ground; Jack frost plies his mischief over hill and vale. Boughs are bare amongst the skeletal stands and little stirs. Seeds lay waiting for their moment, while the land sleeps and darkness rules. Dawn sees the wheel turn on its tireless transit, the new sun is born from the horns of the moon. Our march to spring has begun; light will increase whilst darkness retreats. Solstice greetings and hopes that your journey is filled with all you'd need.
The direction of the incoming freeze is clearly visible on the trees and shrubs of Wilverly Plain and Enclosure (1809); their eastern faces dusted with a crispy white icing sugar like glaze, whilst the western sides retain their natural hues. With crystal clad heather, lustrous bracken fronds and solid patterned puddles, the plain has taken on the aspect of a wild and magical land. Walking across Holm Hill is a mix of crunches, as you break the thin ice which covers even the most ephemeral of water and slides, as you slip on the greased glass like ground surfaces where the saturated earth has frozen solid.
Snow fell in the woods today, not soft and fluffy, more like tiny hard hail stones, cascading through the almost bare canopy, the sound is reminiscent of a hundred rain sticks. There's a sharp wind too. The forest continues its silent vigil, bracing itself for the winter to come; all the tradition natural portents suggesting it will be a harsh one.
Winter marches on through the forest with determination, Cadmans pool is already capped by a crust of thick translucent ice, while the ground is now hard under, rough and uneven to walk on, although in the more sheltered tracts the frost has formed a crusty glaze, giving the illusion of solidity, whilst really merely disguising gloopy mud below. Latchmore Brook flows with an icy chill, its many obstructions and dams preparing to endure the surge which is surely to come. Now though, the jumbles of fallen trees and boughs, hanging just above the water, have become platforms for frigid sculptures; frozen water fingers dangle, reaching out to rejoin the flow. Island Thorns (1852) and Amberwood (1817) Enclosures are quiet other that the occasional fleeting movement viewed from the corners of your eye and foresters chopping and gathering fire logs.
Jack Frost has dusted each individual blade of grass or sedge, each browning fern frond and bough on the lawn beside Ober Water below Markway bridge. A favourite spot for Deer, they lurk amongst the trees, waiting for the sun to reach out and warm them on this crisp cold morning. Ober Water is crystal clear, flowing swiftly through the valley, engorged by the recent rain. Winter's surely coming.
Tiny ice crystals bedeck each delicate frond of the red and green sphagnum moss around Soarley Bottom.
The graffiti says 1836, although the tree, a beech tree, appears to be too small at only 1.25m in circumference, about 110 years old, taking into account it's growing in close proximity to other more mature trees. The number style is consistent with other graffiti of the 1800's identified elsewhere in the forest. The tree is in close proximity to the site of Holm Hill cottage and several other nearby trees sport interesting graffiti.
Amongst the trees which flank Red Rise Brook above Markway bridge is a Juniper tree, boughs heavily weighed with berries, some dark purple, ripe for picking, others still juvenile and green. The berries aren't really berries, rather cones with fleshy and merged scales. The Juniper (Juniperus communis) is becoming an increasingly rare evergreen species in the British countryside, suffering from changes in farming practice, rabbits and uncontrolled grazing by livestock and deer. This is the only one I know of. 
The forest today was cold, really cold, the coldest day thus far. Mist covered the land, swirling amidst the stands, racing over the heather, becoming thicker as you descended into the valleys, a chill mist, it embraces you, penetrating your cloths and chilling your bones. Dampness clung to everything, filling every space. A filigree of small water courses run between the tussucks of tough grasses, feeding into gullies which channel through the woods to feed Red Rise Brook. The landscape, what could be seen of it, was silent, nothing stirred; any woodland inhabitants that could would be tucked up. 
The forest is dark and foreboding, not surprising as it's night, the sky is heavy with rain laden clouds, mist hangs in the trees and the scene is reminiscent of a Hammer movie set. The ground underfoot is sodden, the down pours of the past few days have inundated the land; Red Rise Brook has swollen beyond it's banks and now covers swathes of the surrounding valley. Although normally a gently flowing brook, Red Rise takes on a far different aspect when engorged, it's deep pools, log jams and hard to define channel, pose a formidable obstacle and a serious danger. Together the dark and flooded landscape stirred a primeval fear deep inside. As if on cue an Owl hoots and amidst the trees of the break, all dripping creating a sound like a hundred faulty taps, something stirs, Deer, disturbed by our approach break from cover and disappear out into the open heathland of Red Rise Furze Brake. It's easy to spook yourself on night walk like tonights, not until you climb up Rooks Hill do the imagined specters fade back into the darkness .
Jack's back! The land this morning was covered with his overnight labours; each blade of grass, each bud and stem, glistened with iced jewels; he and his minions are hard workers. Though much of his works were undone by the rising Sun, bursting with unseasonal warmth. The ground and foliage steam like a hot bath, sending steamy mists swirling through the stands of mature Oak and Beech, filling the nearby densely planted Pines and Firs like fog. The swirling plays tricks on you, creating persistent glimpsed shapes and movement only visible through peripheral vision, vanishing when looked for directly. Or maybe they're Mythagos. Suddenly guns sound through the woods, echoing through the trees and in the distance between the semi naked boughs dogs can be seen working; what their quarry is is uncertain. A beautiful day.
Damp mist hangs amongst the mature stands of Brinken Wood and the adjacent heather cloaked shade. The ground, now rapidly becoming sodden, is wet under foot with standing water filling every hollow or low patch, seasonal ponds refreshed; both shade and woodland are criss crossed by gently flowing shallow gullies feeding nearby brooks. All sounds are muffled, the woods are quiet, still, throughout the woodland groups of Deer move gracefully as they graze, occasionally pausing to survey their surrounds for dangers. Suddenly, the Sun is exposed by the retreating clouds; the unleashed heat quickly begins to burn off the mists; it's sure to return at dusk to reclaim the land, but for now the day takes on a welcomed warm glow.
Horses stand silently amidst the fading Oaks of Warwick Slade, resigned to the changing season, they gently graze in the face of the adversity they will likely endure through the thin times ahead. They watch us pass with suspicion. Warwick Slade, indeed the whole forest, is wet under foot, standing water is visible throughout filling any hollow or low ground; walking can become increasingly arduous. Again, walking in familiar regions we traverse previously untrodden paths; tracts of wood, brooks and hollows as yet unseen. As evening draws closer the bland damp grey sky gives way to a sunset of blues, pinks, oranges and reds. Any warmth from the fading Sun that had permeated the blanket of cloud, disappears along with Sun; the air cools and fine mists rise from a myriad of small brooks and gullies, filtering through the the stands of silhouetted trees to spill out, retaking the night landscape.
Nestled into the side of the head of a valley adjacent to farm buildings and the former site of a World war 2 Radar Development Establishment at worth Matravers is this beautifully camouflaged air raid shelter. Shielded by an old Elder tree, the exterior of this shelter is reinforced by feet of dry stone walling, inside the prefabricated concrete shelter is about 3m square and remains in fantastic condition.
