Burley Old

Bramble Hill

The rays of the Sun may still be weak, the Sun only at the beginning of its journey towards us and summer, nevertheless its meager warmth is welcomed and appreciated, taking the chill of a deceptively cold breeze. Leaf devils twist and swirl, dancing through the stands, myriads of small brown tornadoes amongst the trunks; a riot of movement and sound bring the woods alive. Nearby Holidays Hill Enclosure is bathed in winter brightness; one of the oldest enclosures in the forest, its original timber long since removed, now the bounds contain evergreens of various type, size and age. Climbing Bramble Hill we return to ancient unenclosed forest, grande dame Beeches, pollarded in the distant past, spread their many boughed crowns to the azure sky above, surrounded by self seeded younger kin.

The Shade

Whitefield Plantation

Ogden's Purlieu

Frequency

High on Ibsley Common, stark and open to the elements, are a variety of remains wartime activity; amongst the heathers and occasional gorse bush are the remnants of a World War Two Radio Direction Finding Station. The station would have been one of three , all issuing the same frequency, used as navigational aids they allowed pilots to determined their position. The surviving features are, the hexagonal blast wall which protected a, long gone, wooden tower, this is surrounded by small concrete blocks representing compass points; 40m East are the foundations of a destroyed rectangular brick building, adjacent to which is a, partially rubble filled, shelter; a few meters further, connected to the ground with strong fixings, are 2 lengths of coiled and knotted steel cabling, purpose unknown. The site was operated by a unit of the WAAF and the building remains and shelter represent their accommodation. Inside the hexagonal blast wall, the only surviving evidence of the tower being the anchor bolts set in the heavy base; on one of the interior walls some one has written 'The night conceals the world, but reveals the universe'.

Holmsley BHQ

Set into Pigsty Hill, the highest part of Holmsley Airfield, are the remains of the stations Battlefield Head Quarters. Neglected, filled with debris and water, what would have been the focus of any fight back had the airfield been attacked by parachute or glider, now lays forgotten amongst a bramble and gorse thicket. The airfield became operational in 1942 and was used by both the RAF and USAAF. Bombers mainly flew from Holmsley, the earthen blast walls of the bomb store can be seen beyond Great Hat adjacent to Holmsley Enclosure; although during D-Day Typhoons and P51 Mustangs roared along the runways. The Battlefield Head Quarters would have looked similar to the Battlefield Head Quarters at Ibsley, although that site is unusual by having two cupolas; Holmsley is now missing its cupola, which was still present up until the early 1980's.

Lost my marbles

Walking along Highland Water I glanced out of the corner of my eye, a marble, carried down stream by seasonal surging and redeposited on the gravel edge of a meander, transports me through time and space to childhood days spent playing along the banks of these woodland brooks. A strange sensation, momentarily it was the 1970's, it was tangible, I had accessed some fragment of memory, every detail was there, sights, sounds, feelings and for a moment I was the child me reaching down to pick up the green marble, information overload jolts me back to the banks of Highland water, feeling curiously disorientated. Weird.

Rockford

Jacks back about, stalking the night, his works visible as a glazed crust to standing water and a crisp top layer to autumns fall. Along Digden Bottom, rabbits, common in regions of the forest yet not frequently seen, are out in abundance, enjoying the Sun and feasting on the lush greenery afforded by the recent rains and bright and unseasonal weather. Remnants maybe of the locally farmed rabbit communities; several 'pillow mounds', man made burrows, are shown by the OS, although seeing their ephemeral features on the ground is no easy task. The ground beyond Dockens Water, towards Ibsley Common, is sodden, giving walking the impression of traversing a vast blancmange skin; Bamboo canes mark a safe route across the potentially treacherous Linwood Bog. Beyond the quagmire the open heathland extends into the distance, windswept and bare, a vast expanse of varied brown hues and punctuated by small stands of Pine and Birch; ponies wander between grazing spots whilst cows lay amongst the scattered clumps of rough gorse.

Punk wood

Not the dry decaying wood of dead trees popular with folk as tinder, rather a reference to the punk rock graffiti which adorns the mossing trunks of several adolescent Beech in a stand adjacent to Warwick Shade. Sham 69, UK Subs, Siouxsie along with others, notable from the punk period, have been carved into their smooth grey skins; the title track of Sham 69's 1978 album of the same name, 'tell us the truth' is one of the most striking. I'm still trying to get a handle on ageing graffiti, there are so many factors to take into consideration, how well it was carved, the nature of the scaring, environmental factors, obviously social and cultural indicators help. This group surely dates from the late 70's early 80's by its nature and cultural references. Often you come a cross a piece too late, time and the elements have taken their toll and little remains or what does is little more than distorted patterns and shapes; all meaning, assuming there was any and the work not merely the work of bored hands, lost to time.

Ringstead

What a day. The air is clean and crisp, the sky is pale azure blue, few clouds are present and those that are are no more than ephemeral apparitions and the sea, all but empty of craft, is a Prussian blue mill pond. The nature reserve of Ringstead Bay, below the towering buttresses of White Noth, is wild and wind swept, untamed by the extremes of winter, it bides its time, preparing to burst forth when spring beckons. Tangles of brambles between tussocks of browning grass block our way, a new track's found, all animal tracks, over chalk bluffs, amongst the limestone boulders and stacks down towards the rocky shore and the sea, appetizingly glistening below.

The atmosphere was a juxtaposition of tranquil beauty, stillness, of absolute perfection; punctuated by the roar of fighter trainers, passing overhead before the sound wave indicating their arrival has reached you, loud explosions and heavy machine gun fire emanating from the nearby Purbeck ranges and the occasional distant toot of a hunters horn and excited barks of hounds eagerly chasing scent.

Bratley Wood

Douglas

The Lovers

Whether by accident or design paired trees can frequently be found around the forest, not common, yet not uncommon. Here entwined lovers support each other against the elements, here on the woodland fringe, facing the force of the southwesterly winds in each others arms; a Beech wife, with her Oak husband in union, their limbs tangled as lovers in an eternal embrace.

Ridley Wood

Ridley Wood is one of the wilder patches of woodland in the forest, the wood is ancient, coppiced from the 1500's until 1698 when the practice of coppicing and pollarding Beech and Oak was forbidden in the forest to safeguard timber for the navy. The remnants of these once managed trees and their irregular inclosures can be seen throughout the wood. Set on an exposed knoll on the edge of Ridley Plain and surrounded by open, wet and wild heathland, it is subject to the full measure of the elements and bears the scars of countless encounters. The walking is wet underfoot and hard going, obstacles frequently block the way, the decaying hulks of long fallen leviathans. Where fallen trunks have opened the canopy, regeneration has been swift, with self seeded Beech, Holly and Birch leading the assault with the occasional smatterings of Oak. I should imagine a night walk in these woods would be fraught with unseen noises, sinister shadows and eerie spectors only seen in the peripheral vision; even in daylight on a grey and windy day, the bare canopy sways violently creating a plethora of squeaks, creaks and strange sounds, whilst the winds also swirl through the understory filling the stands and shrubs with movement.

Graffiti, what's it all about ?

No white nor red was ever seen

So am'rous as this lovely green.
Fond Lovers, cruel as their Flame,
Cut in these Trees their Mistress name.
Little, Alas, they know, or heed,
How far these Beauties Hers exceed!
Fair Trees! where s'eer you barkes I wound,
No Name shall but your own be found.
Exert from 'The Garden' by Marvell (1621 - 1678)

Where as I understand and concur with Marvells sentiments on the beauty of trees and, in part, his views on graffiti, I do have a fascination with the latter. Beech is favoured by the graffitist for her smooth grey regular skin, a surface made for carving; next is the Holly with its similarly smooth surface and rarely any other. Often found at favoured picnic spots or other accessible locations, graffiti is frequently found on trees that are well off the beaten track, deep in the forest, at the most isolated places. The nature of this graffiti is not restricted to signs of love, although they are of course plentiful, and even covers the base, such as the crudely cut 'Fuck u'; the age range too is broad, dating from the late 1800's onwards. They set my mind thinking, what's their story? Take the photo above, why, who, would take the time and effort to go out into the forest to write that message? Who is the message meant for? What does it meant, other than the obvious?

Great Huntley Bank

It continues to rain and the forest continues to absorb all the water dropped on it; swelling and softening, almost at saturation point, a firm dry footfall is a rare find indeed. Throughout the woods lay fallen leviathans, victims of high winds and in the case of Beech notoriously shallow roots; although, in some places it appears more than a mere isolated case of physics and more like a post combat battle ground. In a glade in Great Huntley Bank the sight is more akin to a terrible battle; a battle between Earth bound trees and airborne elements, it would appear that the trees won as they still hold the ground, but at some cost. The trunks of fallen trees, victims of combat, lay heaped upon one another throughout the place; the woods bear testament to the power of both stand and gale. Events probably took place a decade or two ago and it never ceases to amaze me the endurance of these recumbent behemoths, retaining a precence in the woodland long after the sap has stopped rising.

Strange Days

The woods feel very up beat, above, the Sun periodically breaks cover from the racing clouds and floods the bare stands, while above enthusiastic bird calls emanate from the bristly canopy. As if there's a glamour on the woods, there's a strange feeling abroad, it feels like spring, yet spring is a long time coming. Anomalous days out of season have become increasingly common place. Again, as of recent, the warmth of the Sun feels unseasonably warm, warmer than it should be. Tree moss, allowed access to light by the clear canopy, flourishes, vibrant and green, it coats many of the trunks, both upright and recumbent. Across the meanders of Highland Water and through the mix of shrubbery and trunk, a fair sized group of Deer spy our approach and, more reactively than usual, make haste in the opposite direction. Strange days.

Avon Water

Avon Water, between Homlsley Bridge and Wootton Bridge, sports some of the few remaining straightened sections of stream in the forest, running parallel with the former path of the Ringwood to Brockenhurst railway, it skirts the interface of woodland and wetland. Numerous, shallow rooted, bank side trees have succumbed to erosion and the elements, fallen across the flow and become ad hock bridges between the two opposing environments. As the fallen trunks slowly sink into the flow they frequently become the focus of log jams and dams, common in these parts, flooding swathes of adjacent woodland. Avon Water will shortly leave the forest, travel through farmland punctuated by copses and wooded corridors, before joining the Solent at Key haven.

Tyneham Cap

Perfect

Grey clouds cleared, carried on frigid winds and a warmer than expected Sun shone on the Purbecks from a azure sky. Clear of any unpleasant tints or taints, no nasty hues, the tells of our poor industrial practices, the ridge above Kimmerage is bathed in clean air and rich light. Two birds of prey spar via aerial combat for dominion or dinner against the tranquil backdrop. Clouds still bubbled threateningly on the horizon, the shape of things to come, but for now everything is perfect. On either side of the curving ridge can be seen the picturesque ruined remains of what must have been well loved farmsteads, country cottages and family homes; 'borrowed' from the local population by the Ministry of War in the forties for military exercise purposes, they were never returned and even today remain within the overshoot area of the gunnery ranges. From the high point of Tyneham Cap, where Townly Sheltons memorial bench offers respite for weary legs, the impressive Gad Cliffs stretch round to Worborrow Bay and beyond to Mupe and Lulworth looking to the West and Chapmans Pool and St Albans Head to the East. Surely, one of the most perfect walks in the Purbecks.

Mogshade

The Sun made a welcome, although brief and weak, return to the forest today; low in a predominantly blue sky it warmed and illuminated the the land. Ponies, recently to be found sheltering amongst shrub and shade, again graze in the open, absorbing any heat they can whilst it's on offer. The Suns presence doesn't alter the ground or walking, the ground remains spongy and yielding, the brooks and streams continue to flow with vigor. Highland Water, below Ocknell Arch, flows through a diverse mix of tree species including some mature Oaks and Beech; there are many fantastic examples of ancient trees, amongst which are several outstanding ancient trees of well over 300 years.

We usually walk the less trodden path, we see few others and more often none, today, as obscure as our course was, we found today it frequently corresponded with a orienteering route; the route was well off any beaten track, still, there's enough wild wood for all of us.

Town Common

Damper

The woods became damper today as the march towards saturation and submersion continues. Every shallow ditch and gully, engorged with rain water run off, flow with purpose through the woods and heath, creating a myriad of obstacles of varying size and form. Through Red Rise the flow of the Brook has increased and now, bolstered by the mass migration of water from the surrounding land and continuing rain, challenges its banks in several places. The nature of the rain fluctuates between light drizzle and intense deluge, when heavy the noise is intense and fills the senses as the rain drops rattle through the naked boughs and strike the sodden floor below. The shape of things to come.

Dampness

Whether it was the thick mists, intermittent drizzle or the persistent low cloud, dampness hung over the forest like sodden gauze, combined with the cold wind it penetrated your armour and touched your bones; the only way to negate this was to keep moving and build up some heat, to that end the walk moved at a brisk pace. Periodically the grey clouds massing in all directions swooped in low and being able to hold no more, swelled to maximum capacity they'd relinquish some of their burden and add to the predominance of damp. The ground is now well on its way to saturation, with the low laying tracts wet with the constant threat of sucking mud; the hill top plateaus don't escape the wet, due to the nature of the forests underlying geology of clays and hard pan, Fritham Plain, as with other forest plateaus, hold the water well and future walks will become increasingly wet affairs. Through Sloden Wood the tracts of beautiful mature ancient woodland are some of the most appealing with a plethora of splendid tree specimens, such as this big boughed Oak near Ragged Boys Hill.

What about cycling proficiency!

ABC, easy as 123

The ABC Warriors remember their exploits during the Volgan Wars in the 'Volgan Wars book1' and the special forces robot 'Zippo', who always happened to be at hand at the vital moments. Mills writes a engaging text and the art by Clint Langley is lovely, a top read.

Brown

Lush green fingers threat their way between the stands, filling shallow coombes and wet gullies, penetrating deep into the heart of the now predominantly brown woodland. These wet fingers, like veins, feed the forest; they can be deceptive, swallowing a foot, maybe up to the knee with swift ease. The woods are now bare and open, naked trees allow views deep into previously hidden places; the forest is mostly shutdown for the season, resting, planning and preparing for the coming burgeoning.