Icy pond

The forest today was held in an icy grip, Jack frost had worked his magic and any standing water was crusted in ice, a rarity this winter. The cold was temporarily alleviated by finding a rangers fire from the previous days clearing, looking cool grey on the outside the interior still burned hot and bright and with a little encouragement it warmed us as we watched life move about a frozen woodland pond. I worry about the seasons.

Doolittle

I was honoured today when I was approached by a pony. Usually more aloof, this pony was friendly, pulled some great faces and didn't flinch as you stretched out your hand. Some months back I walked with a commoner in these woods looking for her ponies, one in particular, I used that name today and got a definite reaction; maybe it was her or maybe it was merely the change in my tone that got the reaction. Still, it's always a pleasure to pass some time with woodland dwellers and today I was thrice privileged. After the pony, I spied a woodpecker pecking on a bough, a rare treat as I usually hear them but they allude my view and then a beautiful fox crossed my path, deep auburn and black it looked in rude health. Lovely walk.

Highland Water

Birkin Wood

The woodland's dry, too dry, normally Birkin Wood would be mostly underwater, impassible without waterproof footwear and then with care; not this year, only a few fingers of water extended through the stands and I'm wearing sandals. This doesn't bode well for the coming year, I've not known the forest so dry in years.

Base

Peaking out from beneath a dense canopy of Holm Oak, this flat reinforced concrete base represents all that remains of a Second World War pillbox. One of several bunkers constructed along this stretch of coastline, this one would have protected the secret radar instillation which stood here during the war, as well as protecting us from the invasion which never arrived.

Reflection

Gnarly wooden fingers, needy and searching, reach out from thick and mighty trunks, towards the hidden Sun they know is there, obscured today by powerless thick grey clouds which cried softly for the plight.

Steamer Point

Steamer point now is a much loved and quiet nature reserve, yet during the Second World War the scene could not have been more different. In 1939 the land was used by the military for specialized radar research such as radar guided anti-aircraft guns and radar beacons as well as the 'Tenset' radio telephone and the area saw fervent activity. The land continued to be used for communication until it was relinquished by the MOD in the 1970's when many of the military buildings fell in to disrepair or were removed; though still today several period building remain such as this well camouflaged small loopholed sentry post.

Cnut

Man hasn't learnt in 2 million years, still locked in the constant and eternal struggle to tame and control nature, never learning from past mistakes, never faltering in their endeavours and never destined to win. The thick wooden framed core of this groyne, built in the 80's, is visible once again as this sentry to the sea is re constructed and re fortified for the continuing battle. It had been some 25 years since I'd seen those heavy wooden spars which had led to the injury of a friend after an autumn walk. A strange evening indeed.

View from Abbots Well

And so I stopped and stood a while; it was easy, what was hard was to pull myself away.

Gimmi shelter

There's never a shortage of shelters to be found about the forest. Shelters of branch and bough, of leaf and fern, some made for fun, some built for purpose, some that are humble and some that are grand, some from the text book, others from the unfettered imagination of the builder. I thought this particular one had a pleasing form and appeared to be part of the woodland; it didn't look out of place at all, wholly natural. It's good to see the shelter building imperative of our primal nature still being accessed; it should be encouraged. Although wild camping isn't allowed in the forest, evidence of it's practice are still quite common, the signs of poor practice are easy to identify, harder though to identify where it's been done properly and where done with due attention a blind eye should be turned .

Battered Barton

The winds are harsh, whipping through the shrubs, scouring every contour of the cliff side and down below driving white crested waves towards the fossil rich crumbling clay cliffs of Barton.

Dewy Gorse Web

Birch

These Birch are far too young, soon it'll be time to search out some much older trees in order to gather Birch sap. I have great plans for making wine and syrup.

Colliers Thorns

A clump of predominantly Oak and Holly, Colliers Thorns on Bratley Plain may have derived its name from the practice of charcoal production which was common in the New Forest.

Grub up

A commoners Land Rover makes it's bumpy way across Bratley Plain towards the edge Pinnick Wood, it's transit doesn't go unnoticed, a number of ponies attracted by its approach rush from several directions to greet the vehicle and most likely a welcome meal.

Primrose

The Primrose is mentioned in myth, with the goddess Freya a symbol of fertility and beauty; to the Celts they indicated the pathways to the fairy worlds. It's still early for it to flower, at the moment this is the only bloom out, although there are several yellow flower buds coming up fast behind it.

Hengistbury Head

Wilverely

This morning the shaded hollows on the heath are lightly dusted with frost like icing sugar on a Victoria sponge, hidden pools are thinly glazed with hardened water and the chill air threatens to desiccate any exposed skin; could it be, Jack has been kept at bay this season, is this his change or merely another false start, the rising Sun promises to scupper his plans mind. In Wilverely Enclosure a lonely machine feeds two smoking pyres with the detritus of timber harvesting and land restoration; the wind is slight and the thick smoke takes time to disperse, floating slowly amongst the remaining stands.

Bowled over

The recent strong winds were the undoing of many a forest tree. Along Longslade Bottom, at a point popular for sledging in the white times, a large Scots Pine to which all sleds were mysteriously drawn has succumbed to the elements and now lays in repose.

Ober Heath

Purbecks

A day out time. Today we enjoyed a warm spring day whilst still deep in winter. Although by far no stranger to the Studland area, today we were gifted to walk previously unwalked, unknown tracks and to see what had been hidden from us. There's nothing like finding new paths, new places amongst frequently walked tracks in familiar landscapes.

Aggle Stone

The Aggle Stone appears out of place amongst the heather capped hummocks of Godlingston Heath, a massive iron rich sandstone grit bock of about 450 tons, it, until early last century, was a flat topped pedestal rock and although now slighted still dominates the surrounding heath.

New bridge

A shiny new bridge spans this stretch of redirected Fletcher's Water, replacing the previous bridge some 60m to the west; the once plumb straight stream now follows an earlier more meandering course. A shock at first, the removal of the familiar, the work has restored a more natural feel; more than can be said, in my opinion, of some of the other restoration projects.

Full Moon fire

Throughout the day the sky has been a mottled mass of clumpy grey cloud, with any thoughts of a fire under the full January Moon being pushed to the back of the mind. Then, as the Fates would have it, the clouds broke revealing the bright round Moon set in star kissed space. It would be rude not to be sitting by a fire on such a night.

Camouflage

It took several minutes of watching this Roe Deer to notice their well camouflaged friend, recumbent in the dry grasses and last seasons fern. How trusting the forest deer have become; over the the last few years, the frequency of close encounters has rocketed. Well hidden they may be, but increasingly vulnerable too I feel. If I carried the means (bow, crossbow or such like), and had the desire, I think it would be relatively easy to make a kill. A man with a dog, paying close attention to them, no more than 30 feet away, 5 minutes and they didn't bolt; in fact we walked and they remained in situ.

Piggy!

Not a sight I'd expected to see, pigs in pannage; the pannage season this year (2011) ended on the 26th of November. Strange that they're still about. A sow and her 11, good sized, piglets were hungrily rooting through the litter close to Highland Water above Milliford Bridge. The sow was protective and approached us noisily as we passed, the piglets had no such concerns and happily sniffed at my boots and weren't bothered by Norris, who to advantage of the situation to brave a close inspection.

Ancient Oaks

Bad light couldn't stop me, even though I knew I wouldn't capture their majesty, I still took the shot.

Clumber

Shake, rattle and roll, today the canopy embraces the winds dance; detritus on the floor of Clumber enclosure (1840) is testament to the force of nature which has swept this way. Beyond the woodland fringe a sea of heather and golden marsh grass ebbs and flows at the winds fancy and the forest is alive with movement. Between the trunks though, protected, there is relative calm and although the Suns journey is only begun, there's warmth to be had in its rays. The forest is beautiful, amongst the stands it feels clean, neutral and emanates an air of inner calm; in contrast the open heath, although also feeling clean and neutral, all motion, exposed, if you had cobwebs on arrival, they're swiftly dispatched.

Burley Old

Paint the whole world with a rainbow.

Far out man!

Wet

Muddied waters flow with scant regard for established channels through Red Rise, trunks rise from their own individual tiny islands in their own inland sea. Every gully, every depression is now submerged, some filled with leafs giving a false indication of their depth, a formidable landscape to traverse; even in stout foot ware any route is treacherous as a wrongly placed foot will attest too. My boots now heavy with water, my trousers wet to the knee are testament to this. The surge of water pushes on, scouring and depositing, removing and replacing, an expression of our world in motion and the fluidity of nature; the site of my recent fire now gone, buried by a meter or so of racing torrent. The freedom afforded by my boots, which can get no wetter, on the course I choose is liberating; cold, wet and liberating.

Buds

Nature wastes no time nor does this eager Oak, noticeable are the growing buds of coming spring.