Pancakes

Since I was a child, whenever I was suffering with a cold or such like I was given a hot whiskey with lemon and honey. Whilst enjoying my pancakes earlier, with a bit of lemon and sugar, followed by some honey covered ones, a plan dawned on me. So, mixing a little 12 year malt with the lemon juice and spreading honey on the pancake, I created the whiskey, lemon and honey pancake....and it was mighty fine.

Change is on the wind

Pinus

Two become one

Mill Lawn brook

We ventured out into the cold winter world, biting winds, which raced through and amongst the valleys and the hills carried on icy gusts, nipped at any exposed skin. Tramping the wet boggy valley bottoms which separate Ridley and Berry woods, the sun burst through the clouds to temporarily illuminate the oranges and browns of the heaters and last years ferns, all topped with crowns of skeletal trees which hug the hill tops, forming the ancient woods; the focus of the days ambling. We crossed Mill Lawn brook, not long after its formation in the damp fold of Ridley Bottom high on Ridley Plain. Ponies in their woolly winter cloths basked in the fleeting episodes of soft warm sunshine; the warmth only noticeable out of the wind, sheltered by woodland stands.

Roots man

Redrise brook

Todd

A Wizard, A True Star.

I've never been to the Hammersmith Apollo, venue of legend, of famed performances; it's old and the atmosphere feels intimate, compared to modern faceless venues, more people hangers than places to enjoy performances. I took my place, nice seat, great view and I waited; who was 'Todds Johnson' the support and would the show live up to my expectations; what was there to doubt! Todd was his own support; playing tunes by Robert Johnson, legendary R&B fellow; the set rocked and a few mishaps made it feel real and intimate.

Then the main event, Todds 'A Wizard, A True Star', in full, never toured before! The band, all bedecked in white tuxedos, Kasim Sulton, Prairie Prince and Jesse Gress were augmented by two keyboard players and a saxophonist; Todd appeared in a spacesuit for the opening number, it was to be one of several costume changes. What a buzz, I never imagined I'd ever witness the spectacle unfolding in front of me, one of my favourite albums,  released in 1973, my favourite artist, top shelf.  The band and Todd performed beyond anything I could have hoped for, lavishing us with musical gold; each member excelling, the sax player, the drums, the keyboards, bass and guitar, all giving a sublime rendition of well crafted tracks, and appearing to enjoy it.  All to soon it was nearing the end.  The band returned to the stage for the last track, 'just one victory', a track I have frequently drawn strength from; out of this world and to top it off, to top it off.....I ended up with Todds plectrum, thrown into the crowd.  Top night, special night; still smiling.

Wizard, what!

British Museum

A place I really should have visited before, the British museum.  Having been interested in archaeology for 25 years or more, you'd have thought I'd have been a regular visitor; but the city is not a natural habitat for me and I shy away from journeying there, although I really should visit more often.  The museum was filled with objects I'd seen a thousand times in books, on programmes; but in the real, in the real they shone.  We only had a couple of hours, after shopping in the mind blowing large Forbidden planet and HMV along with a plethora of smaller groovy record stores, all I managed to see were the British prehistory, Romano British and some of the Middle East.  Still, to see some of those beautifully crafted artifacts was inspiring, the detail, the quality of craftsmanship; outstanding.  I'm beginning to really sense that the past is calling to me to find it, at every turn I look about and there's archaeology giving me a hearty wave.

Imbolc

February

Jack's back!

Jacks been about again, weaving his chilly ways. The shaded places in forest are covered in a light dusting of snow, like the icing suger on a donut; and even in the open, subject to the sun, the frosty dust endures on the shaded surfaces of mounds and clumps. Puddles are crusted in an icy glaze and the streams and channels have succumbed to Jacks frigid wares, with a covering of ice up to 10mm thick in places. Along Dockens Water, where the water still flows visibly, long ice tentacles have formed on leaves and stems.  

Fortuitous meetings

A beautiful day; the sun shines in an almost clear sky; but cold, an icy breeze cuts through me as we make our way from Picket Post across Handy Cross Plain and down amongst the heather into Pinnick wood and the illustrated tree. A special place; a part of the forest which feels ancient; wild wood.

I can hear a tractor in the woods, unusual, and see its recent tracks winding between the trees; it comes into view, weaving and dodging, a small old tractor, on board a guy collecting wood and feeding his ponies. We exchange greetings, the tractor stops and we strike up a conversation. The guy is a retired civil engineer and independent archaeologist; we have plenty to talk about and our conversation wanders over many topics. There is a new archaeological group being formed and the guy takes my email and says I should attend the next meeting. When we part I have the strangest feeling that the forest has had a hand in our meeting, especially taking place at that spot, and that through the woods I'm being encouraged to become myself again; old paths re found and sparks ignited. Another life is calling me, and archaeology was/is part of that life.

The woods feel welcoming and I feel at home. We make our way to Linford Brook; the brook bubbles along, sparkling in the now warmish sun. The trees enjoy the the sun and appear to stretch upwards to greet it. At an ancient round pound on the fringe of Pinnick wood, ponies have gathered; maybe a dozen or so, many more can be seen milling about. Is it a meeting? A pony in the group whinnies and suddenly the woods and heath fill with the sound of galloping hooves, as from all directions ponies can be seen converging at speed. We are amongst a few grazing ponies, spooked by hooves behind them they bolt, and joined the others dash by us towards the pound and the gathering, an intense moment. A strange occurrence. It's a full moon and things are afoot.

Linford Brook

Twilight tonight

In front of me the setting Sun, behind me the almost full (tomorrow 0619) rises above the remaining facade of Markway Enclosure. Sweet.

Incredible Mr Fox

The forest is a paradox, eerily quiet shrouded in mists and full of noise, appearing empty when full to the brim, giving the appearance of being dead and yet teeming with life. Concealed by the heavy damp mists which hung amongst the trees, simultaneously still and fluid, the woods were alive with activity. The forest seems ethereal, unreal, ancient and timeless. A small group of Deer, one white, stirred by our approach bolted in to the safety of the old enclosure; whilst a beautiful orange brown Fox, jumps up and low to the ground makes a fevered run in to anonymity in the tall heathers in the opposite direction. I watch it go and fall into a trance, just staring out onto the heath and mire; a shriek startles me from my transfixion, and another, they sounded like Fox calls although I couldn't be sure. You see Foxes here, but not usually until dusk; it's easy to forget that they're not naturally town dwellers and this is where they belong. The cold is moist and clings to you, I don't want to put my hood up, I want hear the forest but I yield to the cold for the sake of my ears. Along Red Rise brook an Egret, sensitive to the commotion around it, takes flight up stream; It's often here, a positive sign, of returning fish stocks or evidence of an inept Egret? I mused. And then the slow moving brook answered me, as a fair sized fish scuttled by into a deep brown pool. The course of the brook has subtly altered over the winter; I love the fluid nature of the forest. Along the brook the Horses continue their wintry sufferance; I marvel at their endurance, the holly trees are witness to their hunger, trunks gnawed and lower young branches chewed; they for their part, they glance at me nonchalantly and renew their monotonous endeavour.

Butts

Whilst visiting the Battlefield HQ in Newlands enclosure a couple of weeks ago we passed a wall set down towards the base of the hill, it interested me, but walking and talking I didn't investigate further; on my return home it dawned on me what it may represent. So today I went to see if I could substantiate my hypothesis. The wall is concrete re-enforced with a brick skin, approximately 5m long and 2m high; built in to a a recess in the slope, there is a sunken hollow to the rear and sides, the face down slope is mounded with earth...can you guess what it is yet? I thought it may be a small arms range associated with the war time activities in the area.

First I investigated the earthen mound and found what I had hope, projectiles, .45 cal and .303 cal; the site does indeed represent a firing range. Although eroded the mound still retained much of its original shape due to the stabilising plant cover and shelter from the elements the plantation had afforded. I found 3 .45 cal 'slugs', 1 badly corroded and 2 average condition, 3 .303 cal projectiles, 1 9mm 'slug' and a few impacted .303 cal projectiles. The soil conditions do not lend themselves to the preservation of metals.

The firing area had been badly disturbed during the post war years; plantation and subsequent removal and the bog woodland restoration programme had heavily truncated the archaeological horizons, leaving not chance of identify any firing platforms (if any) or the firing positions...or so I thought! The land below the butts is wet, covered in part with sphagnum moss, over grown with sedges and wet grasses amongst the stumps of felled conifers and heavily disturbed soils by forestry activities. Still, I searched anyway...and found a .45 cal case, badly corroded, the 2 more in the same condition; as I walked a line horizontal to the butts I found 5 in all, and all in a rough line. I also found a .303 cal projectile, un impacted, no scars; its position at the firing line suggesting it represents the remnants of a live round misplaced during practice, later either exploding during burning or merely decaying and becoming separated from the case. Incredible finds considering the condition and amount of truncation.

Frequency

High on Ibsley Common, stark and open to the elements, are remains of the regions 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, they allowed pilots to determined their position. The surviving features are, the hexagonal blast wall which protected the wooden tower, this is surrounded by small concrete blocks representing compass points; 40m East are the foundations of a long destroyed rectangular brick building, adjacent to which is a, partially rubble filled, shelter; a few meters further, connected to the ground, is a length of coiled and knotted steel cabling, purpose unknown. 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'.

Another demonstration of the significance of the forest as a wartime resource.

Sun day

Lucas Castle

A river runs through it

I can't remember the forest this wet. I thought the woods were waterlogged the other day, but this, every conceivable channel, every ditch, gulley or shallow depression is channelling water, at speed, into the bigger brooks and streams. The banks on these streams have been over run, breached throughout; valley floors have become submerged, transient lakes. A river runs through the Red Rise shade, but where, so many flows through the mass of moving water. At Markway bridge the course of Red Rise Shade brook is obscured, with the water running so high that it threatens to overwhelm the bridge; the two footbridges up stream now look a forlorn sight sat redundant amongst the furiously flowing waters.

Turning we made for higher ground and the old enclosure; through here there is less standing water although the ground is saturated, giving generously underfoot, and the drainage ditches run at maximum. Through onto Dames Slough enclosure and the restored bog woodland valley accommodating Black water, which like other water ways is engorged. Dames Slough, created in 1859, is one of the younger enclosures and in recent years the areas of wood adjacent to the stream have been cleared and the meanders, removed to improve drainage, have been restored to ensure flooding. Black water, having its source on the edge of the high Stoney Cross plateau, has had time to collect masses of water and is barrelling through the land as it enters Vinney Ridge; causing swirling vortexes behind the trees it passes. Usually a gentle stream, Black water has swelled to, maybe, 50m wide and there is a foreboding about it, a wildness too.

What?

Danke!

Dank would be the word which best describes the forest, now don't get me wrong that's not a criticism, I'm thankful for it, for if it weren't for this damp and dank, then there'd be no verdant lush green forest throughout the spring and summer seasons; and after all, England is supposed to be a 'green and pleasant land'. The ground, sodden with the rain of autumn and the melted snows of late, gives generously under foot, water moves with purpose through every channel and gully no matter how ephemeral and elsewhere water lay visible, unable to soak into the saturated ground. Some gullies, usually with no more than a gentle trickle of a flow, are flushed with escaping water, being transformed into formidable obstacles; several times, when close to water, I've found it difficult to find purchase and risked immersion. Ponies looked resigned to the dank as they forage for food; it's a scarce time of year as testified to by the frequency of chew off holly boughs laying about or the visibly scoured bark of recently fallen trees. The forest here switches between stands of mixed age, mainly deciduous, trees and open swathes of wet heath and sphagnum bog land with frequent gullies and gutters. We travelled a while along Highland water rushing on its way between Milliford Bridge and Roman Bridge, the stream is deep and the water stained dark brown with the peat run off. Evidence of the winter deluges are clear to see, the dam forcing a new course holds strong while further down stream a meander has been breached causing the formation of an island with 5 or 6 tree inhabitants. Suddenly, a loud crash from the coniferous plantation beyond and the distant buzz of saws filters through; forestry thinning out some mature Firs in Holidays enclosure, we move on. Turning east at Roman Bridge we finally ended up at the out of the way hamlet of Allum Green, unknown by many who pass it unknowingly.

Moan

Dampness again prevailed in the forest and I too had dampened spirits and felt miserable, finding it hard to shrug off my malaise. Still, I wandered, alone, trying to focus and failing, not even the forest I love could raise me from my misery; I can be such a self pitying tw*t sometimes, absorbed. Highland water flowed by, I stopped for a while and listened, but heard nothing. One of those days.

Misty out

King's hat

The forest is bright, the mild winter sun still radiates a noticeable warmth and the recent snow and ice, now melted by said warmth, flush the gutters that drain the land and fill the streams to their brink. I enter Pignal enclosure, created in 1751, yet as with other enclosures of early date little remains of the trees planted then. Now Conifers cast darkness over the land, or tightly packed Silver Birch or young Oak and Beech jostle for space and light; I find it hard to feel the woods and wonder why. Then it occurs to me that the land is in transition, the past glories felled and future glories yet to flourish and find their place. The woodland is waiting to be. Not until I emerge from this void, into the remaining old sections of Parkhill enclosure, it too created in 1751, and the unenclosed ancient woodland of King's Hat do I start to feel the forest again. Now the trees are old and gnarled having witnessed many seasons and all that accompanies them, the woods, the individual trees, exist, exude and come to life. I cross a gutter and notice strange, what appear to be, tooth or claw marks on a fallen tree and then out of the dappled woodland and onto the open land of Balmer Lawn. Long straight gutters cut swathes across the lawn, draining the waters off the land and from nearby springs. The grasses here are lush, the ground sodden and the nature of the land surface akin to green orange peel; the land covered in regular mounds, the dried out bases of purple moor grass tussocks. Creating a beautiful, almost alien landscape.

Knightwood Oak

At over 600 years or so old, the Knoghtwood Oak is reputed to be one of the oldest trees in the forest. When it was much younger it has been pollarded causing the growth of multiple uprights; this practice used to produce timber without killing the tree was outlawed in 1698 to protect timber for the navy. Fantastic tree.

Moss def

The woods are wet, the air is damp, the sky grey, the light poor and amongst the trees substantial mist hung; all but a few small patches of off white slush now remain of the thick alabaster blanket that cocooned the land.  The day has a heavy feel, nothing hastens in the forest; I walk through the woodland as if gravity has increased or the air has thickened slowing and hindering my progress.  Walking through Holidays Hill enclosure, planted 1681 making it one of the oldest enclosures, although now in part replanted with mature coniferous stands, I marvel at the lush green carpet of moss which blankets the plantation floor, verdant and intense.  Above, out of sight beyond the dense tree tops, you can hear the distinct piercing cries of a bird of prey.  In one area  the evergreens are densely planted and flourish, with clusters of eager saplings still sheltering in their mothers towering shade, but ready to sprint towards the light when the opportunity presents itself.  I like this place, more so bathed in dappled sunlight when the deep soft beds of moss call you to lay a minuet in their cushioned embrace and spy the sky through voids in the canopy; but even in the dank I feel drawn to its nature.  There are other comparable stands within stands of this nature about the forest, and all feel alike, all have an intensity like something distilled.  

Highland Water

The forest, on the whole, is now clear of snow; the re enforcements needed never materialised and the snow, which had so valiantly endeavoured to maintain its grip on the countryside, had to concede defeat. Still though, through the trees, amongst the shades, glimpses of the white stuff can be seen, now more often than not, more slush than powdery snow.

Highland water, running clear and fast, flushed with the crystal waters from the retreating snow and ice, flows swiftly through the meanders, over gravel banks, cutting a deep swathe through Brinken wood. It's been a long journey from its source up on Ocknell Plain; now, below Roman bridge, Highland water courses through the open broad leaf woodland. Some of the Oaks here are immense, huge, mature leviathans, with well plated bark; amongst them areas of tightly packed Silver Birch race for the light, growing straight and sparsely branched. Throughout the wood redundant water courses, gullies and ditches still harboured ice, now though, a strange milky white.`The banks of Highland water show the seasonal deluge has been working hard, reshaping, removing and then redistributing the silts, clays and gravels of its excavations; subtly altering the course of the stream. I've always like this place, it feels right.

Out of range

On the Eastern base of at Cathrines Hill, on the fringes of the old forest boundary, amongst the heather, gorse and sapling Silver Birch are the twisted metal and fractured concrete remnants of a firing range. Over grown and mostly forgotten, these remains represent episodes of military use; the heath lands of the hill have traditionally be brought into service by the military when the world or political climate has necessitated, as far back as the Romans and possibly beyond, evidence of prehistoric activity and use are common. The remains are of the target end of the range, behind the exposed ground is littered with green fragments of brass cased full metal jacketed ammunition. The range itself has been left to regeneration and has all but disappeared, although if you search hard, you can identify the firing platforms and even the occasional spent case. Although the majority of ammunition fragments represent .303, the British military standard for a hundred years, making phases of use hard to define; the discovery of a badly corroded 9mm case proves use during WW2. The soils here are poor and corrosive, so any spent cases found are in degraded condition. An interesting site, representing some of Christchurchs extensive and diverse military history; unfortunately little military activity continues in the local.

Cotton wool wintery wonderland

Ice flow, nowhere to go

A Blurry view of the icy open forest landscape adjacent to Uber water.

Black water

Following recently laid fox tracks, still clearly visible in the snow, we made our way through Vinney Ridge enclosure; planted in 1859, now though, much truncated by a patch work of coniferous plantation. Black water flows silently through a hollow in Vinney Ridge enclosure; presently it's encapsulated under a frosty membrane, varying in thickness and infinite in pattern. Occasionally, the ice weakens, fragments, and the dark waters which give this brook its name, can be seen gliding muted below. The ice is bowed, sunken,  sloping down from the banks; an indication of the reduced flow coming of the high plateaus to the North and the water fixed in the land as ice. The thaw will no doubt bring flooding to some degree. Below the ice, bubbles of air, trapped, create the illusion of a moving 60's light shows or patterns formed by lava lamps. This section of Black water sees it at its most meandering, Log jams have formed in these meanders, created by the combination of trees eroded from the banks and detritus from up stream. These woods flood regularly, and after a heavy storm water rushes through amongst the immature trees; the floor pays testimony to this, being scoured by a myriad of irregular channels, exposing the roots of Oak.

Sunset on a snowy runway

Whiteness of the tundra

The wind blows sharply across this temperate tundra, away from the winter sun it bites deeply into your face and even penetrates the multiple layers of fabric amour, adorned as defence against the elements. To a higher or lesser degree, the snow lingers on throughout the countryside; the woods being the strongholds. Waiting for re-enforcements in the wooded glades, shaded from the gently warming sun that glows in the clear blue sky, the snow continues to keep its frigid hold on the forest. High on Stoney cross plain the wind blows the powdery snow across the path of the old runway; snaking and twisting as if alive, the snow devils travel through the land; on arrival at their chosen destination, they simply disappear, as if a mirage. The remains of the main WW2 runway, now a road, is bright white, centimetres deep in compacted ice and smooth as glass. Adjacent to the end of the old runway is Cadmans pool, usually frequented by drinking ponies and bathing fowl, is now thickly covered in strong ice 70mm or more deep.

The white stuff

I've felt like a child these past few days; excitedly looking out at the early morning through half open eyes, hoping for more snow but satisfied with what endures, hurrying out to the forest, eager to absorb as much as I can of the transient beauty. I smile broadly as I walk in awe through a land so familiar, so well trodden and yet new to me, so enthralling, the exhilaration of this exotic frigid landscape is intoxicating. It's nice to know you can still feel like that; and from such simple natural stimuli too. Beautiful.

Snow more?

From almost clear azure skies, the sun shone radiantly down on the winter wonderland of the forest. Whether in the open, on the heaths of lawns, or on a brooks edge deep in the woods, the views are stunningly beautiful. Jack has excelled himself with works of such majesty, such elegance, such sparkling splendour. Not many folk braved a walk today, but those who did were well rewarded.

snow good

Everywhere and snow where

A blanket of alabaster white flakes gently embraces the forest, from the high open heathland plateaus and ancient deciduous woodland, through  uniform lines of block planted larch and Lodge pole, through  the bog woodland which fringes lowland brooks, all is bedecked in winters powdery shawl.  The old enclosure, originally planted in 1700, planted with majestic mature Beech and Oak, the mother and father of the woods is quiet, little stirs and what does makes little noise, the snow acting as a muffle. I feel privileged to be out in the land, experiencing this winter wonder in all its glory, and eagerly drink in the atmosphere.  Occasionally wind rushes through the tall tree tops, creating eerie half audible sounds, as the wind too is dampened and suppressed by the snow falling and flakes smothering the crowns.  Flurries of powdery snow continue to fall, and blow about the woodland floor, adding to the covering which is slowly obscuring the definition of plants and features, homogenising the landscape.  In these conditions the world appears to move in slow motion. 

Even the Redrise Brook, usually bubbly and energetic, appeared slowed by the elements as it makes its passage through the confluence of heathland and woodland, maybe taking time to admire its surroundings as it travelled by.   Boggy land which characterises the interface of heath and woodland, has frozen hard, small trees appear trapped, as if caught on the move by surprise, when any water had solidified.  Into the wind, the snow bit hard on any exposed skin.  Deeper in the forest, further East, the snow deepened and the woods appeared like those depicted in Narnia.  Transit in this region became an adventure if undertaken in a car.  On the road through Mark Ash woods, a large track of ancient woodland, a car had left the road and rested in a ditch; with a push and a shove the vehicle rejoined the road and the occupants resumed their journey.  It would be good to get stuck out here today.