Dockens Water

Spawn

Red Shoot wood is dank and sodden, it sticks in my mind as one of the dampest places in the forest, not all of the wood, just the area beyond White Hill; here every aspect of the wood is dank, the ground yields easily underfoot, the trees are dark and appear to ooze moisture, even the ponies have a particularly bedraggled appearance.  I'm tiring now of the dampness, essential to the verdant beauty of the forest as it is; the season appears to be moving slowly, more slowly than usual; either that or I'm tiring of getting wet faster.  That said, the forest is still beautiful and a joy to walk through. 

Through Linford bottom runs  Linford Brook, a small waterway, often almost dry during the summer; now though it rushes by.  At one point, where to tributaries join, there are two natural ponds.  The larger of these ponds is filled with frog spawn, more than I've ever seen before.  If only half the frogs survive there'll still be thousands; I'll keep an eye out for that spectacle. 

Ultimatum

Well, what a read, the ultimates universe has been well and truly rocked.  Jeph Loebs writing is first class as is the beautiful artwork by David Finch.  The catalyst for the events that unfolded was the death of the Scarlet Witch by Doom, but not even Doom could have foreseen the consequences of his actions.  Sure, Doom wanted a war, he wanted the chaos and destruction as he wanted to have dominion over the remains, but this.  A jolly good read all round, with plenty of shocks, plenty of action and a very unexpected finale.

Kick ass

Just finished reading 'Kick Ass', another Millar triumph; really great story, funny, full of beautifully crafted comic references with insight and humor, lovely artwork by Romita Jr, an all round top shelf read.  The movie is due out in April and I'm soooo excited; if what I've seen in the trailer is anything to go by, the film hold quite true to the comic.  Can't wait :o)

Hay entrar tormentoso

Ober Dam

The Ober was formally Red Rise Brook, itself formally Mill Lawn Brook; by the time known as Ober Water it has widened in places and contains deep holes.  Today the water reflected the colours of the adjacent wet heathland; it was orange, turning brown where the waters deepened.  Along one bank, the edge of Aldridge Hill enclosure, one of the oldest enclosures dating from 1681, originally it was coppiced then re planted in 1809 at the time of the Napoleonic Wars when a lot of oak trees were being cut down to build warships. Along the other bank is wetland heath, dank and overflowing with water at this time of year; in some areas the ground although looking firm is in fact barely solid and crossing them is like walking on custard skin, a scary exercise. 

Castle Piece

Castle Piece is a moderately sized Hillfort in Roe Enclosure; or is it?  It is a banked enclosure with possibly a very shallow outer ditch, although its defencive capacity is doubtful. I know its been weathered and I know that later plantation works have been carried out; but still, taking that into account, the banks are slight as is the ditch, hardly defencive.  I wonder if the banks are more defining boundaries for a small settlement, with some defencive capabilities  although more to do with land tenure? I need to read up what I can on the site and take a longer more detailed look at the remains and their place in the landscape.

Gypsy Rose Tea

On my journeys through the forest I have regularly encountered discarded cook ware; tea pots, pans as well as the remains of leather shoes (usually the degenerated soles).  These finds are often off today's beaten tracks, the pots are usually crushed and appear to be 50 or so years old.  These finds have fascinated me; trying to workout what they represent.  Recently I found an answer; as often happens, several paths converged to illuminate the past.  It would appear that these apparently random finds represent a way of life once common place in the forest, now sadly marginalised, corrupted and outlawed.....Gypsies.  The forest was once well known for Gypsies, who frequently camped within its bounds.  Usually the pans or tea tops are crushed; why the pots are so frequently crushed is a mystery, maybe it was tradition or cultural.

Gypsies are a definable travelling group, first appearing in Britain during the reign of Henry the 8th as opposed to other groups such as, Irish travellers, New travellers, Eastern European Gypsies and other itinerants who appeared later.  Their name is derived from 'Egyptians' as that is where the Medieval Britons wrongly thought they came from.

Burley Old Enclosure

Backley Bottom

Today was one of those surprising walks, filled with the unexpected, unexpected because we were in an area visited regularly, but still managing to tread ground I've never trodden before, seeing aspects of the familiar anew and experiencing woodland I'd only known from a far. At Bratley Arch where the Black Water, here known as Bratley Water, leaves the uplands of its birth for the dense and diverse woodlands of the Central forest; up hill through Bratley enclosure (1829), it's maturing Oaks standing proud.  I'm beginning to be able to gauge the age of the enclosures and the trees much better now.  On a ridge overlooking Backley Bottom I think I may have found a World War 2 site; a group of trench features amongst the ferns, several oval depressions banked on one side and a standard slit trench; this site requires further investigation.   Now on Bratley plain, I visit an mound rising from the regular flat heathland, it's a Bronze Age burial mound, its heart robbed out by the antiquity hunters of the 18th and 19th centuries leaving a roughly cross shaped depression in the center.  We enter Slufter enclosure, slightly younger than Bratley, dating from 1862; I've never walked in this part of Slufters and it differs greatly from the major part, which had been replanted with Pine at some point, here the woods were mixed, Oak and Beech with the occasional Douglas rising majestically, gnarly Holly and Yew.  I will come this way again.

Moley

We passed the small yet tall stand of Eucalyptus trees at the site of Holm Hill cottage.  A mole or moles has been at work, tunnelling furiously they have left an abundance of earthy mounds; on one mound a long piece of clay pipe stem stands out, white against the earthy hues.  This got my attention and soon I was poking about through the protruding soil. There were the red fragments of housing brick and sandy slices of mortar both expected from a dwelling site; looking beyond them there is pottery sherds, bone fragments and  rusty nails.  All familiar on any post med to modern site.  I wonder how long there had been occupation on this site.  The woods are warm today.  Highland water sings as it travels, happily chattering as it flows over gravels and obstacles; it's joined by a myriad of birds all competing to be heard. Continuing through an area of young, oaks in the direction of Acre Down, it begins to snow!  Now, this snow was not fluffy flaked, rather tiny soft ball, like not properly formed hail; coming down quite fearously for a while, it began to cover the ground, before stopping abruptly.  By my return to Highland water the weather had turned full circle and a warm sun filled the sky.  I lay some small logs against a trunk build for comfort, gather a heap of ferns and create a comfy seat, from where I can see and hear the stream as well as being afforded a wide view of the surrounding woodland, a patchwork of blocks of coniferous and deciduous trees of varying ages.  I sit for a while, taking the air and tranquility. Nice.  

Grand slam

Near Ashley Cross a large mound raises out of the flat heathers, covered in gorse and shrubs, it is both impressive and yet unimposing; the buried remains of re-enforced concrete submarine pens built in World War Two. The pens were constructed to mimic the u boat bases along the Atlantic wall. The body of water in the foreground of the photo is a historic site itself; the first test drop of the 2200lb 'Grand Slam' bombs. The 2200lb 'Grand Slam' bombs were designed to target sites such as the pens, Ruhr valley sites and important rail bridges; the bombs were designed to bury themselves before exploding 'earthquake bombs'.

Broomy

The sun beamed through the 200 year old maturing Oaks of Broomy enclosure (1809), the bright rays are warming on the the skin, more used recently to an icy scouring. One could be forgiven for thinking spring had sprung; an illusion, regularly the sun disappeared, obscured by clouds, and the season was brought back in to stark focus. Winter still has dominion, waning, yes, but still has it all locked down. Above the tall Oaks, twisting and spreading the mass of crowns was alive with the furtive sounding song of birds enjoys the joys of the day. There's a mist hanging over the forest, giving an ethereal feel to the landscape. Approaching 'the churchyard', site of a medieval hunting lodge, the piercing cry of a bird of prey fills the air as it circles the ancient tree covered ridge, adding to the air of mystery.

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.