Deluge

Deluge

The maiden ran away to fetch the clothes

And threw her apron o`e r her cap and bows;

But the shower catched her ere she hurried in

And beat and almost dowsed her to the skin.

The ruts ran brooks as they would ne`er be dry,

And the boy waded as he hurried by;

The half-drowned ploughman waded to the knees,

And birds were almost drowned upon the trees.

The streets ran rivers till they floated o`er,

And women screamed to meet it at the door.

Labour fled home and rivers hurried by,

And still it fell as it would never stop;

E`en the old stone pit,deep as house is high,

Was brimming o`er and floated o`er the top.

John Clare (1793 -1860)

When I found this poem again today, it seemed to show the timelessness of our responses to harsh, wet weather. The young maid , soaked to the skin as she runs outside to save the washing from sudden rain. The ploughman and the boy wading through the flood as "The streets ran rivers till they floated o`er". In the Forest lanes, when rain pours down as it has today, it seems that little has changed since the days when John Clare walked the muddied ways of his native Northamptonshire countryside.

Today, after a morning of grey, dark skies and torrential rain, there was an hour of brief reprieve before the west wind blew more showers in from the sea. Old Dog and I splashed out into the lanes while we could.

Runoff from the moor brings peat stained water bubbling into leaf strewn ditches.

A silver birch , hanging with rain jewels against a grey sky.

Wet leaves of next spring`s foxgloves shine beneath the rich rust of rain soaked bracken.

Tonight, the wind is rising and rain pours off roof tiles and overflows the gutters. Severe weather warnings are in force and down by the sea, in the harbour at Christchurch, the high sea floods are threatening to overwhelm low lying houses by the shore.

Happy Birthday Whisper Dog!

Here he is on a June day, guarding the onions in the raised bed.

He will guard anyone and anything . He sees off passers-by in the lane and guards house plants against the nibbling of cats. He guards bags of shopping on the kitchen table from the tabby who wants to steal fresh bread. He grumbles at the birds on the bird table .He leaps at the window and roars at the young fox who dares to trot across the lawn at dusk.

To those who do not know him, he is a growling, grumpy, fierce old dog. And yet..... he is my most faithful friend. Wherever I am in the house, he is there beside me. If I go to the garden without him, he cries at the window. Whatever I do, he is at my side and underneath my feet. If I am reading, he is curled up by my chair. If I am cooking, he is there, waiting for crumbs to drop into ever hungry jaws. If I am here at the computer, he is on the old sofa behind me, sighing and snoring until I am ready to be with him again.

Dear dog, who was the playmate of my sons in their teenage years and who lights up with happiness if they come home again from their new lives, from far away. Stiff in his limbs now, but still loving his garden, field and Forest walks beside Old Dog, his lifelong friend. Grey around his eyes now, but bright still in his collie mind that understands so many human words and unspoken thoughts.

Eleven years old today. Happy Birthday Whisper Dog and hoping there will be many more!




Whisper and Old Dog resting by the wild pond.

Snug as a bug.....

.....in a rug!



Last night we had cold, soft drizzle and by morning the wind had changed. The old golden mare looked miserable and it was time to get her rug on as temperatures are set to fall over the next few days. I drove down to the feed shop to collect her rug and here it is, washed, reproofed against the rain and CLEAN! I took her photo as I know that she and the rug will have rolled and be thick with brown mud by the morning. A much happier horse tonight, I left her munching a pile of fresh hay under the shelter of the high hedge.





Golden mare will be twenty next spring. Not a great age for a horse, but she has arthritis in her hind legs and has been retired for several years. With anti inflammatory powder in her daily feed, she seems to be comfortable and to enjoy just "being a horse", out in the fields with her companions.

Up on the Beacon Hill

The weather couldn`t make its mind up today. Sometimes the sky was grey with storm clouds rushing in on a north west wind, yet now and again the sun forced through its wintery beams and the woods lit up with golds and greens.

Old Dog and I walked up the other side of the valley in the late morning. Up onto the long hill where beacons have been lit for centuries; where ancient people made hill-top village camps that gave them views from the sea coast to the far inland plains. We walked the lane that would have been a track for maybe three thousand years. We crunched through the beech leaves in the high woods where buzzards nest. We looked down onto the valley where round tumuli show the resting places of some who lived and died here so long ago.

Up in the beech woods. This week`s winds and rain have stripped trees of most of their leaves, but ancient hollies are a constant green throughout the seasons.

A bracket fungus that has grown layer upon layer on the trunk of a beech.

A view across the valley from the wood`s edge.

Glimpsing the far distance and a patch of blue sky.

Old Dog sits for a while in the lane. He has arthritis but loves his walks, which keep him sprightly and happy. We cannot go as far as we used to.

The Pasture - all in a day`s work

I remember this poem from childhood. Somehow it conveys the simple pleasures of husbanding the land and caring for animals as part of everyday life.

The Pasture

I`m going out to clean the pasture spring;
I`ll only stop to rake the leaves away
(And wait to watch the water clear, I may):
I shan`t be gone long.-You come too.

I`m going out to fetch the little calf
That`s standing by the mother. It`s so young,
It totters when she licks it with her tongue.
I shan`t be gone long. - You come too.

Robert Frost

A day of sunshine interspersed with squally showers. I spent as much time as I could outside, clearing up the paddocks and digging rosettes of young ragwort plants out of the grass. The ragwort has all gone into an old feed sack to be burned on the next bonfire. The wretched poisonous weed seems to regrow if just a fraction of root is left in the ground and the seeds blow in on the wind. Thankfully it is not palatable when growing fresh, but dried parts of the plant can easily be eaten by mistake.

These day by day jobs in the fields seem a chore, but they give time to be part of the life of the land. The ponies follow me around for a friendly word and a rub or a scratch. I might bring a brush to fluff up their winter coats against the cold. Wagtails and meadow pipits go about their business, finding insects to eat . Blackbirds squabble over hawthorn berries in the hedge. A red admiral butterfly passes and seems to be flying south, maybe on a migration route across the channel.

The last wheelbarrow is emptied onto the muck heap and I am warm from the exercise. There is a sense of satisfaction as I leave a cleaner field, but with each pony producing twelve piles of manure a day, I know I shall be back again tomorrow!

Fungi from Brownsea Island

A few more photos from Saturday.
The grass lawns and woodland floors of Brownsea are rich with fungi during late summer and into the autumn.

Possibly a Bay Bolete. The pores underneath were greenish yellow.

Birch Bracket fungi on the dead stump of a silver birch tree.

A beautiful Fly Agaric toadstool. Poisonous, but a fairytale toadstool.

Clavulinopsis fungi growing in a rabbit grazed wild lawn of grass and moss.

A poisonous Sickener Toadstool.

No idea what these ones are!

An autumn afternoon on Brownsea Island

The last day of October and the last weekend of the year when visitors can enjoy the peaceful walks, the wildlife and the beautiful scenery of Brownsea Island. We caught the 12.30 pm ferry and spent a happy afternoon with my son and his family, walking and exploring until the light began to fail and the last boat brought us back to the busy Dorset mainland once again.

Brownsea Island has a long and interesting history. It has been settled by human beings since the iron age. It has been the site of a pottery, it has been bombed by the Luftwaffer and it is the spiritual home of the Scouting and Guiding Movement as Lord Baden Powell organised early camps on the island. Under the ownership of the reclusive Mrs Bonham - Christie, the island became a sanctuary for wildlife. The National Trust took over the ownership and care of the island after her death, despite the efforts of property developers who had hoped to build luxury homes and marinas there.

Here are some snapshots from our walk around the island. Some memories of a tranquil afternoon before the storms came in from the west overnight.

The little yellow boat, Maid of the Islands, ties up alongside at Sandbanks, ready to take us to Brownsea Island.

Looking back to the grand modern houses on the Sandbanks coast. Most have their own moorings and boast stunning views across Poole Harbour towards Studland, the Purbeck Hills and Brownsea Island. Real estate on the low lying Sandbanks peninsula is said to be some of the most expensive in the world, but if sea levels rise with global warming then the residents of Sandbanks will be paddling, or worse!

Heading out for the short voyage across Poole Harbour to Brownsea. The little boat will moor on the quay by the grey cottages on the right. On the left of the picture is Branksea Castle, once a grand house and now a hotel owned by the John Lewis Partnership.

A small yacht is caught in the swell as it follows us through the harbour.

We passed astern of the French cross-channel ferry Barfleur as she made her way out of Poole harbour to begin a journey to Cherbourg.

Estate cottages with crenellated roof lines to match those of the neo Gothic Branksea Castle by the quay.

The boat is about to moor at the quay.

On the quay at Brownsea, looking back over the harbour towards the "luxury homes" on Sandbanks peninsula.

On the landscaped green, this beautiful American oak was shedding huge red leaves to make a carpet beneath its boughs.

The Brownsea parish church of St Mary the Virgin

A free range hen and her ten chicks peck for food under leaves. This little family was a source of wonder and excitement to the young children playing on the green.

Cottages and outbuildings across the green lawn where peacocks roam free.

Crunching through fallen leaves along the woodland tracks.

Ungrazed heathland in the centre of the island. A habitat for sand lizards, smooth snakes, heathland birds and insects.

A woodland path leads out onto heath where Red Darter dragonflies flitted across the land.

Across the harbour to Studland peninsula, Studland Bay and the chalk cliffs of Old Harry Rocks in the distance.

Furzey Island with the Purbeck Hills behind it.

The Purbeck Hills. In the middle distance, the ruins of Corfe Castle emerge in a gap between the hills. Click to enlarge to see the castle.

The warehouses and industrial buildings of modern Poole.

Glimpses of Dorset, seen through the pines on the island`s highest land. On a warm afternoon , with the scent of pine oil and views across the calm harbour waters, there was an atmosphere reminiscent of walks through Mediterranean pine woods by the sea.

Brownsea Island has one of the UK`s most important populations of Red Squirrels. The plantations of Scots Pine ( Pinus sylvestris) provide pine cones that Red Squirrels feed on and a habitat of tall and majestic conifers that give shelter to these secretive animals. The copses of Scots Pine also provide homes for bats and for conifer loving birds.The undergrowth of rust coloured pine needles or tall , ungrazed heather is a backdrop to stands of tall pines with patterned bark; where a squirrel might be seen for a second, darting upwards into the secret silver-green of the forest canopy.