Yesterday – coupled with a developing desire to prove my brittle body once more able – the weather beckoned me far beyond the longing windows of home: with the high-cloud-shrouded sun at my back, and a sluggish breeze easing its surging heat. My first thought upon fastening the garden gate was of the church as objective; but primal instinct pushed me further – to revisit last year’s iterative ascent through Tysoe Hangings, and onwards to Upton House. With every initially uncertain step taken with conscious pain and caution, I crossed the main road close to Church Farm Court; eased my rucksacked self through the metal gate; and prayed that my body (and resolve) would be resilient enough. All I could do was walk, and discover if I could also achieve my heart’s desire….
Where, last year, there had been wheat, was now linseed (and where there was linseed – on the plateau beyond Sugarswell Cottages – I would find wheat): a four- to five-year rotation that seems increasingly fashionable and profitable. Sandy soil under this brilliant cobalt crop was beginning to fissure, though; and the meadow’s margins were dune-like in their desiccation. (Even in so sparse a crop, skylarks nested: their sweet purling such a soothing soundtrack.)
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As I began to gain height, a kestrel sliced the air above me: its twin scything wings propelling it in a flight signalling, perhaps, some emergency, such was its rapidity. A buzzard materialized from the trees: its mournful call – as always – welcoming me and soothing my soul; reminding me of the many months of this enthralling natural world that I had missed.
I took the trail cautiously through the Hangings: one slow step after another easing my legs and lungs. Even here – where torrents usually flow – the surface was quite solid; and hard enough to have fossilized the delicate treads of muntjac and badger. That there was moisture yet below, though, was evidenced by the passage of uncertain horses: their skittish skids breaking through the supportive crust.
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It was in the plateau’d field of oats beyond the Hangings that I first espied a male keeled skimmer, Orthetrum coerulescens – away from its usual damp habitat – leading me along the smooth brick-coloured pathway thoughtfully inscribed into the crop. Settling, waiting, then rising again at my approaching footfall, it was only at the intersection of the tractor’s cross-trail, just before Sugarswell Lane, that – bobbing and flitting above the seed-heads – this dazzling dragonfly left me to my own devices.
Across the road, another clear track; the blue-green riffling wheat good camouflage for a repeated relay of pruinose-blue-bodied guides. Only once did I spot a female (almost the exact colour of the compacted red soil); and only then because she tempted my latest escort away into the ripening stalks.
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As has been revealed repeatedly on my rambles (and those of The Good Lady Bard), so many of the rights of way surrounding the village are currently overgrown: as unloved and unworn as Christmas-gifted socks. And yet the farm-workers of Upton Estate have gone out of their way to clear the pathways through their crops with the greatest of care – as here – even though it seems so few people take advantage of them (well, as anything but canine conveniences…).
The thoughtful replacement of a familiar stile (above Blackwell Wood) was also welcome – although many a time had I perched on its topmost timber (having arrived too early for Upton’s opening) to munch on a muesli bar and gulp down some well-needed water. Part of me therefore mourned its absence, despite the ease of access the new kissing gate offers to this creaky old walker and his supportive stick!
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Just before reaching Upton House, a small herd of short-cropped ewes, panting in the heat, lay bundled against the openworked gate to catch the cooling breeze. They would still be there on my return: their lassitude then broken by a deep and distant bleating cry, muezzin-like, beckoning them to prayer (or to at least raise their ears momentarily).
Instead, this summons brought the growing wasp-like speck and sound of the Warwickshire & Northamptonshire Air Ambulance: soon hovering above me in its hunt for a safe landing. Eventually, a swarm of spiralling red soil-dust marked its safe descent. All I could do was wish that all would be well….
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Passing Upton’s Home Farm, I upped a soporific raven from beneath an ash tree – its guttural, repeated bark of a laugh surprising me equally in return. I then descended via Spring Hill – the only tree-less crown of the Edgehill ridge, as seen from the Stratford-Banbury road; and therefore the provider, for me, of the most perfect panorama. In places, the familiar way faded beneath deep tussocks of grass (and flocks of marbled white butterflies). Even where a meadow (filled with eponymous browns) had recently been mown, any preceding boot-prints had faded to naught; the two further gates both overgrown with nettle and thorn. (My fingers still tingle where I failed to properly clear my way through… – a pleasant reminder, though, of a successful venture!)
Here, again, a buzzard rose: this one in a silent spire above me.
Beyond, a ridge-and-furrowed field of interwoven grasses – bearing all the hallmarks of having been trampled by careless cattle. It was hard not to trip over the warp and weft they had left: my weary legs now troubled more with the descent than the climb.
Returning through the linseed – noting how fortunate I was to catch this evanescent crop at its most glorious – I was circled by swallows reaping their rich sunlit harvest of insects; my presence no deterrence to their eager orbits. (The larks, though, were now silent.) St Mary’s bright wedding decorations also raised a smile; as did the closeness to home: no matter how hard and hurting each step became.
I knew I had walked too far for such a first long climb: my legs and neck screaming like the swifts above me. But achievement is a heady medicine (especially if lightly underwritten with opioids); as is the muzzled greeting and welcoming call of a somnolent feline.
My (perhaps foolish) desire fulfilled, I would rest: satisfaction flooding my limbs, and friend Felix bundled tight against my side, dreaming of pigeon pie….
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