And also, perhaps, we were a little afeared of the London greyness.

But we were invited to sing, and present ourselves and our doings, to a number of high-powered Folk Industry Executives. We are glad such people exist, for we’d like to win some support for our project and our future plans, and we need to make some good allies. And of course, folk in suits are still just folk, and deserve a good sing-song as much as the next bunch…

So this is the story of our London walk, which is the first decent jaunt we’ve made with Holly dog.

Recordings and a little video can be found below…

In inevitable fashion, sundry preparations waylaid us. So on the friday before the gig, we finally stepped out…

We took the Pilgrims’ Way, aka the North Downs Way, from where it met the village of Chilham. This is the third time we’ve trod these paths going West, and they are a mixture of incredibly easy and very tricky. Certain points seem to roll gently downhill for miles, while other parts traverse the sloped edge of a muddy hill, each step forward sliding two sideways. So empty lanes were occasionally taken, instead of the wigglier hillside moments.

Spring is here, and this gave us great comfort. Vetch found its way into our sandwiches, and nettles and cleavers and chickweed into our cookpot.

We walked on past Lenham, where the great chalk cross is cut into the hillside. As we sat in rest, the M20 roared its dominance over the landscape. It is very full, and very rapid.

Walking this way, we remembered the strange shifts of consciousness that a long walk gives. Sometimes we focussed on each other, on conversation and companionship. Sometimes we watched the ground move beneath our feet. Other times we followed the shifting trees and hedges, and other times again, our eyes were fixed on the furthest horizon. We also found ourselves occasionally walking through an internalized landscape of small aches. Walking makes the world expand, and contract.

The first night we spent in woods near Jack Cade’s hole, where the leader of the (failed) 1450 rebellion hid, after Cade led his ‘battallions’ of ‘peasants’ to complain about the treatment of the poor in Britain.

Unlike the 1381 uprising, looting was rife once the common folk reached London. The King’s favourite officers were killed, their heads lopped off, and put on poles (and made to kiss one another, apparently). Just like 1381, the rebellion was routed, its followers ran away in disarray, and the leaders, including Cade (also named Jack Amend-All), were rounded up and killed. So feudal life in Britain carried on…

The woods were very lumpy, with no convenient bundles of fern to make mattresses. They were also brambled to the max. We were glad we carried no delicate tents nor blow-up mattresses. Our bones, we figure, must have been softened by recent house-dwelling. Holly dog got cold in the heavy wind (which brought the rain in too) and she was forced to retire to within the limited confines of Will’s bivi bag halfway through the night. She needs her own travel home…

On day 2 we crossed some busy roads, and found an acoustic hotspot.

This was an underpass with a fantastic acoustic, although with much background noise and horrible air. Here are two recordings we made:

The Colour of Amber

The Burning of Auchidoon

Soon after we met Kits Coty Stone, a dolmen-like structure, estimated at 6000 years old. A nasty spiky cage surrounds it, and we were foiled from sleeping in its perfect shelter.

Bluebell hill we met sunset, and rested in the Robin Hood pub, where a strangely uptight family ordered huge plates of food but ate almost none of it. Our eyes bulged, and thankfully the landlady agreed that a ‘doggy’ bag could be provided. So all 3 of us enjoyed steak, bacon, and chicken for breakfast, after a second lumpy night in the woods. We remembered again how important it is to find a place to sleep before resting in the pub, and before darkness falls. And we remembered, in the chilly winds of after-dark, how glad we both were to have a companion with whom to share these challenges and understandings. Alone, this journey would be perhaps more heroic, but lots less fun.

Day 3 we crossed the Medway at Rochester, the only real option. There ought to be ferry-folk, or smaller footbridges. The busy road across half-killed us, our energy boxes suddenly feeling horrendously empty.

Relief was palpable as we climbed the hill away, and found cool airy woods, which led to the fine sunday pub in Luddesdown. Here the landlord gave us an open invitation to his woods in Bexley, and after singing we sold a CD to pay for our sunday lunch, a most necessary luxury…

Then we walked on through Foxenden and Meopham, down the Shipley Hills Road, where we enjoyed such challenges as a 14 year old driving a peugeot really fast.

The few people we met on the path, we greeted happily, but found ourselves slow to offer songs. After but 2 days walking, this is no surprise, but it was still a disappointment, and we looked forward to a time, sure to be soon coming were we to continue walking, where every meeting comes with a song.

As dark fell, we vowed to continue, and walked through Halling, where the air-quality became noticeably poorer. London approached us…

Darkness got thicker, when we discerned a man with a huge dog, whose face we could not see, from whom we asked directions. “Do you know where the church is?” Ed asked. Silence was the reply. “We’re trying to find the pub” ventured Will. “Righto, it’s just over this field” came the answer.

So we walked to Hartley, where we found an almost empty pub who welcomed dogs, and took the opportunity to sing and meet. Although but 2 days from our home, this place was utterly unknown to us. The dialect was also very different. Promises of “24 owls” had us totally confused, and we looked and listened in vain, till we noticed the selection of 24 ales…

A chap called Steve, who told us he liked only dance music (“like everyone else…drum n bass and dub-step”), introduced us (when the pub got lively) to the people, and corralled us an audience. He told us he had no interest in folk music, but…”your journey is brilliant. You should make a video every day, put it on YouTube. Everyone would watch it. Trust me…i’m a sign!”

We told him we would take his words quite literally. We met a sign in Hartley. “But why did you come here?” everyone asked. “You’re right on the path to London” we explained, “you’re the main route!”. They were surprised, and proud too.

It got late, when we met a very drunken man called Uzi, who by introduction had turned to Ed and said “I f****g hate hippies”. It took a long while to bring him round to talk with us, Ed’s goodwork being largely repsonsible. Hugs and handshakes followed, and we rolled off.

5 more miles after dark took us to South Darenth, where our map told us (in gothic writing) of St John’s Jerusalem, a National Trust property. We assumed the ruins of a Knights Hospitallers castle, or chapel, who would never begrudge pilgrims, so we went looking. This ancient group are the ancestors of the same gang who provide free ambulances at public events.

But instead of a handy ruined wall, we found instead a manor house with cars parked outside, essentially a private residence. But the hour being late, the land behind us being wet and the land before us urban, we lay low in their parkland, and took our little sleep. It is not the best feeling, to know you are sleeping where you’re probably not welcome. But between the hours of midnight and 6:30, no-one ever complains. So we took the sleep we could.

Sure enough, at 6 in the morning the house labrador was let out, he smelt us, and started barking with heavy rhythmic insistence; so we quietly and tiredly down-tarped and scarpered.

Dartford was our morning treat, some 3 miles north, awaiting us once we’d passed beneath the M25. This was like stepping through a portal to Mordor,  where the litter was strewn to the very tree-tops, and living trees were scarred with fire, daubed with futile paint, churned up and made foul. Huge pipes pumped unknown fluids into the suffering stream of the Darent, and we stopped to consider how recently this river path would have been idyllic and delightful, and how extreme 100 years of change has been on England. But too tired to lament too deeply, we headed in for breakfast.

As we crossed the lakes, fruit of massive 1920s quarrying, we met a drunken man, red-capped vodka bottle dangling from his pocket. He slurringly asked us what on earth we were doing. We told him, and he became our town-guide, taking us to the cheapest cafe in town, and afterwards taking us to his house for tea and rest. He even let us use his shower, which helped bones and muscles considerably.

An ex-Royal Marine Commando, he had served in Northern Ireland and Cypress. He was court-martialled for the theft of 1800 rounds of 9mm ammunition, for use with the Colt 45s which many soldiers foraged from the confiscated weapons thrown down garbage shutes of blocks of flats, while the barricades were being cleared in 1973.

He called us scholars, and asked why we were sleeping outside when we could get proper jobs, and make real money. We explained our reasoning, which he grudgingly accepted. He then asked us to write a character reference for his upcoming court-case, for verbal assault. We did so.

Then he walked us to the right path, which would have taken us a long time, and much getting lost, to find. Weeping, he bid us farewell. As he walked away, a red kite flew from the sky and screamed the parting…

We were now tired, but London was ahead, and there would be no more opportunities to surreptitiously sleep the night. So we gritted our teeth, held our noses, and walked on.

Past Cray marshes, we met the Thames, and fields gave way to the urbanity of Erith. Poo was literally everywhere, on each bench and pavement, an incredible ring of excrement on the very edge of London. Next came massive industrial build-up, with about 8 miles of various sewage treatment, from the Victorian to the ultra-modern.

Our singular hope for a sleeping option was a high-fenced dump, on the edge of Belmarsh prison. Was this once a Beautiful Marsh, as the name suggested? We did consider trying to break in, but it looked little better than landfill, and so we thought better. By now, bones were aching from the concrete underfoot, and every rest we took needed 5 minutes of hobbling to regain momentum.

At last we found Woolwich, and got cold. A few phone calls, and we found our way to New Cross, where we stayed in the only purpose built housing co-operative in London, a wonderful community.

Morning, after a most welcome lie-in, we walked to the Cutty Sark, and Greenwich maritime museum.

We met a lady called Tharini, who had contacted us through the website, and walked with her along the Thames path, all the way into the heart of London.

We were not sure why we made this arrangement to meet and walk the last few miles with a stranger, but we were both slightly fractious and sad with each other, Ed from low energy, and Will from painful feet. Tharini, we are pleased to say, brought us right back to good companionship, an effect that some people seem able to summon almost without meaning to.

At Monument, we were arrived in the very heart of London. So beside the river, outside a pub called the Banker, we took our rest, and called ourselves finished. We had walked to London, and it was not so very difficult at all.

Here we also made our final recordings of the journey:

Lasses From Banyan

Last Verse Ryb and Avon (with whistler at end)

The Jolly Robber

This post is being written in the space between this arrival and our concert, the purpose of the journey. So we must go and practice. (edit – made the concert with 4 minutes to spare before our slot…)

Thankyou. Good evening. and Cheerio.

Llandegly Rocks

We found much changed for us during the winter in Wales, but Spring was not quick in coming. Indeed, winter lingered hard, and the dreams of new leaf and soft warmth were slow to be realized.

Lesser Celendine, herald of Spring

Here are some of those exciting indicators, and events, of the newly risen Springtime.

Enjoy.

The winter just passed was a hard one, and temperatures in Radnorshire reached 18 below. Luckily, our hazel-house protected us from the worst of the cold, and woolen clothes and contant movement did the rest.

Frosty cold times

As Autumn faded, soon after arrival, the leaves disappeared, and buds took a long time to return to the boughs.

bare boughs, soon to change

But when things seldom come, they wished-for come, and so it was, with great happiness, we noticed the first signs of seasonal shift.

moss flowers

oak buds later

Primrose comes early too

yellow sign of willow awakening

willow yellow goes

oak-apple releases the sleepy gall wasp

There are a number of other interesting sights and sounds from this period, which are worth a share we reckon.

a fence-line division makes one hill into two

Daffodils announce the kissing season

straight as a gate

Holly flaunts its biceps

birch paper unrolling

Rowan twisting without visible prompt

big fella stands up

one leaf, many paths

No buds on the lightning struck oak

two full moons in february, this the second

colourful landline

There is very very much we’d love to tell and show of our winter experiences, and slowly we’re trying to do just this. But with another walk to plan, the sun shining, and elderflowers, chamomile, cherries, borage and plantain to pick and process, sitting on a computer can seem the wrong move on a rare summer’s day.

So bear with us, and we’ll get this old story told properly, while the next one takes shape…

And a huge good summer to you all.

Mother Beech holds her babies in her branches

Its a year now since we were in these bluebell woods near Michelmersh. Accompanied by Ayla and Susie we found shelter for a few days beneath a magnificent beech. Days were spent wandering among the glowing blue, with visits to the local gastro pub to see if we could sing for roast potatos.

Please do read on….

Grimbled nodes

One night we awoke to stomping feet around our heads, heavy clumping and breaking branches. Coming closer, the invisible night monster started shouting….NO! NO! NO!

There was nothing for it but to lay still and wait for it to pass by or perhaps tear us to shreds.  None were willing to grab staff and grapple like Beowulf the angry beast of the woods, and eventually it roamed away, its cries echoing into the distance.

Morning brought bluebell glow to heal worried sleepers and we soon forgot our fright and lingered more in the otherwise friendly woodland.

Here are a couple of recordings of Ayla, Susie, Ed and Will in Michelmersh church:

After a time we moved on toward Salisbury, crossing yellow fields of rape seed , through cowfields, where we often pause to sing. The cows will always respond to a good song, and they themselves sometimes at night sing also, a stange and eerie music which at first sounds like lots of noise. Listen for the harmonics they hit, and suddenly the depth of cow song is revealed.

The cows want Ayla to sing again

Reaching Salisbury, we sit to take a morning coffee. Fresh from an article in the Telegraph, people keep approaching, “are you those boys who….”, “yes, thats right” we reply, starting to get a small glimpse of what it must be like for those poor public faces, who can no longer enjoy a peaceful streetside morning coffee.  We take the warning, and embrace the blessing as a tour guide comes up and asks us to perform for her audience.  A mornings work in a matter of minutes as notes are squeezed secretively into our hands with knowing winks and smiles.

After busking awhile in the town centre we visit a pub we are recommended. There we sing for the bar and drink a  pint. It is a day of meetings as Lucinda comes to join our crew of four, so for a day or so we are five strong, without a place to stay. While busking a kind lady had offered us her house or garden for a nights sleep. We asked her tentatively about the possibility of sleeping five and she batted not an eyelid, accepting us all into her home.

Fiona, Stefan and Olivia invite us all to stay

An evening of song and fine French food followed. Ayla and Susie sung some wonderful new tunes, while Stefan showed us bows and arrows he had made and green wood chairs he learnt to construct with Mike Abbott, the chap Ginger went off to learn from. Good luck to Olivia on her new naval career, and thank you to a remarkably welcoming family.

Some of us awoke in the garden, others in the house. It is a morning of goodbyes as we become once more a duo, and prepare to cross Salisbury Plain.  We have a date with Radio 4 on the Wiltshire downs.

On the way out of town a car pulls over. “Are you those boys walking and singing…” comes the Salisbury chant, “yes thats right” comes our jaded reply. “Would you like to join us for lunch then?”  Well, we had left town now and had no desire to go back, even for a feed so we declined the surprise offer. But the kind couple would not take a no, and arranged to meet us up old Sarum outside town for a picnic. This was a first, having a full lunch, with sandwiches and chicken legs and cake and beer and juice and all sorts of goodies brought to us en route.

Surprise picnicking up old Sarum fort

So with belly full and packed leftovers for dinner, we thank our fortune and our benefactors, give payment with what we have (songs),  and set out north across Salisbury Plain.

We supplement our packed lunch with some young, soft beech leaves. We were told by a fellow in Dorset that they are good for the eyesight and thats why the deer eat them. They are certainly tasty.

Beech leaves in their new light green spring form, tasty, nutty, a good salad snack

The morning after next we are to meet Clare Balding for a recorded radio walk across the Wiltshire downs to Avebury.

We walk until late and dip into a copse for some sleep, with miles to cover on the morrow to make our appointment.

Its raining hard when we wake, so we move along quickly, stuffing wet bedrolls into our bags for later.

When the rain ceases for a while, we rig up a washing line, while army trucks thunder by wondering why people are doing their washing on Salisbury Plain.

A brief gap in the rain

We try a busk in a small town on the way. A solicitor leans despairingly out of his window above us. “Excuse me, some of us have work to do, would you please go away”, so we walk on.

Come late afternoon we stop for a replenishing pint in Upavon. Singing quietly outside, a fellow asks us to come inside to sing some songs for an Irish lady’s birthday party.

Accordian player at the party, The Ship, Upavon

One thing leads to another. Songs all round with accordian too:

Pints line up and buffet supper is provided, the evening unfurls into uproarious revelry.

We end up on the floor of the landlords flat above the pub, with alarms set for 6am ready to rock the next 8 miles to meet the radio.

Ed doesn’t sleep a wink, hes up all night feeling nautious and poisoned. The sun rises too early, and we stumble out slowly on our way to the Wiltshire downs.

Making slow shuffles toward Dragon Hill

Along the way a rock commemorates a blood pact between King Alfred and his brother before they set out to war against the Danish invaders. It makes us feel weaker, but drives us towards strength. The radio ring and we ask them to bring us coffee.

A barrow (burial chamber) on Salisbury Plain, complete with graffiti lorry

We meet Nicola and Clare in a car park where they instantly point a fuzzy microphone at us and ask us to describe each other. Will gives lavish descriptions of staves, feathered hats and brass lions while Ed mumbles that Will looks like a 19th century farmer. Its a start.

We drink our coffees and off the four of us walk up to Adam’s Grave hill and onto the downs.  The recording is for Ramblings on Radio 4 with Clare Balding, in which she walks with ‘interesting’ folk upon their favorite landscape.

Adam's Grave, the start of the Wessex Downs

It all went passably well, Ed recovered into vague lucidity half way through, while Clare and Will waxed poetic about the beautiful hillocks. At one point we got a bit lost and had to climb a couple of barbed wire fences. We visited West Kennett long Barrow for a song, then on to Silbury Hill and Avebury Henge where we say goodbye to our new friends. If you’d like to listen to the program, click here.

Ed, Clare Balding and Will at Avebury

Avebury is a village surrounded entirely by a series of stone circles, with stone avenues and a couple of great big Long Barrows.

One of the circles and some sheep

It lies on the Ridgeway path, said to be the oldest path in Europe, which seems to indicate that Avebury has been a pilgrimage destination for many thousands of years. It feels good to be here.

Resting against one of the stones

We climb  the nearby Silbury Hill, a huge ancient manmade hill which was built using ox’s shoulder blades as shovels.  Last time we were passing through here we found diggers tunneling into the top of it, looking for something, we presumed.

Silbury Hill and Will

Atop Silbury Hill

Swallowhead Springs, the source of the river Kennett, feeding the Thames with half its water. A hop and a skip away from Silbury Hill.

Feeling all shattered out, we find a tiny hidden patch of wood by a field and slink in to get some sleep.

Goodnight.

Bedtime

Holly chewing on a cow's ear.

Holly came into our lives in late January, brought to us by our friend Eddie who had the pick of the litter, his dog being Holly’s father. We had a few days to decide whether it was a good time to take on such a responsability, but soon enough we realised that this was a really intelligent, quick learning animal that we could train well and would in time become a loyal companion on our travels.  She is called Holly because she loves to chew on the  holly leaves.

For more about Holly and a couple of other new friends, do read on….

Will made her a mini bender structure, lined with straw, for her bed which was on the porch of our dome house til she outgrew it and chewed it up, so we made her another one. We feel it is important that she gets used to living the outdoor life (within reason as shes only a puppy) since we will be travelling in all sorts of conditions. She needs to grow up adaptable and strong, not overly tied to home comforts. Still, she comes in and sits by the stove when shes been a good girl.

Growing up in the woods

Stalking invisible rabbitses

We have chosen to take a positive approach to training. This means that we give her treats if shes been good, if she comes when shes called, sits, stays, poos in a good spot, goes to bed when its time. And when shes bad, she gets a vocal reprimand and certainly no treats. She’s really learning quickly this way.

We’re feeding her as much raw meat as we can reasonably afford since this is a natural doggy diet along with bits of grain, vegetables and herbs (found in a hunted animal’s belly), with puppy biscuits. Most butchers are not aloud to sell you bones for your dog, or leftover old meat they can’t sell. As with many things now, they are not insured for it so the healthy dog food gets buried and so people feed their dogs from tins of cooked old abertoir scrapings.

Rose and holly play tumble in the wood shavings

Hey mister, enough pictures please

Holly has brought a lively focus to camp life. Chasing her tale, chewing up boots, being scared off by the sheep (thank goodness), constant playfulness….she  gives us laughtert, friendship, new smells and responsability.

Gwendollin Psycho and Gwyneth Paltry, let loose in the woods

When Ginger and Little Ben came to visit us, Ben brought us a couple of chickens, not long rescued from a battery farm. They arrived looking half dead, bald and dozy, not knowing how to be chickens at all. Eventually they worked out how to scratch in the leaves and find worms, how to be cheeky where humans are eating, and how to put themselves to bed.
Now they are looking much healthier, though we havn’t had a single egg yet.

Lucky chickens coming from cage to woodland

There is an organisation called the Battery Hen Welfare Trust that rescues battery hens and gives them new homes, all for donations. It is good work when you see the state the hens come out in and how quickly they recover from their ordeal once they begin a normal life. The more we can do to stop eggs being produced in such a macabre, sadistic way, the better. Do we love our omlettes that much? If so, get some chickens or buy eggs from somewhere you can see the chickens roaming free.

A teenage puppy, Yarrow, came to visit and taught Holly a thing or two

We look forward to seeing how our journey will be affected by having a dog, the advantages and limitations, and to seeing Holly grow up big, healthy, active and strong.

Holly and Will enjoy the sunset.

]]> http://www.awalkaroundbritain.com/journey/journal/a-new-companion/feed/ 6 http://www.awalkaroundbritain.com/journey/journal/a-show-of-ice-and-snow http://www.awalkaroundbritain.com/journey/journal/a-show-of-ice-and-snow#comments Sun, 17 Jan 2010 18:50:17 +0000 Branching Arts http://www.awalkaroundbritain.com/

The snow is melting away, the streams rush full and the ground squelches again. The birds no longer pester us for food as the worst of the cold is over……. for now.

Our friend Mr.Robin looking fluffed up

Its been a hard time for everyone, we are sure, and we have received reports of people stranded and roads closed. We’ve had lots of folk write in and ask how we’re coping in all of this cold and snow, so here we’ll show and tell. Read on……

Wonderful White

The first inklings of iciness made the mud disappear and we were happy. Movement became easy and work progressed fine. Rain water was no longer coming from the generous Welsh skies and our water containers froze solid. We started fetching our water from a nearby stream, boiling and filtering before drinking.

Approaching winter Solstice the first of the snow arrived, as did Ayla’s birthday and some friends to celebrate.

Ayla with Ed on her Birthday

Birthday Ice

Puffy snow house

Rose and Will on Christmas Day

A new and exciting stillness lay over the woods, the mice cleared their front porches under the oak trees for the first few days, throwing the snow aside to get to the ground. After a few more days and more snow, dry firewood became scarcer, the mice gave up clearing their porches, and our excitement solidified somewhat. Still, we managed to have a beautiful quiet Christmas with Will’s birthday following shortly after and visits from a fair few friends, which we will talk more of later.

Christmas day singsong

the sea, the sea...

Its amazing how quickly you can get used to the cold once it settles in. As the days and nights got colder, we became more able to handle the frosty weather. The snow disappeared for a time, but soon after New Year the temperatures plummeted. We had nights of -18°C, where we wrapped our heads to stop out brains cooling and found it very difficult to get out of bed.

Ed melting snow

chop chop will

The mornings were down to -11°C, our hands hurt without thick gloves, and at one point Rose had frozen snot. It became more important to keep the home fires burning and water boiling. The stream decided to freeze except for a tiny trickle beneath the ice, but we were able to break a hole through and get enough water. We tried melting snow, but it takes so much snow for so little water at the end. We made sure that we started melting it in a bit of hot water to prevent the pans burning through.

The cold slowed everything down. When more energy was needed, less energy was forthcoming.  Anything we foolishly left outside froze solid. This included our vegetables, which became almost unusable. The wood was also all frozen solid, so cutting into stove bits needed both axe and saw, as the saw on its own just got stuck. Tis gave Will very stiff cold hands.

Human's nest

Purpling Hills

How beautiful it was to see the white hills when we left the woods. Its so easy for us to forget about the world outside, the clogged, slippery roads and the wrapped up people.

Rolling down the hill

We managed a few fundays in the snow. On Ayla’s Birthday her friends whisked her off to the hills for snowballing. Just the other day Ed and Will rode on Eddie’s sled being pulled by his sturdy dogs. The speed is really something. After that came evening snow battles, wrestles and ambushes., and wet clothes.

Girls on the hills

So as everything thaws out, we breath a sigh and stare in wonder at how green and brown everything is. Work seems so easy without the snow. We can actually get on with something other than just firewood, water and keeping warm. Still, we came through without too much trouble, a little tougher, a little more clued up on how to ready ourselves for the next heavy frosts if they should come. All in all its been a ‘character building’ experience as our Eddy says.

For more of our wintry photography, click HERE.

Breakfast in the snow

Thanks to everyone who worried about us during this time. We’re ok.

Autumn

Busy we’ve been, with a home to build, as well as a working camp to house us meantime.

We’ve seen through the end of Autumn, and the leaves fell around us as though they’d never stop. Now, all is down, the sap lowered, vitality all drowsed. Everyone has worked finger to bone, and we’ve come close to exhausted.

Tired boys

Thankfully, we’ve found good allies in these Welsh hills, such as Annie and Simon, Eddie of Mellowcroft, and Anne of Rhyader. The warmth and dry air of a conventional building can be incredibly restorative, but only for a short while, as all that enclosed space gets stuffy. People in houses seem to get colds, we have noticed, while we outside just get damp and chilly. It’s a trade off, of sorts.

Rest will soon be known, when we’ve gotten all our systems and selves properly aligned for this winter sure to set in deeply soon.

If you’d like to see and hear more, including our first arrival, the growth of camp, our findings with cob, straw-bale insulation, herbal first aid, songs, coppicing, and west Wales, click on reader…

Rainbow at Mellowcroft

This winter, we are a gang of 4. Rose and Ayla join us for the building of home and the dream of hibernation. Rose is from Arkansas, a farmer’s daughter and travelling wwwoofer with beautiful global ambitions.

Rose scraping Silver Birch Bark

Ayla is a nomadic singer from all around Britain.

no arguments

Ed is still here, and Will too. Hello.

Rose, Will and Ed

We are living out in the woods this winter to try and learn what living outside really means, and what it requires. It is one set of skills to walk on for a winter, singing your way to a full cookpot each night. Staying put, in a damp woodlands, where the wind and rain are free to fall hard upon us, well that’s something else.

Ed atop the dome

Motivation is needed from new sources, as we are without the constant inspiration of new horizons that a long walk provides. We’re struggling gently, trying to remember lost skills, and certain that we are continuing a very long tradition, but with all the advantages of modern knowledge and technology to support us.

Night time a-frame

We’ve been working hard on building our first home, so that we can be warm and dry and comfortable. It has been a chilly damp slog to make it so, and we’ve been surprised how heavy 4 people’s daily water is to collect. We have a tributary of the river Severn from which to gather water, as well as often copious rainfall that runs off our canvas, which is can be collected into a copper urn.

But to tell this short tale, we should begin with our call for land, which was answered by many many good people, with invitations or suggestions aplenty. We finally followed a lead to a place called Mellowcroft, in Radorshire (Powys) in mid West Wales.

Eddie working hard

This is a natural holistic retreat, a piece of land in the custodianship of Eddie, who offers the space for eco development and experimentation.

Rose helping out

Eddie is a prodigious recycler, collecting unwanted off-cut building materials from his local area, to make marvellous tree-houses and low impact structures. He pointed us in the way of the right woodlands for our winter, but not before Ayla fell in love with his welsh mountain pony, called Fudge, which Eddie bought and rescued from the meat auctions 4 years earlier. We learned that most ‘wild’ welsh ponies are left on the moors and commons, to look after themselves, before being herded together and finally turned into dog-food and glue. Our romantic idealism had not realized this mercantile truth, that the horses are not just wild and free, but are in fact a part of some farmer’s medium-term economic ambitions.

first snow brushing the hills behind

So wood-ward went we, dragging our gear on carts and barrows down the mud-tracks, through the woods and up the hills, to find our new patch. Where we are now is an old coppice woodland, with mature oak and ash throughout.

good ash to burn

Ivy, rowan, clematis as ever, mistletoe, saxifrage, and of course bramble, all do well in this wet land. We are atop a series of gullies, all feeding the main rivulet, which runs into the Severn. We are on the highest bit we can find, but the floor seems to turn to mud by merely looking at it. We’ve combated this underfoot tendency to mire, with broken hazel boughs, scattered about and strewn with straw. This works for a while, but needs constant reapplication. The woods are muddy, and that it that. Our boots are doing well. Even Rose’s low-cut superlight Brashers are holding tight, so far. We recommend thick leather, high-ankle goretex-lined sturdy boots, made by Zamberlan, Meindl, or le Chameau. Italian, German and French boots seem fit to the Welsh winter.

The cold and rain falling down are another thing. Wales is not as wet as the English are typically promised. Truthfully, it can rain at any time, when the sky is clear blue, but it generally doesn’t. And the cold is not so far deeper than Kent’s famous balmy winter climes. We are all full clad in wool, puffed and scarved with merino and pure wool anything. We’ve been scouring the local charity shops for tweed jackets, which are perfect for most small rain, and cut the wind effectively and dashingly. For night-time warmth, we’ve wool blankies, straw mattresses, each other, and donated duvets. The lady who gave the duvets said she couldn’t stand the idea of our getting hypothermia, not in Wales.

Ayla and Will breakfasting

Exploring the local area has been jolly, as we have bicycles for this winter, as well a small trailer to run to the tip or the market. We’ve explored the Elan Valley, Llandrindod Wells, Llandegley Rock, and around. We’ve yet to visit the famous ‘water-breaks-its-neck’ waterfalls. This is a most beautiful land, as any short walk with open-eyes attests. The hills north and east are challenging, a dangerous land to be caught idling, and promise us severely beautiful walking. We are in a fine part of this good earth. Locals have told us that Wales is the oldest bit of the world, the first rock above lava they say, which we think sounds perfectly reasonable.

this reservoir feeds Birmingham, gravity fed all the way

The local town to us, Llandrindod Wells, has been the stage for our only busk so far. We sang for 2 hours to drunks and naughty school-children, in an underpass beside a supermarket. They liked it, and it felt good to remember that singing is a service to the community, not a commercial transaction. You can hear some of this here:

So in the woods we’ve been mostly stuck, focussed on making our life warmer and drier. We straightaway knocked up an A-Frame structure, and dragged a canvas over it. With shelves and tables made of pegged and bound hazel, we filled it, and moved all our tat in, so it was at least mainly dry.

candles are the best of our light

Then we built a woodshed, and a cooking lean-to, both basic hazel structures, woven and covered with old green canvas.

wonky and storm-proof

the tech of weave

all is woven

A compost toilet followed soon after. Stools, a saw-horse, spoons, window-frames, steps and hooks, as well various other bits and bobs, have been crafted from the woods so far. Coppicing is underfoot, and we’ve been helping Woz, the local expert, with the fence-posts and woven rods he needs for his present commission.

Our main challenge so far, our most constant goal, has been the main structure, our home to be. We all agreed to temporarily sacrifice comfort in our present set-up, in order to strive for the future’s fuller result. This tired us all, and we had a few days of cold hands and feet, and getting out of bed is always difficult, but we’re almost there.

the grid falls

Today our CD is being finally delivered, and a pleasing celebratory conjunction will see us tomorrow moving into the house. We’re laying the flooring, sealing the last few holes, and getting the burner alight today. From hereon, it’s happy days.

This home is built beneath great oaks, as this was the drest ground available. So we had to clear the dead branches from above us, as Oak falls like spears when its dead branches come down, and the strong winds and snows might cuase such downfall at any time. So we threw a block of wood on a string, after many attempts, over the dead boughs above. We then attached and dragged up a thicker rope, and then a thicker one, till we had space and strength to shake them down.

And then we built a platform, to keep the rising damp and cold away. Water and chill emerge from the ground, as the Oaks’ moss jackets shows. A level platform was made using pendulums and triangles, pillars were cut and dug in deeply, and we gridded it all with pegged hazel.

something masonic

Onto this were set 8 giant hazel wattles, as a safe (& bouncy) floor. We had met an old boy called Hopper, who taught us hurdle-making, and when we explained our platform idea, he scoffed. “Let’s just say, I wouldn’t take that job on, and I’ve been making wattles for 30 years.” But the girls twisted and cut and wove those wattles, and a week later, with tears and bloody hands, the platform was made and bound.

the girls wattling

binding hold us

Next came a dome, all interwoven from hazel.

domed above

Then we fitted windows, one taken from the tip, and two made from pegged hazel and donated Perspex. These were sealed with cob, straw mud clay and water, which only just set hard in the cold damp.

now light comes in

Over all this came the green canvas, which has proven to be a mix of ‘really’ to ‘not that’ waterproof.

sea of green

it comes along

But like everything we are doing, the mantra of ‘it’s only got to last the winter’ has been prevalent. We’ve found it hard to build something temporary, that will be taken down in a season. The best instinct is always to make it stronger, tighter, and longer-lasting. But some corners we have to let go, to get cut.

we are ground nesting primates

its their castle

interior in development

We got straw bales delivered, as local farmers are mostly sheep orientated. These had to be carried, one by one, the quarter mile to our lair. For Ed and Will, it was just like walking, back in the day before we learned to carry less.

turtlish edward gazes

aylita struggles

For the longer-term inhabitants of this woods, the mice, thia is the winter of their contentment, for the gravy-boat has landed. The crumbs we don’t notice dropping are their best dream. We’ve been kept awake in the night by a tiny mouse chewing on some bag which was not highly enough hidden. So our battle with the mice, Apodemus Sylaticus, those sweet big-eared bulgy-eyed wood mice, has been declared. They poo everywhere, and chew anything.

But, we won’t kill them. They were here first, and they barely eat any food, just chew holes in everything. We figure that even their poo is pretty clean, just woodland floor basically. But new methods are being devised to keep them away from our sourdough mixes, and oats. A great net hammock tied up in the ceiling seems to work best, as does an old steel milk churn. It makes us wonder – how old is the dance between humans and mice? It must be an ancient thing. We don’t really mind them, as long as there are no rats get wind of us. Anyway, there’s plemty of tawny owls screetching at night, so the mice number will only drop until spring…

toady also says no to rats

Pests aside, life in the woods is going well. We had a small scare when Ed’s newly sharpened axe bit into his left-hand index finger, just above the knuckle. It went pretty deep, and he went white awhile. A sage dressing, made from hot water and pounded leaf of sage, as well a St Johns Wort dressing, were found to be particularly beneficial. More details will follow for the medically minded…

Rose nursing Edward's cut finger

There’s much more we could tell you, like how we built our home almost entirely without nails or wire…until the chimney flue was installed, which required a sturdier kind of support.

Ed burns out a bowl

And we could chatter away about new songs being learned, such as the Jolly Bold Robber.

It has been a good journey so far, a path walked in depth rather than distance. The emotional position of finding yourself in the woods, with no-one to help provide the basic amenities, and knowing that you are there (by choice) for the next few months…well, it’s been, as others describe, ‘character-building’. But don’t worry, we are eating well and keeping the damp at bay with sturdy porridge, wholesome quinoa and local eggs. All goes well.

belly filling goodness - elderberry syrup to sweeten

And there is plenty more such mettle to be forged. The snows have yet to fall, we’ve got a book to write, and our CDs to finally distribute. And then, one of these days, we’re going to get a little rest, ready for spring time and walking on northwards.

Our thanks to you for all the support offered so far, for not ridiculing this experiment, and for allowing two young men and their friends to do something quite ordinary and simple. Please write to us here if you’d like to pop out and say hello this winter. We’ve had surprise visits from a few people, such as Rob and Patricia McCurrach, who donated us a Serbian Kotlich, and enamelled pan and tripod perfect for stews over a fire.

will surviving

Ayla uprising

edwarding

Rose supporting

A merry Yule, a wholesome Solstice, a familial Christmas, a mad new year, good hearth and health and comradeship, to you this season.

Cheerio for now.

Thor-kissed - lightning struck - oak

here we are

]]> http://www.awalkaroundbritain.com/journey/journal/a-house-springs-up/feed/ 8 http://www.awalkaroundbritain.com/journey/journal/settling-into-a-welsh-woodland-home http://www.awalkaroundbritain.com/journey/journal/settling-into-a-welsh-woodland-home#comments Tue, 03 Nov 2009 22:22:04 +0000 Branching Arts http://www.awalkaroundbritain.com/ Camp has been struck. Our enquiries bore fruit, and our Kentish rest has been left behind. We are settled into the woods in Cymru.

Under the a-frame. 2 days into the woods

We are near Llandegly Rocks in Radnorshire. We’ll tell more presently. Thankyou to the many people who suggested a good place to stay. We’ve been offered a full variety of woods, huts, yurts, valleys, gardens, hillsides, in spots all over Cymru. Soon, we’ll write a list of all the communities and projects we’ve discovered in asking for a winter home.

Meantime, here is a recap of what’s been going on over the last few weeks…

feast of being at home...

We went home to sing for the London gig opportunity. We wanted to gt our CD out, also, and at last it is with the printers, and soon to be with us.

Home being so close, we took rest. Probably this was always bound to happen, but it still took us by surprise. Rest was not easy. We were itchy-footed, eager to get ready for winter, to get out and back to Wales.

Much gathering and preserving has been done:

Chestnuts of Kent join us in Cymru

Rosehips of Kent, come too...

Bladderwrack in Ayla's hands

We spent much time on this pursuit, and in gathering the other preparations for a winter in one place.

Herbal First Aid Kit

Autumn is a plump month, and we found many foods which could be dried or chutnified, and some that demanded being eaten right away. We wanted to put on a comfortable layer of fat, the best insulation available, and we wanted to preserve some of Autumn’s sustainance for later…

Walnuts

Horseradish, mouth fire for winter

Beefsteak Fungus, chunky and nourishing

Cep delicious

We also have sourced wool, which Ayla especially loves towork. We’re all hoping to work felt, and learn to spin and weave…

wooly warmth

Our group is of 4 – Rose joins us, an American farmer’s daughter from Arkansas. She is brilliant fun, and tremendously capable, and in love with Wales. She also laughs at the British cold…

rose collects the abundance of East Kent

Also we greet Ayla, who joins the gang for this winter. She is a brilliant musician, a singer and writer of song. We are all inending to sing, and record together this winter. Ayla is also great with herbs, foods, and general life good-practice.

Also we are Ed and Will, as before.

Ayla checks the map

There are some friends that we cannot bring with us…

Hedgepig. he was happy to be de-ticked...

But some are definitely here:

Ed the Carter

So now we have gone to Radnorshire, and have dragged our winter kit down the rutted pats, and set up an initial A-frame. Things progress swiftly, as the damp is a worthy adversary, with whom we will have to make friends, as well set some good basic techniques of respectful distance.

Our local guardian

Elan Valley, not so far from our new home

Elan Valley rocks

So here we are, in our little home, nowhere near all set up. We have much work to do before we can be comfortable, and a long way before we have our everyday systems good and clean and simple. It is going to be a lot of fun, and we’ll at least be warm if we work very hard…

Home, as it stands. It is damp, we promise

We’ll soon catch up on our previous stories, and update this old website. But we’ll be using voice recordings, in an effort to make everything much quicker than this long long wordfulness which we love, but have no time to constantly create.

Thankyou for all your help in getting us out here.We look forward to seeing what a winter in the woods of Wales can teach us all. We’ll let you know…

Love, and the best of the winter, to you.

Hello.

We hope this turning Autumn finds you well.

As the seasons rush on, we all keep pace.

Our path over the last 7 months led us to St David’s, to our great delight. From Canterbury, this counts as a half-pilgrimage to Rome, we were told ( it’s actually double, a Welsh lady assured us).

We travelled back from Wales toward the bright lights of  London Town to sing a gig in the South Bank Centre, which went down most well. Microphones were turned off, and all the bright lights kept the audience invisible, so we just chattered and jumped about, having fun. It seemed to work…

Back in Kent, irresistibly drawn to respite, we’re now making various winter preparations. Stockpiles of wool, dried fruit, and tools, are piling up slowly. We have been dyeing clothes with walknut husks, making chutneys and syrups from plums, pears and rosehips. We’ve dried many apples, and gathered pig-weed seeds, nettles, fat-hen seeds, acorns, sea-beet, and other bits. We are trying to be winter-ready.

Our winter plan is to stay in one place, in woodlands, beneath temporary straw shelters to evade the worst of the cold wet. Being still will be a real treat, and will let us learn the skills that cannot be practised while constantly walking. Taking a good rest is a crucial part of  nomadic tradition.

Please press More for details of our requests (now long since met, our great thanks to you all)

When the snowdrops rise, we’ll be walking on, northwards. We had always intended to be in Scotland by now, but we’re not. All-willing, we’ll be there next year.

So we’re on the point of launching into our winter adventure. We will be a group of fourm with Ayla and Rose joining us. This new gang has a better balance than Ed and Will only, and our skill-resources and capacity for good work are thus greatly broadened.

Very soon, we’ll be heading back to Wales. We’re fermenting, pickling and drying the abundance of autumn wild foods, nuts, fruit and grain, and almost ready to head out again. The only missing detail, right now, is where we’ll go.

We still don’t know the place, the right location for this adventure.

We really want to be in the middle of Wales, as we’re enjoying very much the learning of her ancient language, and the depth of community in this oldest of landscapes. We are discovering great love for Cymru.

So the question is…

Can you help us find our place for this winter?

not here ed...

For 5-6 months, from now till March, we need to borrow a small patch of woodland. A stream, good trees, and permission to build temporary straw-bale shelters, is the sum of our needs. These shleters can be dissembled, or left standing, when we depart.

We will live as low to the ground as we can, gathering food and tending our space, collecting water, building an earth oven and a kiln, making baskets, spoons, bowls, cord and tools. We will ground ourselves in craft, to deepen our relationship with the objects we use everyday, that each small thing can be beautiful, and hold its own story and power.

We hope to raise our strength for the spring, and record another album of songs while we’re at it. And, there is the matter of the book we’ve promised to write. It is going to be a beautifully busy winter.

We’ll be filming this chapter of the journey, and potentially invite the occasional expert along, to teach us tricks we can document and share.

Everything we’ll need, we’ll have with us, and we will be no burden for anyone.

We want to get to know our neighbours, help out with local projects, and partake in local culture and traditions. We’ll probably also be singing a lot. But the essential plan is to be quiet, still, invisible and calm.

If you know of anywhere that might be suitable, any woods with streams that are owned by friendly folk, please send word.

Likewise, if you have good knowledge of temporary winter settlement, in any respect, please write and advise us. Tips, tricks and templates, whether general or intensely specific, are absolutely needed. If this is not your area of expertise, but you know someone who does specialize in long cold wet months outside, please put us in touch with them.

And lastly, if you somehow possess an excess of…wood-burning stoves, kilner jars, iron bath-tubs, solar-panels, honey, beeswax, demi-johns, seasoned firewood, straw-bales, chisels, a throwing axe, green canvas, wool, hides, fleeces or sheepskins, please let us know.

Thank-you very much, friends and strangers alike, for sharing the time to follow our small journey.

it is not getting dark

happy boys and girls

Ampfield forest is a fair harbour for our new group of four. Susie’s new tarpaulin home is soon strung up, and after a first night’s classic downpour, in which she enjoys her first night of wet feet, it is swiftly re-strung and tightened.

Read on….

spider web floating tent

We feast our new company, the local butcher and greengrocer keeping our cookpots full and bubbling. Bittercress, jack of the hedge, and wild garlic are all found here in great abundance. Special nettles are also found.

3 pronged nettle

Ed's office

For two nights we stay in this forest, visiting the pub to sing for bread and butter, hunting the woods for lakes in which to swim and wash.

lakeside

Will loses his spectacles, and is sure they are deep in a muddy puddle over which he leapt foolishly in the rain.

Will minces through the wod, half-blind

The next day, walking to fetch water, Will and Susie scour the forest all over for a good running stream. But none is found, only tea-brown brackish trickles. They ask the local forestry-commission worker if he knows of any good water sources, but he only scowls and mutters, before sloping away to tend his machinery.

So back to Hursely we stamp, to the local school, where friendly builders direct us to the outdoor tap. And on the way back, there propped upon the footbridge lie Will’s muddy but intact glasses, which return to him his scientifically-perfected eagle vision.

Alum, the hooded silent one

We spend a late night in the public house, the Kings Arms in Hursely, and on returning to camp we have great trouble in finding our place.

Lost in the night-time woodlands we are. Ed and Will strive off in straight lines, deeper into the trees, and their laser targeting may take us all closer to the camp, but also miss it completely. We loop around, and find ourselves precisely where we left the footpath. Hmmm…

Birches sway above

So we try again, and this time Susie and Ayla’s feminine detail-aware vision take us all home. Susi spies a primrose which she recognized from daytime wanderings, and this leads us in the right direction. Ayla then spots the fallen birch from which we were earlier cutting bark, to dry as tinder.

Ayla's birchbark art

Nothing gets the flmes rising, quite like B.B.

Dried, and ready to start bonny fires

Just beyond this…our little home is found, to great joy, and our unhappy suspicions of shuffling under a bush for the night are happily dashed. We fall to deep and fretless sleep.

Ampfield forest gives us a strange dense time of settlement, of not moving at all. So it is very refreshing to move onward from the forest, toward Romsey town.

Susie and Ayla in their woodland power

Ed meets a great pathside ally

Off they go a roaming

As we leave, we find evidence of the forestry commissions careful nurturing of British woodland.

Woodland idyll, c/o Forestry Commission

Another pleasant vista

Down green lanes, finding speedwell in the walls, and huge oaks all baubled with mistletoe, we go.

Speedwell, ye valiant ones, your time is struck

Honesty grows bankside as we walk.

Honesty, a sign of gardener's integrity

Romsey bodes well, as people wave happily at us on our approach. “This must be friendly land” we state, “for it is expressing itself in good greeting people”.

Romsey massive

Around a fair corner, the footpath has been burst through by a mighty oak.

The good will out...

Flowering oak ...

We then find a kiddies’ climbing wall in a playpark, where we stop to ascend the presented challenge. We have no flags to plant when we get there.

The heights of Romsey

Ed atop the great summit

Ayla, the monster at the centre of the web...

Ayla after eating a small man, caught in her web

Susie, destryoer of worlds...

And onward, to briefly meet a lady who is walking a Japanese warrior dog – “a noble samurai” she tells us, “but a naughty boy too…”. We find silverweed by a wall, so situated as to seem an ideal place for the locals to pass water (piss). This might explain the silverweed’s extraordinary size, we imagine, the nitrogen and other salt-richness of the soil.

Silverweed, as handled by Susie

A suburban glade, between the outskirts and the heart of town, is next met. A sparkling river runs through it, and here we are forced to stop and ponder awhile, unsure why it is so uniquely pleasant. We realize suddenly it is the urban scenario, coupled with the absolute lack of any litter. It is quite a shocking thing to enjoy, and we wish for plenty more such surprises.

Walking along into town, Will spots a opened packet of choc digestives on the wall. He slows, then thinks better. But the girls behind have less scruples, and we detect in their unsubtle silences that something is going on. We turn, and the crumbs are falling from their mouths in their haste to keep this potentially unhygienic treat a secret.

Grinning in Suburbia

Entering Romsey, we head to central town, to sing awhile outside the now-empty Woolworths.

From the vibrant centre comes forth a noise we call 'folk'

and more of the same...

an ode to Penny Sweets and Plastic Kettles

An exotic destination

Come lunchtime, with pockets all a-jangling with gold and silver, the cathedral, a massive gothic lump of religious stone, is our picnic venue.

A gloomy lump of stone

Picnic is here

Do you want a riddle?

Local poetry, embedded in the concrete

We sing as we eat, and a kind lady who is sat hidden in the hedges bench behind us, pops up as we tidy away to tell us “those pigeons were out of tune with you.” We wonder if this is an innocuous observation, or some wise way of telling us that our songs are out of joint with nature.

Then the girls head toward the nearby woodlands of Awbridge, and we sit to catch up on our internet workings. The Telegraph article is out tomorrow, and we are keen that our album, still not yet available on CD, is at least up for download. This, with a great deal of frantic telephoning, we manage to achieve, via our good friend Jake and Pondlife Studios. The girls leave first, and we catch them up a few hours later, after dark. It is Susie’s birthday tomorrow, and her sister is coming to visit, so we’re due a celebration feast again. Lean times are becoming seldom, it seems.

Dark falls, and Ed and Will head toward where we think we’ll find the women. We get hideous lost in a simple pig field, to eventually squeeze ourselves through an improbable hole in the hedge.

Ed and the small hole

Our call-whistles are eventually answered, and we 4 are re-united, together with Susie’s sister Joy, and her sleeping son Rowan.

We stay here in Awbridge for the next 2 nights. Joy has brought an insane amount of food with her, which Ayla crafts into a banoffee pie, using her best woodland utensils.

Woodland whisks

Young Rowan is a great prompt for us to build dens, and weapons, and other such boyish toys.

Rowan and the lean-to

Rowan is a little nervous at first of our proximity to someone else’s land. But we assure him we will do no damage, and if they find us here, and decide to ask us to move on, we shall simply do so, with neither aggravation nor dismay. He becomes steadily reassured.

A moment of great balance

But Susie’s main birthday gift from her sister, a huge djembe drum, we vote to leave in the car, or we’ll be located in no time at all. “I won’t play it, not loudly” she assures us. “I’ll only tap it a little bit…” But birthday or not, we know Susie, and she’ll soon have the whole woods dancing to her rhythms. So in the car it stays, and we only feel a little like birthday fascists.

Susie Ro, all woodland magikal...

cheeky sirens

Breaking the water's surface

Susie and Ayla brave the cold lake for a swim, and being dreddlocked, they fear for the drying of their tubed hair. So an improvised swimming cap is made, which Susie dons to great and stylish effect. Can you guess what is is yet?

Safety first

We stay here another day and a night, photographing ferns, playing music, singing and relaxing. We all eat too much, which is a pleasant (if gluttonous) change.

Susie draws a map of her homeland

strong as green-things

angelic surprise

questing, tightening, and unwrapping ferns

the dance of 4

coiling galaxies

reaching heavenwards, they awaken

And then back to Romsey we go, to buy ourselves a copy of this morning’s Telegraph, on which we find ourselves well written-of.

Paul Kingsnorth is an excellent writer, able to pluck the human hearts of those who read his words. We are glad we said yes to such an able scribe, such a gifted tale-teller.

The café man, whose coffee we celebratingly drink, proudly pulls out his copy – “Look, it’s you lot!” he exclaims. And in the local health food shop, while buying spices to augment our habitual one-pot stews, we meet an old boy who saw us busking 2 days back. He says he feels it is his duty to buy us all 2 flapjacks, to do his bit to help. This newspaper article is doing us well…it even causes the health food lady to agree to exchange some pots of non-petroleum jelly (for chafing skin) for a song, a bargain we swiftly agree to make.

And, unable to resist a quick busk on the busy market street, we find, while singing, that a car stops, and a pretty young girl rushes out to ask for our autographs on her copy of the offending paper. It’s fun, this brief spotlit moment, but probably a dangerous game too. Ego rattles bigger in its skull-bound cage, and threatens to overspill into vanity.

Again, leaving Romsey...

So to the woods we venture, to picnic amongst the wood-spurge.

Wood spurge

the drooping leaves of wood spurge

pickanicka

The Green Woman is known

Will stalks an American pheasant, using techniques taught him by a Gypsy fellow some years back, and is able to step right up to the glorious head-hooded bird without alarming it. He has his catapault and stones, but decides the life of such a trusting bird is best spared, for others to enjoy. Besides, we have plenty of food, so such a kill would be made without need, and would probably lead to bad things returning to him.

Leaving the woods, the girls and Edward sit alongside an oaken tump, which Susie manages to fall from. It is, to us, funnier than it probably sounds.

From here we leave the woods, in which the bluebells are all arising, and we walk along toward some new grounds to sleep.

Bluebell women

a mixture of elements

We photograph each others’ portraits in the golden light of sunset, and everyone looks radiant and handsome, even us haggard and bedraggled boys. Ho-hum.

Ayla a-glow

Will a-grinn

Ed a-gammy

Susie a-glorious

sunset through the trees

The girls practise their charm

We walk toward somewhere our maps tell us might make for good sleep, and find St George’s mushrooms and Marsh marigold on our way.

Will nibbles the prize

Silver apples of the moon

Marsh Marigold

Marsh Marigold at home

Also, a mighy chestnut has fallen across the footpath here, which makes progress temporarily tricksy.

And then, strolling along the country lane, a small car pulls up. A chap in army fatigues winds his windows down, and asks us where we’re going. Being slightly protective of the girls, we two step up, and make non-descript answers. But this man, Bryan, sees through our protective ruses for their good intentions, and cuts straight to the point. “Look, there’s nowhere good for camping up that way. But if you turn about, and walk to the village, I’ve got a farm, and a barn, with facilities that would cost you thousands if you were the paying type. You’re welcome to come and stay with me the night.”

Such an offer is not lightly given, and we would be churlish to refuse it.

So toward the farm we go, and find it is a place we would not have missed for the world, had we known of it previously.

Mandylion, protector of all

There are long-haired sheep, rams, ducks, chuckens, goats, a newly planted fruit and nut wood, and a hand-built green-oak barn, in which we are invited to stay.

g

Ed surprised by his good fortune

Ayla scratches Arthur's itch

Arthur is relentless, in the good way of goats

As soon then as we have relaxed, unpacked, and marvelled at such fortune, Bryan sits us down, feeds us blood-red wine, and begins to expound oak-wood knowledge.

Quercus

Beside the spinning wheel, they plot good things for all

felt is made

Initially, he follows each statement with the caveat: “now, you may think I’m loopy…”, but after enough times of our saying “please, no, just continue, we are here to learn” he gets his flow going. And then for many an hour we are sat at his feet, learning the roots of old words, old ways, mysteries we had not thought uncoverable. It is a fine time.

the moody ones try on a little wisdom

the mug, bottom upwards, lists the necessary evolutions of us all

FOR EXAMPLE: Hazel will live forever, if man is there to tend and coppice it. Mistletoe is known as Viscum Alba, or sticky white cum, the cycle of the year and the days of the week are not meaninglessly given, Brittania is a woman, the sea is a man who enters her land at certain points, the salmon is the sperm who swims upstream to fertilize, or eat, the hazelnut, Jesus was called Jeshu, born in the sign of the Lion, which is why the Romans, masters of irony, threw early Christians to the lions…

And much more.

And then, come morning, Ayla starts us all carding and spinning wool, which Bryan supplies like magic from his store. This soone branches into felt-making, and we also gut and cook a road-kill pheasant that Bryan brings back, initially claiming it is too mangled for human food, and only good for the buzzards. But Ayla, with guidance and a piece of sharp flint, pops the breasts of the bird out, and we all eat barbecued game, which is delicious.

Ayla gets stuck-in

Digging out the breasts

Slish and slash, release the meat

The freed flesh

Fleeces, donated by Bryan

carding the threads

Ayla applies hot water

Will gives himself a good deep cut with his blade, and silently retreats to the nettles behind the barn to let-blood. He begins to feel light-headed, and so squats down, which helps immensely. As he is sat there, dripping blood, he watches a buzzard rise up from the woodlands.

At first, it soars up easily, yet gently, until also rising from the treetops come two crows, to harry it. They knock the buzzard, interfere with his wingstrokes, craw and hassle him. But the buzzard continues to rise, ignoring them, focussing on flight, and eventually, as distance is made from the woods, the crows circle away and return to the tree-tops, and the buzzard’s ascent is made. Away he flies.

Will wonders the meaning of this vision, shown when blood was being lost so steadily, and it brings to mind the words of an email sent in by a Telegraph reader: “Do not be beguiled by your gathering fame”. Perhaps, he thinks, this buzzard’s flight represents our journey, and the crows represent the harbingers who will gravitate toward it. Will hopes that this walk will soar toward its necessary heights as well as the buzzard managed, by ignoring the fretful interference of the crows, that come to tangle in our wings.

We spend a fine pair of days here, before leaving, with great sadness, to walk on toward Salisbury. Bryan, we learn as we leave, is writing a book, for which we hope a publisher will be found.

Rushing Edward rises higher

goodnight from us

So where did Ginger go, and what is he doing now?

fare well, and joy be with you

Well, this walk as a three was always experimental. We did not know how well our group of 3 would work, and to an extent we did not share an entirely common vision. This, of course, was a good thing, for the more perspectives, the more we all can share new outlooks, and enjoy a wider field of sight.

Ed brings to the group his fluency with flickering ideas, his slow ascendance into showmanship, and his dreamy meanderings, inside of which he stands like cloud-built castles.

Will brings his charming ‘hello-manship’, his ability and desire to communicate with all people, and his slow steady holding of plots and plans, and his intent to protect.

Ginger brings his deep resources of craft, his awareness of the environment, his farsightedness and his trust in his ability to shape and adapt the environment around him, for the greater good.

All these qualities (and more!) we all brought walking with us, to share and learn from each other.

But not all groups are destined to remain together. Ginger had less of an impulse to share this journey with the world, while Ed and Will were intentful on the act of outward-communication. This meant that we were, asa group, more and more likely to desire separate existences, and although we loved to walk together, and especially to sing together, the journey had its paths for us all, which we slowly came to realize.

So Ginger applied for an apprenticeship with Mike Abbott, a renowned green woodworker who has done much travelling himself in days not so far gone by.

Ginger initially was writing a formal application, when an email from Mike came through: “I was sitting on the toilet, reading Permaculture magazine, when this page opened in my hands and there you were. No need for the application, just turn up when you can!”

It sort of makes all that work worthwhile, when the rewards are as simple and clear as that.

So Ginger, from Petersfield town centre, bid Ed and Will farewell. A funeral was going on in the town centre at that time, and it too was a confusing affair. People in flash suits were milling about chuckling, drinking and discussing cars.

We too felt the strange pull between sorrow and relief, as the unity we had all been trying so hard to maintain was mercifully broken, so we might all once more re-focus our energies inward along paths of less resistance.

Ginger then walked off, at breakneck pace, to get to Herefordshire in the next few weeks. We heard word of his swift travels through the south, which were dedicated to distance-coverage, and thus punished his feet and back more severely than our three-part walk of slow discovery.

It was a hard parting, but refreshing for us all, and certainly for the best. Will and Ed will continue to take the strange slow path of  outward-showing, while Ginger takes the creative journey of spokes and wheels and chairs and all.

His companionship will be sorely missed, yet we know that he will be skilling-up with his hands all dusty and full of good wood shavings, his heart full of the songs of creation and shaping.

And we will, when the road allows it, meet again and sing as a three with all the high glory we have known and shared.

“So it’s fare thee well, sweet lovely Ginger, ten thousand times fare well…”

rising and falling, the sweet sorrow sings