At Play In The Chilterns

Sometimes my walks are planned in detail: distances are measured, times are estimated, places are researched, weather forecasts are consulted. Other times I throw the map and a few bits and pieces in the rucksack and just go. 

I went first of all to the village of Lilley, which sits at the edge of the Chiltern Hills. It's a pretty and a prosperous place, a desirable place to dwell and one that could easily feature in one of those coffee-table books on "Beautiful Britain".

The meadows around the village are threaded by well-marked footpaths and seem to be largely given over to pasturing horses from the riding stables. I remember reading long ago that this kind of closely grazed land with scattered trees has always appealed to people. The writer went on to postulate that this preference derives from our distant ancestors coming from the savannahs of Africa, where vaguely similar landscapes exist to this day.

  

Whether there could be any truth in that suggestion I leave you to decide for yourself, but I know I'm always happy to wander in this area. It also seems to be what those with sufficient means aim for when they go about creating their ideal landscape, be they seventeenth-century aristocrats designing parkland around their country mansions or modern town-planners drawing up a scheme for an urban green space.

 

I also recall another theory concerning landscape painting and photography. This insightful daydreamer reckoned that all our favourite pictures represented either look-outs or sanctuaries. Again the ancient basis of these preferences was our prehistoric selves; look-outs would be high places commanding views across the countryside, enabling us to see possible game to hunt, or enemies approaching....

….sanctuaries, on the other hand, were places that offered us seclusion from our enemies or the wild animals. A place to hide away.

A distant view framed by trees would then be the ideal; a safe place with a view of any approaching dangers!

I suppose one could also take these idle thoughts a stage further. As these early men and women wandered in search of food they would have to learn the lie of the land and construct mental maps of the possible routes through their world. I certainly find myself attracted to pictures showing pathways I might follow on foot and I sometimes get comments that others share my enthusiasm.

While I follow some paths, others remain "the road untaken", there to be sauntered down another day.

It would also have been vital to pay close attention to the flowers and plants, some of which were potential food-sources, while others might have medicinal uses. I still find myself drawn to these details, even though the need is no longer there - I wouldn't know how to get medicines from a plant unless I looked it up online, a resource our foraging forebears managed without! On the other hand I do know all the best blackberry bushes and mushrooming spots in the vicinity!

So I wander on, going this way and that, exploring hollows then climbing crests, watching the fall of sunlight and the contours of the hillsides, with random thoughts running through my mind. In the course of all this I probably cover as many miles as I would if I were on a more thoroughly thought-out walk; it certainly feels like it.

And every so often it's a good idea to sit down in the sunshine and just chew the cud for a while!

Take care.

The Old Mill

This weekend is National Mills Weekend when windmills and watermills across the country are opened up to the public. Bourn Windmill is by no means the largest or most impressive mill in the land but is of interest to me because some of my ancestors lived and farmed in Bourn and must have been familiar with its turning sails. (This is Bourn, Cambridgeshire, not the more famous one in Lincolnshire). Small mills like this were the norm across the country, though most were put out of business as larger, more efficient mills took over.

Technically it's an "open trestle post mill" which is one of the earliest kinds of mill known. The "trestle" is the triangular section at the bottom which supports the mill and which in later mills is enclosed. And it's a "post mill" because the whole mill above the trestle rotated upon a single huge oak post. What's more it still rotates today....

Despite appearances it turns very easily and smoothly and, although lots of visitors volunteered to help, I'm sure that a single sturdy miller could move it on his own. The reason for rotating the mill was to ensure that the sails were always pointing into the wind.

So just how old is this mill? Well, we know it was here in 1636 and that was thought to make it the oldest post mill in England. However the very similar mill, just down the road at Gransden, has had its central post dated at 1620 so may be a little older. The design of the mill is even older than that; looking online I found this thirteenth-century century illustration...

Not the greatest scale drawing but the general idea seems to be there. Lets go and look inside the real thing...

Here on the lower floor is where the flour was bagged off. I'd love to be able to show you more details from inside but there's not a lot of space or light in there. Then I noticed that the central post had begun to slowly rotate...…????

The explanation was that another enthusiastic group of visitors had arrived and it was the whole mill that was turning around the central post which was of course stationary. But the movement was so smooth that there was no vibration whatever to be felt by those of us in the mill. Medieval engineering at its best!

Upstairs (or more accurately "up-rickety-wooden-ladder") we could see the huge millstones that ground the flour. The chute coming in from the bottom left of the photo delivered the grain into the centre of the millstones, where it fell down and was ground between the rotating stone and the stationary one beneath. 

We were standing around the trap door through which the sacks of grain were hoisted up (using power from the turning sails, of course). The central shaped piece of wood has been inserted recently to fill the gap which has been worn away by the chains that hoisted the sacks.

Behind us were more workings that it's thought would have turned a second set of millstones. It was in these cramped and downright dangerous conditions that the miller and his boy would spend their working days - and nights too if there was sufficient wind.

With the tour completed we went to enjoy tea and cakes, and perhaps to contemplate the events of a windy night in 1741 when the miller, Richard Bishop, went out to adjust the mill. Part of the mill was blown down by the storm, killing the unfortunate miller.

(Bourn Windmill is also open once a month during the summer months see website for details).


Take care.

A Country Dance.

The dance of the seasons goes on. No sooner has May entered clad in her brand new gown of emerald green, than she joins the reeling throng, joyously revealing her white calico petticoats.

Putting it less poetically, the new green leaves are appearing everywhere and the Hawthorn bushes are bursting into white blossom across the land and will soon be looking as wonderful as the photo below, which was taken last year towards the end of the month.

Although the May (as Hawthorn blossom is generally known) is already out, it's no time to be "casting clouts" just yet, as it's still chilly out there, unless you find a sheltered spot in the sun. 

If we start investigating the folk lore associated with the humble Hawthorn bush we'll be here all day: May Day, the May Queen, Maypole dancing, Jack-in-the-Green, the Green Man, the death of mothers, Joseph of Arimathea, Britain's smallest nature reserve and even West Bromwich Albion Football Club might all have a claim on our attention! But we'll leave all that for another day for May is not alone in displaying her white finery.

Jack has been here for a while, in the form of Jack-By-The-Hedge or Garlic Mustard, patiently waiting to join the dance. He's not as showy as May, just revealing a little white lace at the cuff and collar perhaps. His perfume is a lot less attractive too, though May has a cousin, the woodland hawthorn, who smells of putrefaction and has perhaps given rise to the superstitions about deaths in the family which have become associated with hawthorns.

  

Queen Anne is here showing off her lace too - or at least she might be! This is Cow Parsley which is often given the name Queen Anne's Lace in England. In North America that name is given to the very similar Wild Carrot. 

Once in full bloom Cow Parsley can be every bit as striking as the May blossom and lines many a country road in this part of the world, especially since the local council have become too impoverished to chop it all down. I hope they continue to leave it be, as it provides a home for all sorts of insects.

While we're here on the roadside let us also celebrate dear little gypsy Daisy. While she may not be able to outshine the Queen of May or even Queen Anne, she's here virtually all year round lending her bright smile to every corner of the scene.

Another often overlooked beauty is the White Dead-Nettle which is also present for much of the year, though it's in the Spring, after its brief absence, that it shines forth most strongly.

The White Campion is yet another white flower of the roadside verges. The combination of pure white and bright fresh green is the overriding theme of the tracks and hedgerows of Southern England during the next month or so. With any luck I'll be seeing a lot of it on my walks.

As with any country dance there are always those who arrive early and expend all their energy in the first few jigs. Poor old Dandelion has already bloomed and faded though, as I know from past experience, she has many children who will be joining the party later in the year.

Take care.

Albion Smiles

The English countryside was wearing a broad smile this morning. A slightly chilly smile, it must be admitted, but a pretty one nevertheless.

Pretty enough to seduce me into a long walk just west of Hitchin anyway. This is not an area famed for its scenery and the weather forecast wasn't very encouraging either, but if you don't get out there you'll never know. Prepare to be pleasantly surprised.

Hertfordshire is full of surprises, just a mile or so from the bustle of Hitchin marketplace you can find yourself in a little slice of rural England-as-we-like-to-imagine-it.

If you've got to do a little road walking during the day then it's always encouraging to see an "Unsuitable For Motors" sign, and the lane soon deteriorated into a rough farm track - excellent!

It's been a splendid year for cowslips and some are still lingering in odd shady spots, like along this sunken lane.

Just a hint of the Chiltern Hills ahead, though we're not officially in the "Chilterns Area Of Outstanding Natural Beauty" today. Looks nice enough to me.

A scattering of sheep on the distant hillside and grass green enough to conjure up Blake's "England's pleasant pastures". Lots of feet must have indeed passed this way "in ancient times".

If Vaughan Williams is more to your taste then there was a lark ascending too.

I'm making my way to the village of Great Offley, whereupon, having had a nosey around, I shall turn around and walk back by a different route.

Great Offley must have one of the daftest churches I've ever seen. The nave is of fairly standard "English country church" design, albeit with a porch that looks too big for it. The west end has an attractive red brick tower that looks like it belongs somewhere else. Then there's that chancel. You could be excused for thinking it might be a water tank, or a piece of 1960's brutalism, though it actually dates from 1777. What were they thinking about?

Down in the village was this attractive half-timbered building with red brick infilling. Long time readers might recognise this odd-shaped roof as being that of an old dovecote; it's very much the standard design for such buildings in these parts.

I'd hoped to treat myself to some chocolate, but found that the village shop had closed down a couple of months ago. My informant also told me that it would be opening again in a few month's time - I decided not to wait.

I had to make do with sweet scenery - a feast for the eyes at least.

The map calls this narrow track I'm following "Windmill Lane". Our ancestors certainly knew their land well; this was quite the windiest stretch of the whole walk. The windmill though is long gone - it probably blew away.

We're getting near to the end of the walk now. My steps led into the pleasant little hamlet of Charlton where I found a house with a Blue Plaque.

It told me that in this house in 1813 Sir Henry Bessemer was born. At first I couldn't place the name, though I knew I'd heard it before. He was the inventor who revolutionised steel-making with his Bessemer Convertor; I vaguely remember learning about it at school. This is hardly the sort of countryside you'd expect to be the birthplace of such a man.

Take care.

A Dream Of Bluebells

As I grow older birthdays come around with depressing regularity, but there are other seasonal events that I still anticipate with something approaching excitement. For instance, I start to think about the bluebell season from the day I see my first snowdrops; probably because they occur in a similar woodland environment. Hertfordshire is particularly well supplied with bluebell woods - and yes, from time to time I do dream about them!

Here are my bluebell pictures for this year, some more real than others.....

Take care.