Last night we enjoyed the company of Storm Dudley. He shook the windows and the chimneys during the wild, dark hours, then seemed to go quiet. But when I went for my walk this morning, I found him still loitering in the Suffolk countryside.
Starting from Whitestreet Green in bright sunshine and under a cleanly washed blue sky, I followed the road through Polstead, past the pond, where the occasional mysterious ring of ripples betrayed some of its monster carp checking out what had happened overnight in the out-of-pond world. I climbed the steep hill to the green, taking the "secret" path to the corner by the village hall, past some perfect bunches of snowdrops still at the pearl earring stage, then left along Heath Road towards Polstead Heath.
Once I was past Polstead Heath and heading down Pope's Green road towards Shelley, the remaining force of Dudley made itself felt. An ivy-clad tree had fallen neatly across the road, entirely blocking it. Luckily, the steep banks on either side had caught the trunk to leave a convenient gap underneath it to squeeze through.
At least this morning I didn't have to dangle from any overhead branches or cling to the bank to avoid cars or delivery vans needing to get past me.
Round the corner towards the Stoke-by-Nayland road, I debated whether to take the first track across towards Shelley, or continue to the bridle path further down the Stoke Road. Sheltered again from the wind, I decided on the Stoke road. At the top of the slope leading up to the bridle path, the wind hit again. It was like pushing a brick wall along in front of me. A young man and woman appeared, each riding one horse and leading another. I greeted them and got well out of their way, thinking back to times when I used to ride rather than walk, and when a windy day meant no chance of a relaxing meander through the countryside, as my mount spotted wind demons in every moving branch and took evasive action. Their horses, however, were surprisingly calm in the wild conditions. It made me want to try a horseback view again.
The wind continued to blow directly at me all along the Shelley road, sometimes with a force that stopped me altogether or knocked me sideways (I don't carry a lot of ballast). I consoled myself by thinking how much more exercise I was getting than usual, but I was pleased to change direction towards Withermarsh Green.
It was still pretty wild until I reached the dip where a bridge takes the road over a small brook, the name of which I have never discovered. I tried to take photos illustrating the wind, but decided it was impossible. My efforts just showed a serene blue sky, now with some fluffly, innocent-looking clouds, and apparently stationary branches. Well, I tried!
The road through Withermarsh Green is tightly hemmed in by high hedges of hawthorn and holly. A few new, lime-green hawthorn leaves and the odd bright red holly berry that had survived the winter added the occasional splash of colour. The hedges gave me some respite from the wind, but it still made its presence felt: the yellow and white flag on the Catholic chapel, above the shelter offered by the hedge, was thrashing about frantically and trying to escape from its flagpole.
I walked across the large arable field, this time jet-propelled by the wind, across to the Stoke road and down Marten's Lane. Some celendines, primroses and even a few very early daffodils are appearing, adding yellow to the colour scheme. The hazels are hanging out catkins, like washing on a line.
As I walked back along the Whitestreet Green road, the overhead power lines were booming out a long, single note, as though someone had jammed a finger down on one key of a church organ, somewhere around middle F. As I listened, I could sometimes make out a harmonic, one fifth lower, which made the sound eerily purposeful. Dudley's lost chord. Tomorrow it's Eunice's turn - let's see what she brings!
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