Under yet another uniformly grey sky, I set off on the "Langham Loop" in the hope that the rain would hold off, even if the sun declined to appear. I took the Homey Bridge path, turned left at the bottom and followed the sunken lane to the Polstead to Stoke-by-Nayland road. Off to the right and up and over the "Big Hill" at Polstead, I followed the path along several fields with horses grazing and back out on to the top of Marten's Lane. I saw nobody, not even an early dog-walker, and heard nothing but birds, the distant bark of a muntjac deer and, every now and then, an immensely loud hum from the thousands of bees and other nectar-loving insects in the ivy flowers.
Turning right towards Stoke, I took the path across the fields to Withermarsh Green, the heavy grey clouds transforming the views I have often photographed in sunshine.
The ancient cottages on the green had seen it all before. One of them smugly showed off its lovely new thatch: that will keep the winter out when it arrives (probably next week, given the weather we've had so far this year).
I took the green lane called Snow Hill which forms part of the Stour Valley Path, following it down into the valley through a tunnel of overhanging branches. It seemed years since I took photos of the bluebells here, back in April.
At the bottom, I turned left along part of the busy Stoke to Higham road, then took the track on the right, past a field where a group of lettuce pickers were working hard to bring in the crop, loud Balkan music playing on a radio and the occasional voice joining in, enthusiastically if not tunefully. For a few seconds a pin-prick of blue sky appeared and the sun briefly shone, so unexpected it startled me.
At the bridge over the Stour I paused to look for fish, but saw none. The dragonflies too, which were so numerous just a couple of weeks ago, now seem to have flown their last.
I followed the road back towards Boxted Mill, which looked as idyllic as ever, even under the grey clouds. Pausing on the bridge here, I did see some small, dark fish, once my eyes had become used to the shadows on the water. In the past, I have caught a glimpse of a pike here, lurking like a tiger among the long fronds of weed, but today there was nothing bigger than a tiddler.
Continuing on the road towards Thorington Street, I stopped to look into the deep pool on the right. Something plopped into the water just before I arrived, but all I saw of it was a series of large, mysterious, circular ripples. I don't know what it was, but it was not small.
The reservoir at Thorington Street had its usual array of water birds. The heavy air seemed to be keeping them all grounded and they sounded quarrelsome. A dozen swallows still criss-crossed the field next to the reservoir. Even they were flying only a few inches above the grass.
I walked over the bridge at Thorington Street and up the hill back towards Withermarsh Green. At the top of the lane, I took the path on the left and found an unexpected display of colour - a solitary, bright blue wild chicory. After all the grey and the late-summer faded green, it was almost shocking to see such brilliant flowers. They have a blue-ness beyond bluebells or forget-me-nots, like little pieces of shattered sky from behind the clouds.
As I was examining the drying stems for ripe seeds to slip into my pocket (how I coveted that colour for my garden), suddenly someone screamed angrily at me. I put on my fiercest look and swung round to confront whoever it was who had the cheek to challenge me. The culprit took flight from a nearby tree on its blue-black wings and screamed at me again. Its companion, another crow, flew off after it, chuckling.
Opmerkingen