The weather had not listened to the BBC's forecast. Sun, they said - and definitely no rain in East Anglia. Mmm...
As it was supposed to be a fine and sunny day, I decided on the long loop around Withermarsh Green, Langham and Stoke-by-Nayland. Instead, I veered off at Thorington Street in the rain and strengthening wind and followed a loop around Boxted and Nayland, going in the opposite direction to my normal route, but, I soon realised, just as long.
There was no doubt today that autumn is here. The trees have not started changing to reds and yellows yet, but there is a subtle shift in the greens. The landscape is paler, worn-looking. My eye was caught by a single vivid flash of neon green next to the path. Assuming it to be something man-made and plastic, I was surprised to find that it was a small, perfectly round apple, nestling in the entrance to an animal's burrow. It looked like an offering to a miniature god. Blackberries are still hanging in thick clusters, but they have shrunk to a papery dryness, reminders that you have missed the opportunity to pick them at their perfect ripeness. This year, there have been more than anyone could possibly eat.
The many faces of fungi are appearing, some in astonishing colours. This blue dustbin lid (which I have not been able to identify) had pushed its solitary way up through the leaf litter in the green lane leading from Withermarsh Green to the Higham road. There are many stunted elm trees in the hedgerow, so I wondered whether it was a species associated with these.
This fragile ghost, seemingly too delicate to survive our recent rain storms, was swaying defiantly in the growing wind on the steep path out of Polstead:
And the red team, as yet without their main player, fly agaric, had sent in a substitute which I also could not identify:
From Thorington Street, I followed the Boxted road; past Boxted mill, past a perfectly straight line of Lombardy poplars over 30 metres high, and past the place in the road where the river had flooded earlier in the year, leaving a cliff edge several feet high at the side of the tarmac.
At Boxted church, with the rain easing, I stopped for a closer look at the extraordinary monument to a well-heeled local Victorian army officer. His family built him a tiny but elaborate house in which to spend eternity, complete with stone carvings of roses, lions and guardian angels. Although outrageous to modern eyes, it has a touching tenderness and bears witness to a great parental love.
Life goes on - the white shape among the ivy in the foreground is a used and discarded baby's nappy.
I walked back towards Nayland, down Burnt Dick Hill (still wondering) and over the water meadow towards The Anchor. An enticing aroma was coming from the kitchen, even though it was still early and no customers had yet claimed their lunchtime places in the glass igloos by the river side.
Up steep Gravel Hill and along the high ridge, with distant views on all sides. At a bend in the road, there is a huge oak tree which seems to be a favourite with a local druid, or whoever it is that assembles collections of feathers, leaves and stones in the trunks of ancient trees. To add to the existing pebble and feather combo, today two plastic palm trees and a couple of tiny figures had taken up residence in a cosy nook.
Back down to the bridge near Poplars Farm, then up and over the Stoke road and down again towards Stoke Tye. It was strangely quiet today; few cars, even though I had walked mainly on roads, no other walkers. It came as a shock to hear loud voices at Homey Bridge, as a trio of young strollers emerged from pathless undergrowth. I realised that, for many miles, I had been listening to the unusual silence of wild noise.
Comments