Penshurst countryside

I really enjoy taking the dog for a walk. It's not just the fresh air and exercise but the sense of walking through a landscape created by the successive owners of Penshurst over the last thousand years. Most of the features are, it is true, more recent. Two oak tree avenues were planted twenty years ago to replace earlier ones that were decimated in the 1987 hurricane. But a survivor nearby, the Bear Oak also called the Sidney Oak, is genuinely reckoned to be about a thousand years old. There aren't many named trees in the country. It looks on its last legs to be honest, Just a wide, hollow trunk about twenty-five feet high with about three straggly branches which miraculously come into leaf each Spring. It's a designated Heritage Tree.

The famous Oak tree stands about 100 yards north of a small Lake called the Lancup Well. I don't know how long it's been called that, but the name was there about 500 years ago. And a scion of the Sidney family was drowned in it during the 118th century. It's not on the Place Name Society's Kent list on its Nottingham University website. The oak and lake have sat in this landscape that has been used for hunting for a long time. It had deer in it during the 16th century and earlier. In the 15th century a part of the emparked landscape called Redleaf was raided by about 100 men who were all blacked up and wearing women's clothing so they couldn't be recognised if taken. They made off with over 100 deer. Given that the lords of Penshurst were granted the right of free warren fairly early on, it seems likely that at least some of their lands were given over to hunting probably in the 14th century. Which means that the present state of a hedgeless landscape might have existed for a long time. Centuries, I mean. When the estate fell into Henry VIII's hands he bought some land to the east and added it to the park, increasing it by about a third.

In the early 18th century the parkland was formally 'landscaped' with great avenues of trees running away from the house for the better part of a mile. They are there to this day. To the west and north of the house - Penshurst Place - are two large fields called Church Park and Cricket Park. Church Park abuts on the house to the east and the church (Norman) and rectory (13th century origins) to the south. Within Cricket Park is a fenced off circular piece with a pavilion. The cricket field was apparently first used for this glorious game in 1729. Before that it was used for bowls - and the earthworks of a rectangular flat area lie within the cricket field. I assume this is the remains of the bowling green. Between the cricket field and the house is a large (30 metre diameter) circular depression about 4 metres deep. It once had trees standing in it - but no more. The dog loves racing down into it and racing back out. The estate records apparently don't record what sort of trees were planted. Nor do they indicate why this bowl was created.

Here comes the chainsaw

The chainsaw is being serviced this weekend. Back to where it belongs tomorrow. There are the remains of two apple trees in my shed to cut into manageable chunks for chopping into firewood. I've had the pile of wood for eight months and done nothing about the chainsaw. Now that colder nights are drawing in, and we've had a couple down to 2C, having a decent fire in the living room becomes central to our comfort. The wife and I sit in our chairs and warm up gently. The dog lies with his nose in the fire until he cooks and then he moves back to wrap himself round our feet. It's a cunning move designed to trip us when we get up to make a cup of tea/coffee/etc.

There was nothing to show for last night's incredibly heavy rain this morning except for glistening paths. We escaped the strong winds down on the coast. But gentler breezes have blown heaps and heaps of multicoloured leaves up against our door [We don't have a back door!]. The trees are now leafless or - as some would have it - bare/naked. When I took the dog out this afternoon nearly all the trees in the field were almost completely bare except for the oaks. And, I think Darwin would like this one, the outfield of the cricket field is covered in thousands upon thousands of worm casts. I can't even begin to count them. They are changing the colour of the grass to brownish-green!





The dog was disappointed that there were no Greylag Geese grazing in the field. In past years the population has been about 60 - 70. This year conditions have obviously been particularly good for breeding as there are at least 120 grazing and arguing with one another. I love the sound their wings make when they take off as a group. It's like a thumb being run through a giant comb. A group of five came in formation over our heads heading towards the lake. They were honking as though telling each other to maintain formation. Perhaps the leader was talking to the control tower!

The Milk was in the udder last night

At the local farm shop I was rummaging in the freezer for some pork chops. In the end I found them: the label said they were Gloucester Old Spot. Or had been when the pig was alive. The only pork sold here comes from a Rare Breeds Pig Farm about a mile from the shop. The beef comes from half a mile away. In fact, the farmer often grazes five or six of his cows in a small field beside the village shop. Milk and cream comes from a farm half a mile from the shop. It is their boast that when you buy a bottle of their milk, the milk was in the cow that morning or, at the oldest, the previous evening. The lamb comes from a similarly close farm. Veg comes generally from local farms and allotment holders within a mile and a half. So I picked a dozen lovely looking apples out of a box. I asked where they came from. Henry, who runs the shop, was most apologetic. They came from three miles away! Beat that,Sainsbury's! Or Tesco's. Or, even, Morrison's.

Yesterday I slaved on my daughter's garden. She has a lovely 25 metre long, 5 metre wide space attached to a council house in Dagenham. Even though she spent a lot of time on my allotment when she was little, she has forgotten everything she ever knew about gardening. She also has a small daughter to cope with. Her husband has no idea about gardens. Unfortunately for him his mother has always done everything for him. So he has no idea about anything except computer games. On a previous visit we had looked at the garden. It was carefully designed by the former occupant, a very old woman, into four rooms connected by short lengths of connecting grass. The first is a lawn. We planted bulbs in it: snakes head fritillary, crocus, tulip and a 5kg bag of daffodils. About 200 in all. The seriously overgrown hedges need pretty serious attention. I got about a third of the way down the garden pruning the trees and bushes in the hedges. This widened the garden considerably and produced about a skip full of prunings. That can be the son-in-law's job. Getting rid of them before I arrive to continue my attack on the garden next month. At least my daughter has a clear idea about what she wants in the garden. We'll have to work on it room by room. I also have to cut down a lot of Buddleias which have got a bit out of control. Some of them are about 5 metres tall! Oh dear!

Death stalks the countryside

OK. I've been silent for too long. Sorry for the hiatus.

Update on the dentist. After three visits and 90 minutes of dentist's activity in my mouth, the root canal has finally been fixed. It took 7 injections, 5 x-rays and a week's worth of antibiotics as well as two packings of the tooth with antiseptic wadding. Not to speak of my pain and suffering. I now have a mortgage to pay for the work. There is no NHS dentist round here.









As the trees round here close down for the winter their colours are showing like a Leonardo palette. There is a tall ash tree in one of the fields I walk the dog in which is such a pale green that it is very nearly yellow. Oak trees are turning yellow-green with patches of reddy-brown. A recent journey up the A21 to the M25 and along that monstrosity northwards to Dartford Tunnel was a real treat. Not the traffic, you understand, but the colours along hedges and in woods on either side of the road. Soon the view will be of leafless trees. And no colour until the end of March at the earliest. Oh dear.

The work the groundsman did on the cricket pitch with aerator, fertiliser and grass seed when he put it to bed for the winter is already apparent. The grass in the fenced-off pitch is both greener and taller than in the outfield. Can't wait for next cricket season to begin. But first the sheep have to be let in to graze and fertilise the outfield. In the mean time I will have to put up with the coarse shouts of footballers as they play on the rough pitch adjacent to the cricket field. (They don't have a groundsman.) I do look forward to the day-long battle of a cricket match and the polite clapping of players and audience.

There are plenty of pheasants wandering round the countryside at the moment. Their harsh calls fill the air. There won't be all that many left by the end of January. Are they aware that they have been bred for target practice and then the table? There was a pair of cock pheasants arguing the toss in a field the other day when my dog decided to break it up. He nearly caught one of them. Not that he would have known what to do once he had it in his mouth. He's a daft Black Labrador. I would have helped him kill and eat it. No. I wouldn't have even given him a taste.

Talking of birds, the tawny owls are still about hunting every night. So that means there are plenty of small mammals out there. Fortunately, my new mousetrap in the shed has failed to kill any mice for six weeks now. Perhaps it will be required later in the winter when the warmth and rubbish in the shed attracts wood mice.

I hate Dentists

Oh dear! Dentists are a necessary evil, but I do hate them. They stick their fat fingers into your mouth, pressing your lips against the sharp bits of your teeth and complain when you flinch. The last time I had a root canal filling, the dentiste, for it was a she, tried to drill through my tooth straight away. After four injections she gave up and sent me home with a week's worth of antibiotics. The next week she accomplished the deed in one go.

Today I was on my second visit for another root canal job. Last week he decided to conduct emergency dentistry on the tooth. Four injections was just enough for some of the pain to go, but not all. He sucked pus out of an abscess by the bucketful and gave me a week's worth of antibiotics. Today I anticipated finishing the job off. But no. There was yet more pus to be extracted by picking at the interior of my tooth and washing the abscess out with saline. He loves talking about how much pus is coming out, and showing it to me on a long pin he uses. He packed the hollow shell with some medicine and sent me away for another week. Would it have been quicker and cheaper for him to have taken the damned thing out last week? Probably. But dentists these days are into tooth conservation.

After this pain-crazed experience I drove home, only to realise half way that my driving was rather wonky. The effect of the anaesthetic, I suppose. Nevertheless, the woods looked utterly magnificent, filled with lush undergrowth. The leaves are just beginning to turn to autumnal yellows and reds. Next May it will be replaced by carpets of real English bluebells. Few of the trees are very old because the estate which manages the woods coppices them regularly. Some of the wood is retained for internal use for chestnut paling fences but the rest is sold off.

This evening while herself was away at orchestra, I read John Grisham's The Summons. I got half way through and knew what was going to happen by the end. And it did. So I gave up reading it. I hate books that are so predictable. You want a twist at the end to make you have to read the rest to find out where you made your mistake. Like a short story by Edward Thomas, the War Poet, that describes a wonderful summer's day in the countryside. You follow the path of a toddler through a field to a stream where, in the last sentence, she drowns. Now that is masterly, even if it is a bit overloaded with adjectives. The collection is called The Ship of Swallows.

Today the house is filled with the delicate smell of boiling quinces. 5 pounds of them all chopped up with some lemons and lemon juice. In the end, after much boiling and straining of liquids and adding of sugar, followed by some seriously hard boiling, the resulting goo will be bottled as clear, reddish Quince Jelly.

A fortnight ago I was sitting here waiting for a pan full of my own recipe Chilli Sauce to boil down a bit. It's now all been bottled and some has gone to friends. Don't you always give your friends chilli sauce?

And two weeks before that I made a huge volume of Gazpacho which I poured into old plastic milk bottles. A lot is now in the freezer, ready to be consumed during the winter. That will remind me that at some point in the preceding year, the world was a warm, if not hot, place.

Last night's mist has gone and been replaced by sunshine and light, fluffy clouds. It's still not exactly tropically warm, but, there, at this time of year what can you expect? I'm writing at the kitchen table under the shade of a bouquet of scarlet gladioli stuffed into a jug, being the only container I could find for them, which were given to me by daughter and son-in-law for my birthday. They also, it is true, gave me a DVD and a wonderful map of Ambridge. I now sit with the map opened every night for The Archers.

Mercy Mission

The weatherman misled me yesterday. So did the Met Office weather gadget. They said it was going to be misty overnight. They did NOT say that the mist was going to be so thick you couldn't see 50 yards (sorry I'm not fully metricised yet). So when I went on a mercy mission for crisps, chocolate and cigs to the nearest garage (4 miles away - nearest Sainsbury's is 4.5 miles away!) down tightly twisted roads reflecting medieval fields I was lucky to get above 20 mph. Fortunately I was only person on the road. No cars. No deer. No horses. No ghosts. Nothing. I heard a plucky pheasant signalling that the shooting season had started. Will he still be there in February?

Earlier in the day spent voucher for winning story on pair of cords from M&S. Only supplier who does my waist and inside leg automatically. No need for (trouser) legs to be shortened. Mine are short enough. The story How Nathaniel saved Doris from a fate worse than death won the 2009 Penshurst Short Story Competition. For the sake of completeness, Nathaniel is a dog and Doris is a youthful, lusty, grandmother. At the end of the 1000 word story she gets off with the Shepherd, owner of the sheep that attacks her.