Day 3 - Friday 22 April 2022 Bury Lane to Streatley
Following the Easter Break from work, we find ourselves with less available time to don our walking boots and tramp the trail. However, on Friday we made a spontaneous decision to make the most of however little time we had. Between school drop off and pick up, we took off setting ourselves a target of a modest 8 miles, which would allow sufficient time to enjoy the experience without thinking about the time too much. So we dropped our first car in Streatley and thankfully the journey cross country from Streatley to Bury Lane, near East Ilsley, was a mere 16 minutes. (At least it should have been had we not been chattering excitedly like a pair of goldfinches and continued along the A34, only to get caught in traffic before we could come off the next slip road and retrace our route along the opposite carriage way). However the dent in our time was not too great and before long we were pulling on our boots and ready to roll.
We set off, welcomed to the Ridgeway by a kestrel but a few metres above us, holding his place, as he beat his wings, waiting, as if expecting the pounding of our boots on the chalk path would incited some prey out from its hiding place in the tufts of grass on the verge of the path. We crossed over the road to be presented with a wide open vista of the downlands ahead but, rather than the sun drenched stage we might have hoped for, we found mordant clouds hanging low over the the hills beyond, creating an ominous, foreboding scene. Any thoughts of leaving our coats behind dispersed in the air as we braced ourselves for much more than April showers, but an almighty downpour. We continued on not to be deterred by the atmosphere and in high spirits at the joy of being out in the air, on top of the world. (That song never far from our thoughts). Perhaps it was our positive approach radiating over the Ridgeway that held back the threat until it dissipated, to be replaced by more subtle grey clouds.
The landscape has transformed from our first outing on the Ridgeway two and a half weeks ago. Of course, now we are in a different county so the characteristics have changed from the obvious barrows, hill forts and combes. The season is progressing with trees, previously skeletal, now dressed in green, with the exception of the red oak who is dressed, no not in red, but defiant in a glorious cloak of gold.
We even found an unusual ornamental tree, dressed in orange.
Our path drops down below the road to lead us through a grungy tunnel, its walls defaced with graffiti. In the gloom we nearly miss the beautiful murals on our right. We examine them in the dim light before moving on. As we exit the tunnel we note that the gallery attendant must be on his lunch break. His chair vacated.
The birds are more secretive today, perhaps because they can be on account of the greenery, but also because the sun has failed to show itself and perhaps they are less inclined to take to the top most boughs to sing praises to the day. Instead they lurk in the inner most branches teasing us. Making them more difficult to recognise. Their songs are less vociferous but nonetheless identifiable, which enables us to clock their presence.
The path may not have been busy with its usual traffic of cyclists, walkers and equestrians on this weekday, however, the path ahead was a hive of activity. Birds were skittering back and forth across our pathway and into the hedgerows. The blackbird whistled his nostalgic song from a private balcony hidden from view within the hawthorn. His melodic ditty transporting me back to summer evenings in my childhood, when I would step out alone into the meadows surrounding my home and prance to the sweet sounds of his final aria before nightfall. (Another Proustain moment. What is it about getting back to nature that allows us to reflect?)
My revelry is broken when, is this John Deere again, a tractor comes racing up the lane. But no, I was mistaken when, on closer examination at home, I find that this green and black beast of farm machinery is in fact a Fendt. My researching informs me of the difference between John Deere and Fendt.
‘The Fendt goes a little faster down the road (about 3 mph).
As was more than satisfactorily demonstrated by the driver as he engulfed us in a thick cloud of dust that required us to turn away and hold our breathe, which, as you can imagine, was a bit of a challenge for two such chatterboxes.
We continue to step it out over the undulations, admiring the far off fields of rape with their scent carried to us by the wind. On the distant gallops we saw equestrians racing two by two up the slope, being videoed by a sole observer at the crest of the hill.
The chalk path between the hedgerows led us on towards our destination. We stopped to photograph seed heads (including wild carrot and mullein) and laden boughs of frothy blossoms. The thick hedges provided us with only a hint of the landscapes beyond. Michala challenged me to a game of ‘truth or dare’. The trouble is she knows all my truths so I had no choice but to accept the dare. She dared me brush my hand over a white flowered nettle, informing me that they do not sting. She was right.
It is with delight I heard the ‘tic, tic, tic, tee’ of the yellowhammer. Day 3 of our walk and he is still with us. A dark image taken on my camera enables me to identify him without a shadow of doubt when downloaded to my computer. The birds are many and their chattering and chirping not unlike our own, as we twitter as if we have not met for aeons. The skylarks are not deterred by the sun’s reluctance, as they take to the sky. We hear sounds like pebbles chipped together in a warning as the stonechats sit on the fence lines just beyond us, moving on up ahead as we near them. The chiff-chaff ‘chaff-chiffs’ and the blackcap entertains us with his complex song.
We encounter a few walkers on our way, and as is often the case, a joke is cracked about taking their photos so I call their bluff, taking photos of them and their best four-legged friends. My only regret being that I did not hear the end of the story about the walking stick, the creation of a refugee. A choice was made to use the stick whilst out walking rather than display it in a cabinet and quite right too.
This year I have set myself a challenge to familiarise myself with different species of trees. I may not always get it right but in researching these hungry, dark metallic blue beetles, I found them to be Gelastica alni, who have a preference for alder leaves and sure enough it matched my conclusion when checking the guide to British Trees, a present from Michala.
Despite the restrictions in place on account of bird flu, we spot a cockerel, remaining unmoved except for the occasional wind change and we are delighted that the wind has pushed those threatening clouds from view and blown our cobwebs away as we arrive back at Streatley in perfect time, finishing our third outing along The Ridgeway.
To read about our 4th day along the Ridgeway National Trail click on the link below: