Autumn Cycle

So often when I am out and about the countryside, I wish I had a direct link from my eyes to the internet, that I could share with my friends the glorious part of the country I am lucky enough to live in. Especially this last Sunday, when West Oxfordshire glowed with the melancholic gold of late autumn sunshine. As I trundled along, I was hit by one of those 'Eureka' moments, and shortened my camera strap so that it was nestled aroung my collar bone (actually, to be truthful, Andy shortened it for me, as I am rubbish at that kind of thing). The results were kind of 'Blair Witch meets the Cotswolds' - lots of crazy camera angles as I cycled along, trying to hold myself upright and not fall down potholes. There is much juddering and wobbling - a combination of my bosom and the not-very-well-maintained country roads. But here is a shortened version of our jaunt, dedicated to my dear friend Tara, who is on the other side of the world, but often in my thoughts on these occasions. And suitable music to accompany my meanderings, so do turn your speakers on if you like Mr Vivaldi.

Thursday promenade

A fresh morning with a damp breeze wafting perfumed billows across the fields...




One of a pair of boxing hares, too far away for my little snapper to get a decent shot. Not seeing me, being hidden in a dip in the meadow I managed to get quite close before it lolloped cautiously away through the dandelions.





The summer wheat bursting skywards.




The dainty print of a roe hind, recently passed through -




The hawthorn hedges bowed with heady blossoms -




Drowsy cattle at the back of the flour mill.



and home for breakfast.

Il neige

There are few funnier sights then seeing the surpised outrage of cats when they realise that their universe has been transformed overnight with cold white stuff.

The Cotswolds had some of the heaviest snow fall in the country. Even Andy did not attempt his 45 minute commute on the motorbike, (especially after our tumble in the ice before Christmas) . So we went for a long walk through the fields.

The muffled creaking underfoot, the soft thud of snow falling from laden branches. A muted serenity, torn by the ragged croak of a solitary crow.

A young badger, his body still soft, lies dead in a drift. We wonder how a car could have been driving so fast in the icy slush. Nearing the village, an exodus of young families pull sledges towards the hill. The old church sits serenely under its shawl.

But really, despite the fragile beauty of the snowfall, the best place to be...




...is tucked up inside, beneath a cosy blanket.

"Git Orf Moi Laand..."

Deadline gone and buried. Hello freedom...narry a decent walk since Christmas and I was finally free to tramp the byways of our small patch of Paradise. The sky was a screaming cold blue, as if it were in competition with the Sun for brightness. It was only a small walk...up and out the village, risking life and limb on the twisty road, round which car drivers like to test their steering skills at sixty miles an hour. Then onto a quiet back lane, perfectly straight and lined at regular intervals with nice tidy trees.

From a distance it is visible for miles, instantly recognisable as looking like a child's' drawing of lollipop trees parading along the landscape. If I have had a rare trip to town, it is the first thing I look for as the homeward bus heaves itself over the brow of the steep hill before plunging back into the valley. For a few brief seconds there are the most spectacular views of the Cotswolds, panoramic in breadth and on a clear day, the Malvern Hills can be seen at the back, just creeping into visibility.

Some way down it there is a footpath leading back to the village. This was my humble goal, completing a brisk two mile walk before lunch. I found what I thought looked very much like the path, albeit without the usual signpost. I never do trust landowners to keep their public footpath signs in order, and I'm sure some of them would be greatly delighted if 'ordinary folks' stopped crossing their land, due to lack of pointers. Halfway down the track, I realised I was in the Wrong Place. The copse to my right should have been on my left, and the track seemed unused and overgrown. Turning back toward the road I remembered that some of the fields had set aside strips of winter fodder, and I had probably wandered down one of these, as there were plenty of dead seedbearing crops around, including some delightfully dessicated sunflowers. So naturally I stopped to take a few photos...

Returning to the road I spotted a sad little notice, collapsed from its stake, the plastic covered A4 sheet of paper blackened from ink runs and mud. It lay in a puddle, the message obliterated. The remains of an officious sign which ordered people not to venture into the field as it was a cover for game birds - I'd seen it last year, and the anarchist in me had instantly wanted to trespass...now I had done it inadvertently. I am generally careful to keep to paths, hoping that in the 21st century I will not be harassed by some swollen headed landlord for putting one foot wrong on their precious property.

A green Land Rover cruised slowly past and disappeared down the road. Minutes later, as I was heading towards the real footpath, it came up behind me and slowed to a halt. In the back trailer, hanging from a bar, swayed a few brace of pheasant. Naturally. Not many, but then, the season is almost over, and anything that hasn't been killed by now is canny enough to evade the guns. Inside were two tweedy gamekeepers. Wedged into the passenger seat, a jolly looking round faced chappie and at the wheel, a slab of cold humanity, Hatchet Face. He didn't even look at me. Jolly Round Face leaned over and enquired - in fairly friendly tones - if 'I knew I was walking through game fodder'. (Actually, I was walking alongside it, and there were no birds to scare anyway...being, as I said, dead or hiding). To which, being confident of my innocence, I replied 'yes I did know, and that is why I turned back', explaining briefly that I had mistaken it for the proper footpath over the way, pointing to the relevant hedge. Hatchet Face didn't blink, but Jolly Round Face seemed to accept this, and refrained from interrogating me anymore. I had a feeling that if it was down to Hatchet Face I would have found myself hanging with the birds in the back trailer, a garrote of orange bailer twine twisted round my neck. They drove off and I found the footpath, complete with helpful signpost.



It wasn't a particularly nasty confrontation, but it did niggle me. That they had been watching me. Did they see me taking photos of the sunflowers and think I was some kind of arty nut, idly dilly-dallying where I shouldn't have been? Lordy - even worse - did they see me wiping my cold wet nose on the back of my sleeve...that would have been shameful. It niggled me that they had come all the way back round with the intention of ticking me off - because if I hadn't answered so briskly and honestly, they would, I'm sure, have subjected me to a patronising lecture. Then I realised that I had probably been the most exciting thing to happen to them all day, bar blasting the bejabers out of the last pheasants in the county. And then I saw a tiny buff brown wren lacing its way through the silver grey fretwork of the bare hawthorn hedge. And a muddy black and white spaniel woffled up to say hello. And I realised I was jolly hungry, and there were more important things in life. Like tea and toast.

Slipping and sliding

We are engulfed by freezing fog. With our village being situated in a valley it's like being smothered in an icy soup. Poor Andy is working right up until Christmas Eve night and yesterday was the last opportunity we had for getting a few festive bits and pieces in. I raided the Red Flannel Elephant petty cash, and we headed up the hill towards Stow-on-the-Wold, where the sun was breaking through and we carefully pootled along, the only motorbike out on the roads. When the weather is nice, you can barely move for fair-weather bikers on their shiny, under-used machines, togged out in nice matching leathers and spiffy helmets. They usually ignore us, in our tatty gear, although it is considered polite to nod at other passing bikers. They would have found yesterday a bit difficult, I think.

We made it to town safely. I spent the last of my pennies on a modest amount of cheese and wine, feeling some what bemused at the amounts of consumables being crammed into overflowing trolleys - is the world coming to an end? Are the shops shutting for a month? How many crisps and chocolates is it possible to consume without bursting? Reeling slightly from the rare foray into civilization, we togged up again and set off home. Up on the Stow road, there are magnificent views across the Cotswolds, and today we were looking down into an ethereal kingdom, wreathed in mists. Unwisely, and just as the fairytales tell you not to do, we took the bike off the main road and into the back lanes...

...it was quite stunning. And quite lethal. Carefully turning a sharp corner, we hit a deep patch of icy sludge. Thanks to Andy's years of driving in adverse conditions and his presence of mind, we slowly veered into the middle of the road, falling sideways onto the freezing mud. This is otherwise known as 'dropping the bike'. The bike was alright - it was cushioned by us. Andy scrambled off, and I lay, like a fallen tin soldier, partially astride my fallen mount. It's a big Honda Varadero, and weighs more than I do. Stunned, my first thoughts were; Andy's ok, he's walking about. I'm ok, I can feel everything. Oh bugger, did the wine survive? Still on my side and under the bike, I glanced to the tank bag, where our precious bottles of wine were about to cascade out onto the unforgiving tarmac. With my right arm free, I was able to gently slide them back in, and made sure the bag was rescued before disentangling myself.

First thing to do was to haul the Honda up, and get it out of any oncoming traffic, although in the end only two other vehicles passed us, unconcerned at our plight. Andy had been stabbed by the foot pedal as we toppled over and I'd turned my weak ankle again. The rest of my body was feeling a bit crushed too. We decided that Andy would take the rest of the shopping home, and I would begin walking until he came back for me.



I had been wanting to take some photos anyway, so I was quite content to limp along, admiring the scenery, thanking God that we'd had such a lucky escape. Just as my hands were starting to freeze, I heard the familiar chuntling of our poor old jalopy, and was soon home and esconced on the sofa with tea and Chelsea buns.

Miraculously, the only real casualties were a smashed packet of Hovis cheese biscuits, one egg and Andy's nice corduroy trousers; the foot pedal not only gave him a nasty dig in the leg, it ripped the bottom part of his best trews too. I have plenty of interesting bruises, minor whiplash, and feel as if I've been trampled by baby elephants. And I'm hobbling. But both of us are safe and alive. Really, it could have been a lot worse.

We might have lost the wine.

Cows and owl skull

This morning the Sun decided to have a duvet day...it yawned, turned over and disappeared from sight under a thick quilt of grey cloud. With the wind tearing the last golden leaves from the trees, I tramped across the fields to investigate the skeleton which I have had stowed away over summer. Back in April I blogged a poor barn owl I had found lying dead in the farmyard. As I later found out, it had been brought back from the fields, and was terribly thin - it's been a bad year for them and we saw several sad corpses earlier this spring. I asked the farmer to keep the body for me and he stashed it in an old feed bin. Thinking it must be decomposed by now, I headed up the track...

...towards the farm. There are still cows out, which is a sign of how mild it has been. I found my owl - what was left of it. With a stick I gingerly prodded the mound of green sludge, rather puzzled as to why there seemed to be no skull. Ribs, yes, feet, there was the breast bone - but where was the fist sized globe I had been looking forward to retrieving? A closer look with tighly held breath (the atmosphere was - saline) revealed it lurking under a puddle of glop, much, much smaller than I had imagined from the original carcass. It was only a couple of inches in length and really quite nondescript. However, I fished it out, and a little more investigation uncovered the bottom part. I didn't take photos; not very salubrious.
I thought I'd head back the way I came, despite the two herds of bullocks and heifers I had to pass on my way in. I am sure that I overreact to cows, and they had been amiable the first time round. As I opened the gate, one of 'the girls' bellowed. Not a friendly call, either. Dithering by the fence I took my courage in my hands; after all, heifers don't attack people, it was just me being silly. Engrossed in negotiating the ankle deep mud, I didn't really take much notice of the increased war cries, until I glanced up and saw the blasted things scampering towards me - scampering - let me not mince words, they were charging. And they didn't want my autograph. Regardless of knowing that the worst thing to do is run, I calculated that if I didn't move pretty sharpish I might become one of those statistics - is it four people killed every year by cattle? I squelched as quickly as possible back through the mud and just got the gate shut as they careered up, blustering and snorting. We eyed each other with mutal loathing. This is the ugly face of Great Britain today - young ladies out of control, striking fear into local residents...

So, I had to add an extra mile and a half to my journey home and return the road way. Rewarded with a few blisters and the warming sight of old apples glowing against the grey skies like Chinese lanterns.


Mostly air and feathers, the hunter's costume is a merely a fearsome facade...

...how insignificant we all are under our fragile layers.

The view from here

Our favourite walk, about 5 minutes from the village.