Win Green walk in winter
Yesterday Max and I met up with C. and her Manchester terrier for a walk in foreign parts, over the border in Wiltshire. We were going to walk up to Win Green, the highest point on Cranborne Chase, to admire the extensive views...
Well, that didn't quite go to plan.
A grey day, mild. Moisture in the air, but no rain falling. Parked the car in Tollard Royal, beside the tiny village pond with its optimistic orange life buoy, and set off up the byway to Win Green.
The byway - a right of way used by four-wheel drives and trail bikes, as well as horses and walkers. A little surface mud, but the tracks are chalk underneath. Good firm footing. There were only a couple of places along the way where four-wheel drives had completely trashed the track, and walkers had to scramble along the verge trying not fall into ruts as deep as chasms.
The byway makes a slow curving climb up onto the high ground of the Chase (once the hunting ground of King John, and still sparsely inhabited even today). It had something of a lawless reputation in the 19th century - the haunt of poachers and smugglers.
Ploughed fields on Cranborne Chase. Even shot in colour, the landscape appears monochrome.
As the track ascends, the sides of the downs become too steep for the plough, and are planted with beech and ash.
Ash hanger.
And now an ash grove far from those hills can bring
The same tranquility in which I wander a ghost
With a ghostly gladness, as if I heard a girl sing
The song of the Ash Grove soft as love uncrossed,
And then in a crowd or in distance it were lost...
'The Ash Grove' - Edward Thomas
Climbing into the cloud.
A very quiet place to walk. No traffic noise. Water dripping from the trees. All sounds have significance. Hearing the chinking alarm calls of a blackbird, we looked up and saw the blackbird attacking an owl, driving it off through the trees. In such a mild December, blackbirds may well be nesting.
Finally, our destination loomed in the fog:
Approaching the Weird Beeches of Win Green - a perfectly circular copse of beeches on the highest point for many miles around.
Inside the beeches, offerings hung: apples studded with seeds, strings of popcorn. A single clump of snowdrops was in flower.
Outside the beeches, many joyful dogs racing through the fog. The hill is owned by the National Trust, and is well-fenced and popular with dog walkers.
By the time we left Win Green to complete our circular walk, low cloud had obliterated all landmarks. I thought I had orientated myself when I found Ox Drove, the ancient drove road, but was still a little unsure whether we were taking the correct path or heading in the correct direction. But C. accepted, with perfect equanimity and in a spirit of discovery, the possibility that we might wander lost forever in the fog. So we set off down the a hill, into some sinister fog-shrouded woods.
Actually, once inside, the woods were too full of birdsong to be sinister. Great-tits or coal-tits singing squeaky songs, as if it were March rather than the end of December. We sat on a fallen tree and picnicked on fruit loaf and chocolate.
Then in was onwards and downwards, to the valley bottom:
Beside the track, in the woods, many pheasant feeders, and many notices asking people to keep their dogs on leads. We were passing through a shooting estate. Strangely though, no pheasants. Judging from all the feathers and bits of pheasant carcase strewn across the parkland in the valley bottom, either the Grendel of Pheasants dwells there, or there was a huge shoot here on Boxing Day.
Ashcombe Bottom, the parkland for Ashcombe House (which looked to be 19th century and red brick, but which was hiding in a wood). In the distance, the Nice Lady with the Spaniel - we had met her on the hill top on our way out, and now met her again in the valley bottom. A sign that we were in fact on the right path! Hurrah! By this time my legs had had enough, and wandering lost forever through Wiltshire was losing its appeal.
Gamekeeper's cottage.
The last stretch of path back to Tollard Royal, lined with hedgerows of hawthorn and rosehips, red-twigged dogwood, and gnarled, lichened crab apples. Huge L-shaped ash trees, once laid as hedging a hundred years ago, and then left to grow up straight.
Well, that didn't quite go to plan.
A grey day, mild. Moisture in the air, but no rain falling. Parked the car in Tollard Royal, beside the tiny village pond with its optimistic orange life buoy, and set off up the byway to Win Green.
The byway - a right of way used by four-wheel drives and trail bikes, as well as horses and walkers. A little surface mud, but the tracks are chalk underneath. Good firm footing. There were only a couple of places along the way where four-wheel drives had completely trashed the track, and walkers had to scramble along the verge trying not fall into ruts as deep as chasms.
The byway makes a slow curving climb up onto the high ground of the Chase (once the hunting ground of King John, and still sparsely inhabited even today). It had something of a lawless reputation in the 19th century - the haunt of poachers and smugglers.
Ploughed fields on Cranborne Chase. Even shot in colour, the landscape appears monochrome.
As the track ascends, the sides of the downs become too steep for the plough, and are planted with beech and ash.
Ash hanger.
And now an ash grove far from those hills can bring
The same tranquility in which I wander a ghost
With a ghostly gladness, as if I heard a girl sing
The song of the Ash Grove soft as love uncrossed,
And then in a crowd or in distance it were lost...
'The Ash Grove' - Edward Thomas
Climbing into the cloud.
A very quiet place to walk. No traffic noise. Water dripping from the trees. All sounds have significance. Hearing the chinking alarm calls of a blackbird, we looked up and saw the blackbird attacking an owl, driving it off through the trees. In such a mild December, blackbirds may well be nesting.
Finally, our destination loomed in the fog:
Approaching the Weird Beeches of Win Green - a perfectly circular copse of beeches on the highest point for many miles around.
Inside the beeches, offerings hung: apples studded with seeds, strings of popcorn. A single clump of snowdrops was in flower.
Outside the beeches, many joyful dogs racing through the fog. The hill is owned by the National Trust, and is well-fenced and popular with dog walkers.
By the time we left Win Green to complete our circular walk, low cloud had obliterated all landmarks. I thought I had orientated myself when I found Ox Drove, the ancient drove road, but was still a little unsure whether we were taking the correct path or heading in the correct direction. But C. accepted, with perfect equanimity and in a spirit of discovery, the possibility that we might wander lost forever in the fog. So we set off down the a hill, into some sinister fog-shrouded woods.
Actually, once inside, the woods were too full of birdsong to be sinister. Great-tits or coal-tits singing squeaky songs, as if it were March rather than the end of December. We sat on a fallen tree and picnicked on fruit loaf and chocolate.
Then in was onwards and downwards, to the valley bottom:
Beside the track, in the woods, many pheasant feeders, and many notices asking people to keep their dogs on leads. We were passing through a shooting estate. Strangely though, no pheasants. Judging from all the feathers and bits of pheasant carcase strewn across the parkland in the valley bottom, either the Grendel of Pheasants dwells there, or there was a huge shoot here on Boxing Day.
Ashcombe Bottom, the parkland for Ashcombe House (which looked to be 19th century and red brick, but which was hiding in a wood). In the distance, the Nice Lady with the Spaniel - we had met her on the hill top on our way out, and now met her again in the valley bottom. A sign that we were in fact on the right path! Hurrah! By this time my legs had had enough, and wandering lost forever through Wiltshire was losing its appeal.
Gamekeeper's cottage.
The last stretch of path back to Tollard Royal, lined with hedgerows of hawthorn and rosehips, red-twigged dogwood, and gnarled, lichened crab apples. Huge L-shaped ash trees, once laid as hedging a hundred years ago, and then left to grow up straight.