Meanderings around Wold Newton

From the Village Hall in Wold Newton I usually take the footpath up to the Church, it has the advantage of avoiding walking on the road, you'd be mistaken though, if you imagined that to be the sole reason. Skirting around the edge of a small cottage garden, the gravel path passes through a weary, wooden gate of undetermined age, few remaining if any, can recall a time when it was new. It gives on to a, seemingly out of place, narrow strip of tarmac, less than two feet wide that gently rises across a rolling grassy paddock dotted with sprawling Chestnut trees. Thick boughs droop inverse graceful arcs to within a few feet of the ground, ideal climbing trees, made for the adventurous imagination of small boys and girls unafraid of rough and tumble. A long Nylon rope thrown over a high limb suspends an old car tyre above the ground, still my favourite kind of swing, although I've always preferred a short stout log to a tyre. The hard edges of the tarmac path have been lost, overgrown and softened by the grass as nature, unrelenting, reclaims her own. At its end is a pretty Lych gate, it's attractiveness dramatised by it's elevated position. Unruly Hawthorn hedges extend to each side, screening the Church that lies beyond. A low chain, stretched across the portal, easily stepped over, protects the gate from the  boredom of Horses. Passing beneath the roof, the Churchyard and All Hallows Church are revealed. Small and compact, it is pretty with a rounded Nave that presents itself first to the observer, built on a hillside the ground falls away before it, the rest of the church reclining in a small hollow, the Centuries old graveyard wrapping itself around the back like a plump pillow. Reminded of a small ship from this aspect, the rounded bow endlessly ploughs through a static wave. At the furthest end an unusual, short round bell tower with a squat round roof barely manages to peep above the main roof. This Churchyard haven is maintained to an almost perfect combination of trimmed grass and just the right amount of neglect. Gravestones of various shapes and sizes, some ornate and others simple with inscriptions rain worn to illegibility, lean at crooked angles amongst tangles of nettles and briars. Bright splashes of bouquet colour catch the eye, symbolising homage and special memories of loved ones passed. Some days a raucous choir of Rooks accompany visitors from the tall stand of conifers at the back of the Churchyard, restless sentinels keeping a watchful vigil. It is a peaceful oasis of tranquility well worth a half hour of anybodies time, on a sunny day take sandwiches and a flask and lose yourself in its unhurried calm.
Today, though, I walked along the road to admire the houses I usually miss by walking through the Churchyard. The sun was shining brightly and warmly, cotton wool clouds drifted lazily across a wide Blue sky. Within a few yards I came to a junction, the road joining from the right by which I had arrived a few minutes earlier. A spreading Sycamore grows on the near corner, large but not yet fully mature, beneath it's shady canopy a low metal fence encloses a tall, elegant cross, unusually slender being made of stone, it stands raised on a small Dias. Although I have driven past it a number of times I have not noticed it before, being obscured by the shade and my being more concerned with watching for traffic. I paused for a moment to admire it, amused at only now discovering it, the stone Dias was mostly hidden beneath a damp and slowly decomposing mound of fallen leaves its inscription unreadable.  A Range Rover approached, I recognised it as one that had followed me into the village, passing me slowly as I pulled off the road to park, it had then passed me again, a few minutes later, going the other way as I was putting my Boots on. Now it slowed as it drew close, new and very shiny its paint glittered in the sunlight, it made almost no noise but a low hum accompanying the steady electric progress of the passenger window as it descended. Stopping alongside a softly round lady wearing a cool white blouse had a warm face and pleasant smile, politely she enquired if I knew the whereabouts of the Church.
 I smiled "Indeed I do"
Having set them on the right course I continued, aware of and slightly surprised by the faint but none the less discernible warmth I felt, the satisfaction that occurs being able to assist somebody even in a small and simple way; that and the sunshine, Blue sky, warm wind and the promise of the walk stretched before me.
The road turns sharply to the left skirting the boundary of a large modern farm yard, ignoring the turn the footpath goes straight ahead dodging around a metal tube that bars the entrance to the field beyond. In the cold, wet, winter months this part of the path is gaunt and unappealing, a straggling Hawthorn bush to the left stands guard with unconcealed, spiky unfriendliness, slippery mud sucks at the feet as the path crosses the ploughed field, walking is difficult, feet skate about on the slick surface and the clinging mud adheres to boots, layer upon layer, until they are huge, heavy, hard to control "Clodhoppers". Now, in July, Summer has transformed it into a verdant invitation, bounded by rich green Hogweed, the creamy flowers replaced by russet seed heads, and Nettles in abundance amongst Docks and waving long grasses. This wild confusion of headland plants is soon replaced by the monoculture of Wheat, the monotony is none the less pleasing, there is a reassuring comfort in the uniformity, in the huge blocks of symmetry, the muted softening of the landscape and the wide swathes of colour. The hard scratchy heads, fully formed and changing to the rich Gold of ripeness stood stiff and erect on stalks still green. The path as though daunted by the wide exposure of the fields expansive centre veered suddenly to the right skirting an abandoned Chalk quarry as it climbed a small hill. Despite being an unusual building material, owing to its softness and lack of durability, there are one or two houses in the village built, at least in part, of Chalk, perhaps this was the origin of the stone. It is now used as a dumping ground for rubble, rotting timber and organic farm waste. It is bounded by an impenetrable knot of Purple flowered Thistles, a rambling plant with delicate soft green leaves and bright yellow flowers weaves itself with impunity amongst the vicious spines. Wild Honey Bees, Hover flies and a host of Butterflies, attracted to the blooms swarm busily beneath the high hot sun. The edge of the path is a tangled mat of trampled corn stalks, a safe haven for a Fieldmouse that disappeared amongst the stems after scurrying recklessly across the path in front of me. I ponder, as I walk, a Kestrel or Fox would have mercilessly punished such a careless lapse of prudence. The path turns sharp left above the Quarry and leaving it behind skirts below an unkempt, ancient, Hawthorn hedge, invasive Elder growing through it at intervals. Wild Oats thriving in the narrow margin between path and Wheatfield dance in the playful  breeze that obligingly blows several degrees off the hot suns intensity.
From my now slightly elevated position I look out across the fields; It's High Summer and nature has reached its zenith, everywhere there are a myriad shades of green. Trees are thick with foliage, in the distance grouped together into woods, billowing shapes and subtle hues are a tireless fascination to the beholder. Countless miles of hedgerows mark out the fields and the Summer Sun spills gold into them. Isolated trees dot the landscape, mostly Ash; what would the English countryside be without them, truly majestic trees with space in their irregular shapes for the birds and the wind to gently hush through them. Tarmac ribbons weave a historic story of communication, a lone cyclist clad in eyecatching white and crimson toils uphill, I feel his effort. Above, the wide blue sky is a tangled cobweb of thin wispy cloud, as the heat of the sun shimmers in the throbbing air it seems impossible that they should be made of ice.
As a white winged Butterfly flitters around my feet, I am surprised to meet another  walker, though I don't know why I should be, its a lovely part of the country on a lovely day; its just that I usually have all this to myself. Wheat gives way to a rich, deep green Beet, the parallel ruts of Tractor wheels cut through the lush growth like surgical scars revealing the dark earth beneath. The wind becomes audible, a low roar as I pass beneath a row of trees, the Hedge having dribbled to an end, a low mound marks the line where the hedge once stood, punctuated by the short row of trees, first a sticky Sycamore then several straggling Ash, it's pleasantly cool beneath their rustling shade. Descending a little, the path meets a farm track at right angles, a field of Barley beyond. In contrast to the  stiff, hard, ears of Wheat the Barley appears like  a soft, fuzzy cloud, its slowly bronzing surface animated by the restless wind. It is ripening unevenly and I see scattered patches of green as my eye follows the wind smoothed waves playing across the field rolling out to the mature wood beyond. Turning sharp right, I follow the stony track for a few yards, there are Oats growing in the adjacent field, an uncommon crop in this part of the country.
A shiny, rich, glittering blackness, catches my eye, a gem in the hedgerow amongst palest pink flowers and hard red berries, the succulence of fat, juicy Brambles a nearly irresistible part of natures wondrous gift. A joyous bounty for all to share, but not without a toll, savage, green, Barbs, hooked, needle sharp, snag at the tender flesh of the hasty and the unwary, to extract a price in Blood. Oh, but if only her demands were but that simple; in return for her favour, Nature commands more for herself; much more. She prepares at this time of year  to give up her sweet rewards for Bird and Beast alike to share, so great will be her abundance there will be a surfeit, an excess of consumption. All that walks or crawls and all that slithers, or slides, all creatures that soar or fly will gorge until sated. Much will rot on the bough, or enrich the soil, some, will burst forth into new life. Giving up these gifts along with the many others filling the year, the spectacular sunsets and soft rains, a lovers melting smile, long summer days and velvet night skies filled with twinkling stars, a babies laugh, moon shadows, restless seas and storm; what gifts, but at what price. It seems not even a trifling, in the first age, so small as to be of no consideration, we pay it no heed and as time goes by we barely notice, an insignificant cost not at all unreasonable. As years pass, accumulating in our past like fallen leaves, we eventually come to realise what price, and in that same moment it's significance, a price dearer than any other. Natures' demand, is to take back the most precious of all the gifts she ever bestowed upon any of us. She demands nothing less, than our time. With each gift, with each season, with each harvest, she takes from us, she takes it every second, day by day and year by year. In so doing she slowly takes from us all that we have come to treasure, all those we have come to hold dearest to our hearts. She gives, and she takes, until we are left with nothing more than our memories and with nothing left to give; she takes those too.
The stony cart track swings sharply to the left pressing up against a field of Rape stubble. A few short months ago a blinding vision of brilliant yellow light, a wondrous flood of cheer, brighter than sunshine and radiant with joy. Raw brown soil weeps from weals that stripe the razored stalks, deep wounding gouges. A field bruised, tender and sore, reflecting sorrow and betrayal, the very Earth abused. Rooks seemingly subdued by the affront flop defeatedly amongst the barren stalks. The ground rises in a rolling swell to my right as I walk, it meets the horizon unbounded, exaggerating its nakedness and emphasising its vulnerability while marking a clear and distinct end to the terrestrial. The sky beyond is a vague, slate blue, confusion of washed out clouds, innumerable subtle variations of blue and grey blended together. A single rank of billowing white Cumulus riding like a wave breaking before them into the clear Blue overhead.
The thin, pining call of a bird of prey cuts the summer air, the sound full of wildness and solitude. I scan the wide sky but see nothing in the emptiness. Then large square wings beat with slow determined strokes, the fluid tips like slender fingers rake the air as it climbs from the wood. As graceful as a skater, in wide circles it soars, with apparent effortlessness, steadily further from the wood. I watch the Buzzards unhurried progress, its sharp call, once more slicing the wind, is answered by a second. Emerging from the wood, to join its mate, the two drift languidly, on the skys boundless paths, across the gilded landscape. 
Before reaching the edge of the wood the path dips briefly through a hot, sun soaked hollow, overlooked by an ancient Hawthorn hedge. The suns withering heat is leaden against my chest in this windless place, a stifling breathless air, suffocates dryly in my throat and mouth. The suns radiation vibrates into me, even naked skin feels over dressed. I climb quickly and thankfully back into the cooling wind and skirt the edge of the wood, dwarfed beneath tall Willows and aged Sycamores. The path a mosaic of contemporary fossils, a recent record of rugged walking boots, of Mountain Bike tyres and animal tracks, baked iron hard by this summers breezes and hot sun into the winters soft oozing mud. At that time of year this part of the path is always wet and slippery. A spreading Elder crowds into the path, its creamy plates of fusty scented flowers have now been replaced by clumps of immature berries, small, hard and green, standing stiffly on striking magenta stems. Shivering dessicated brown seedheads quiver on top of dead bony stalks of Hogweed, waiting  for wind and animals to scatter them abroad. Thistles, once tall, proud and fierce, wilt feebly, grey white down spews sickly from shriveled flower heads while attentive white Butterfly Doulas ease their passing with grace. Turning a corner a thriving Blackthorn hedge fifteen feet high with ne'ry a Sloe upon it bounds the track on its left hand side, tiny pink Ipomia flowers growing beneath. The rising ground allows a long view along the valley back towards the village. This is not Wilderness, or even near wilderness, this is a manufactured landscape, not a single square inch of the wide vastness has not been moulded and shaped by man, every part of it, carved and crafted to his convenience. Nor is it a leisurely land, it's no nonsense, tireless, hardworking countryside, pushed hard to produce. Yet for all that it is not without beauty, not without pretty corners. It's a rolling patchwork of golden, ripening fields, tinged with hints of green, stitched together by lush green hedges and punctuated by ancient and noble trees. Quiet and unvisited copses amuse roving winds on the crests of the gentle hills and straggling woods clogging the valleys, peep weathered red roof tops through the thick green boughs. I search for detail in the hugeness, over the years hedgerows have been torn up and dykes filled in to make fields larger, more suited to bigger machines. Machines, almost in-comprehensively powerful, capable of doing in one hour, work that would have previously taken ten men a week. Yet the driver of the modern tractor still leads the plough to the field over the same age worn tracks, long established centuries ago by the heavy horse led by generations of his forefathers in their performance of the same task. And although long years have passed, he too, from the Tractors air conditioned cab, still keeps a cautious eye skyward and prays for settled weather. Working to the same ancient rhythms, at Harvest time his day starts early and finishes late. I move on, the path is nearing the crest of the hill, but before it does it dips once more through a small, shallow, tree filled hollow popular with Horse riders. I think about how much things have changed and yet remained the same, it occurs to me that the scene I have just been musing over has changed little in essence for several centuries. The path climbs up through the trees by a steep slope usually slippery with mud even now in the leafy shade of the trees it is still a little damp and sticky.
 What of those bygone people did they ever walk these roads as I do now, in the same frivolous manner, for no other reason than the simple pleasure of it. A working mans duties a hundred years or more ago would be more onerous than mine today and his free time significantly less. Nonetheless a young man would undoubtedly find the time, perhaps on a Sunday after Church, to walk out at the side of a young girl who had caught his eye and captured his Heart and together they would seek out these quiet places. Or maybe a couple long committed to one another would escape, for a short time the joyless shackles of their obligations, briefly to the fields, to the Blackthorn Hedges and the Dog Roses, finding peace by the Elder and the pretty pink Ipomia. Pausing to admire that same view, in that same place, standing side by side, solid, immersed reassuringly in the pool of each others presence, strong together, feeling the sun on their faces. With easy, long learned familiarity and unspoken affection their hands seek out one another, his closes softly around hers, with the wind sensuous on their skin they reaffirm their connection with the Earth and with each other.
The path emerges almost on the crest of the hill, wide views open wider still, to the north east chunks of Cumulus dully reflect the light melting slowly into a washed out fog of blue grey cloud the edge a watery veil of shredded Cirrus. Tiny beneath the huge sky I skirt the fields edge, the sun is warm and the shadows deep, the horizon falls away as I advance and sky gives way to water, the Humber estuary and the North sea. Ghostly ships wait mistily for the pilot.
I think about the permanence of things in this disposable, impermanent world, about the constant change, the perpetual evolution, without which things couldn't remain the same. Despite the confusion of technology and the way it shrinks and polarises the world, pushing at the extremes, despite its distractions (for that is surely all it is), its implied haste and imposed urgency, lovers will still continue to pause for long, long hours among soft golden Barley fields amid green Hedgerows. Recklessly adrift on uncharted seas of breathless whispers and shy blushes, a swimming affection of soft kisses and clumsiness. To walk on slow ancient paths and to see with clarity the simple beauty of the Ipomia flower, of Butterflies and wild Oats, of bronzed seed heads and purple Blackberries. It has always been this way. There is comfort in knowing some things will never change.
Grimsby town appears like a grey smudge on the carpet of countryside laid out below my feet, landmarks rise from the indistinct haze, The haunting Gothic of the dock tower, stylish, slightly top heavy, slender and tastefully elegant, a wonderfully extravagant and practical monument to wealth, power and progress. To the east the taller more utilitarian chimney of Tioxide with it bright white parsons collar, less of a monument and more of an unapologetic, vulgar, snub. Two fingers raised to delicate sensibilities, a curt nod to hard profit. Nearer and older than either, nestled amidst embracing trees, the white cap and six sails of Waltham windmill. Over a hundred years separates these enduring and distinctive landmarks each one representing a different age of industrial technology, ironically they have something else in common, all share the same fate, each one idle now, standing silently redundant.
 On the panoramic crest of the hill the field has been harvested, then ploughed, then harrowed and then rolled, its a dramatic barren brown landscape, uniform and weedless, occasional white chalk stones sit incongruously, like ice age erratics, on its gently curving surface, it looks empty, it looks sterile, it looks like a bruise. Beyond, by contrast, a wood like a billowing cloud of rich deep greens blending subtly into livid limes, appears to be in a mid explosion of life, studded dramatically with the vibrancy of Copper Beeches the colour so intense almost purple. A thin ribbon of Feverfew lines the paths edge. The noise of traffic from the busy A18 can be heard now.
The hill rolls beneath my wandering feet and I descend the back side of it, turning sharp right through a ragged gap in the hedgerow beneath a thick limbed Sycamore with cracked and gnarly bark, I arrive in a Bean field. A swell of land rises gently on my right while to the left the path is bordered by a wide mature Hawthorn hedge. It's a sheltered place here, without wind, a sore, raw heat beats down, drooping purple flowered plants, self set reminders of last years crop, wilt by the side of the shimmering field courted by sleepy Red Admirals and fat, drowsy Bumble Bees, sticky limbed they cling languidly to the inverted flower heads. The hard heat reverberates thickly from the ground turning the air to syrup, pooling into sheltered places like this, viscous like oil it stifles sound and makes movement sluggish. I feel warm beads of perspiration trickle damply down my spine beneath the waistband of my trousers. The dreary drone of traffic throbs disturbingly in my head, vibrating through the leaden air, an unwelcome intrusion into the otherwise silence, like a dull veneer. It overlays an odd quiet, not the soporific, restful kind, that calms and soothes, this resembles a bereavement, an uncomfortable vacuum of sound, an uneasy void with all the noise sucked out, except for the traffic. The absence of Bird song seem particularly striking and being denied it, I immediately crave it. Memories of Skylarks flood back to me, of picnics with motorcycle coats spread on the ground in lieu of blankets, of a biscuit tin filled with soft, yielding sandwiches cut like doorsteps from fresh baked bread and rich home made fruit cake, which I knew instinctively to be the best in the world. In that world I hear, once more, chattering voices, the soft, insistent roar of the Primus stove boiling water for tea, my mother's voice gently harrying order from chaos and my fathers appreciation of her capability; and Skylarks. With all the food eaten and the tea made my Mother would lay back, a rock, perhaps for a pillow, her hands folded behind her head. With closed eyes contentment would settle on her face. "Hush" she would say in a soft voice, settling into the scented embrace of grasses and sedges, of sweet herbs and wildflowers, drawing out the last syllable "listen; to the Skylarks". Their warbling song tumbled out the sky at the speed of sound, a rising and falling confusion of notes, bursting with energy, whilst the language of the communication may be a mystery the urgency of their message is obvious. Skylarks, the humble and  wonderful accompaniment to so many good times, picnics and great walks, wide skies and open spaces, and people. The wearying sound of traffic is no substitute. As if in response to my thoughts a Greenfinch alights on a nearby Hawthorn and begins to sing a chattering song, attempting to fill the void. Maybe, I wonder, it's just how hard you wish. Some distance away, another replies, not as articulate as Skylarks, but immensely welcome.
In time I Arrive at Hawerby Hall farm, a jam of old and modern buildings wedged tightly together. An aged red brick cart shed, by the side of the path, is divided by Bull Nosed brick columns into four bays beneath an ugly but practical new sheet metal roof. In the dry space sit two aging farm carts, their paint work faded and chalky. Tall, Iron shod wheels with slender wooden spokes radiating from the bulbous wooden hubs reflect slick pre-industrial revolution technology. There is grace in their form, the curved lines of the sides, sweeping up to the raised ends, reminiscent of ancient galleons. Narrow pinstripes and flowing Copperplate sign writing adds a faded elegance to these once hard working utility vehicles. Moored alongside, a neat trap is partly obscured beneath a corner of a casually discarded canvas sheet, a different kind of vehicle altogether, sleek and light, thin wheeled and delicate, an object of gaiety and pleasure. The dusty buttoned leather upholstery is cracked with age and the colour has been lost beneath many layers of dirt and yet it still suggests good manners, with a faint whiff of decadence. Surrounded by a raft of old bits of timber, a random assortment of crumbling bricks, rotting roof tiles, corroding lumps of scrap metal, decades of washed up junk and deep layers of accumulated dust, its vacant, spindly curved shafts with brass rings oxidised to black, stand inelegantly propped on a rusty, slowly decaying drum of cattle drench.
Next door an enormous barn as big as an aircraft Hangar filters a low hum through  its closed doors. I stand for a moment and am struck by the thought that these two buildings, so radically contrasting in appearance are not nearly so different as they may at first seem. Their purpose is the same, to provide functional storage combined with durability and at a reasonable price, this practical objective has never changed. What has changed, is the technology, the knowledge and materials, easily available, to build larger structures.
Crossing the road I watch, vague amidst the haze, the far away, slowly turning wind turbines at Mablethorpe gently stirring the mist. Diagonally across a small stubble field the path gains the verge on the far side, turning half left it follows a green ribbon of grass pinched between empty fields, in silent patience, awaiting the return of the plough. A broad Horse Chestnut tree, spiky fruits hanging down from the boughs, stands on the corner of the carefully manicured gardens of the Old Rectory. The path, neatly mown lawn grass, now dips steeply alongside the garden fence, turning a sharp left into a mown grassy hollow that continues downhill, giving glimpses of the perfectly maintained house and its pretty Orangery. Meeting the drive I walk a little way along to take another look at the crumbling St Margarets Church. De-consecrated some years ago and now disused, it has become a sad and melancholic ruin. The sprawling canopies of competing Sycamore and Ash grapple for space above its sagging roof, punctured with ragged holes, inadequately patched with rotting canvas tarpaulins. As the surrounding country side, in the summer months, takes its ease this lonely place remains neglected, never getting to bathe in warm sunlight so thick is the foliage, no warm wind penetrates the brooding arbor, a deep carpet of slowly decaying leaves, cold and wet, keep the place damp and cool, filling the air with the musky smell of corruption. Leaning gravestones are thickly encrusted with soft fat cushions of moss their inscriptions lost a long age ago. Once dignified and sombre, a tomb of smooth white stone lies cracked and split, slowly succumbing to the thick contorted tendrils of Ivy forcing a way from within the sarcophagus, snaking gnarly limbs over the surface, in a constricting and crushing embrace intent on pulling all down into the soft consuming earth. The delicate Iron fence, still mostly intact, that encloses it, has detail all but invisible beneath festering, ochreous concretions of corrosion. A thick barrier of tall Nettles stand guard, detering closer investigation. I breathe in the smell and feel the air, heavy with sadness, press against me. I shudder and turn away.
Beyond the church is Hawerby Hall where in a previous life I swept the chimneys on a number of occasions. Originally built for the Harneis family in the eighteenth century, it has seen mixed fortunes having passed through a number of hands, it was, at one time, converted to a Hotel which didn't fair well. Then after a number of years of dereliction the current owners bought it and renovated it, making it their family home. I seldom met the man of the house but on the few occasions I did he was both pleasant and interesting, having a keen interest in sailing. It was his wife who invariably engaged me, she was confident, capable and smart, her assuredness of her place in the world was impressive. It was she who one day told me of a story attached to the house.
A good number of years ago it had belonged to a farmer who laboured under the firm belief that fate had not dealt him a winning hand. His life, he felt, was unreasonably hard and his days were long and filled with fruitless toil. Sunshine seldom ventured above his horizon. Alcohol became an increasing comfort to him and as time went by he became ever more morose and sour. He lived there with his wife, who over the years became the target and focus of his anger. At first he simply directed his tirades at the world towards her, then he came to blame her. Becoming increasing abusive, until one day, he beat her. He was sorry afterwards and swore it would never happen again and it didn't, for a time. Over the ensuing years his bitterness grew, as did his meaness and his habit of violence, he beat her again, unhappily but predictably, it became regular. She kind of got used to it.
One day, full of unexplained fury and venom, his bitterness with the world at a feverish intensity, he beat her savagely. The fierce red rage coursed through his body, through muscle and sinew, rolling his fists into Iron hard balls. He lashed out in frustration, hatred of the world pounding his fists into her yielding body. A crushing blow full in her face lifted her off her feet propelling her across the room. He was crazed with spite, with his voice he roared out his complaint, laced with invective and profanity, with his body he hurled his malice across the room tied to the objects with in it, which smashed and splintered against the walls. Barely conscious she rolled onto her hands and knees, terror urged her towards the partly open kitchen door, towards escape.
He kicked her viciously in the ribs as, falteringly, she crawled across the room, lifting her once more from the floor, crushing the air from her lungs with a guttural grunt of pain. Creeping through the door into the kitchen, she made her self small on the floor by the huge pine table. As huge wet sobs wracked her body, she tried to shrink herself smaller still, on her knees on the cold stone floor she pressed her chest tighter to her thighs her hands tucked under her chin. She closed her eyes tightly and wished she could shrink smaller, smaller than she was now, smaller than anything she knew, small enough to slip into one of the cracks in the floor between the stone flags, so small she could disappear, small enough to be invisible. She could hear his rage, his cursing, his destruction. She blocked it out, she closed her ears and shut out the sound. She remained there cowed. Bloodied. Broken.
On rare occasions she'd sneak out of the house, when he was at work, she went to the small church nearby, she never told him and as far as she knew he never knew. She would sit in its peaceful coolness, quiet and still, she didn't question, she just listened, not once had she ever asked for pity, nor for mercy or for relief; sometimes she had closed her eyes and silently asked for strength; for patience and for the courage to endure.
Her hand gripped the edge of the kitchen table, she had scrubbed its worn pine top earlier that morning, fleetingly the thought, fully formed, flickered for the briefest moment into her consciousness, why did she keep doing that. She hauled herself shakily to her feet, leaning for a moment on the solid table her head bowed. She thought of the small church, its coolness and its quiet. She wondered about her place in the world and her purpose in it. She wiped the back of her hand across her nose it was smeared with tears, with snot and blood. she straightened her back, pain stabbed viciously through her, she closed her eyes tightly her fingers went lightly to her ribs, two were broken. She drew in her breath, more tears squeezed from her wet eyes. In that moment she made a decision, whatever the worlds design, and whatever her role in its great plan, it needed, she decided, no more of her pain. She smoothed her hands gently down her crumpled front, worn and stained she hadn't had a new dress in so many years. Having made a decision she then made a vow. Opening her eyes, she raised her head and lifted her chin, no man, she swore, would ever beat her again.
Walking slowly and a little unsteadily over to the dresser to where it made a corner with the wall by the back door, she picked up the Shotgun that was propped there. His Shotgun. She opened the dresser drawer took out two cartridges and slid them smoothly into the bores, then closed the breach. Again she closed her eyes and drew in her breath, standing for a moment, she held on to it, gathering her resolve. She let the breath escape, slowly, then with a calm and more grace and dignity than could be imagined possible in the circumstance, she walked across the kitchen, head high, she pushed open the door and faced him.
With some of his anger spent he was sat in a chair, the same chair where, of habit, he usually sat, the same chair where she knew he would be sat, even before she pushed open the door. The gun, heavy in her hands, wavered unknowingly around the room. He raised his eyes as she entered. Although she knew how, she had never fired a gun before, she had seen him do it many times and years ago he had tried to show her how. He'd been different then, more patient, he'd laughed when she told him she didn't like guns. She remembered, he used to laugh a lot then. At first he thought he was imagining things, it couldn't be true, surely it wasn't possible, he looked twice. The gun felt clumsy, awkward in her hands, she wasn't accustomed to its weight. She didn't like guns she remembered again. Remembering, she tried to think of the last time she'd heard him laugh. She looked straight at him, taking in the details, his hands on the arms of the chair, she watched, detached, as his knuckles whitened. The gun was too heavy, she felt so tired, her fingers ached as they pressed against the triggers. She hurt, not so much from his blows, they hurt too, but there was a worse pain, an intense dull ache deep in her chest. She could see the muscles in his arms tense, his feet moving, preparing to take his weight. She thought  how she would like to lie down, to sleep, never wake up. She saw in him, a coiled spring, about to be released.
A wave of pain from her ribs washed over her, her left eye stung, it was starting to swell and close, nausea rose from her stomach, she tasted blood in her mouth. A thin sinew in the left side of his face clenched and twitched, like a worm beneath the skin, just in front of his ear. She saw the blind, unfathomable fury flare, once again, red in his eyes. The wavering muzzle became purposeful, as he started to rise, as the spring, started to uncoil, she discharged both barrels into his chest, as she watched his eyes, before he had time to get out of the chair.
Lifes plan revealed to her, friends she didn't know she had, who vouched for her good character, to her passivity and gentleness and the wickedness of her husband . It provided her with friends, some of the most prominent she had never met, they showed kindness and understanding, among them a judge who was both sympathetic and compassionate. As is common with these kind of stories the details are very sketchy, it is said that many rallied to her defence, that she was persuaded to enter a plea of insanity and after spending a little under three years in a mental institution she was released. Cured. Whatever ultimately became of her after that is not remembered, though a part of her story did endure, it was said that she remained true to the vow that she had made on that fateful day and thence forward until the day she died no man ever beat her again.
After following another stony path alongside another mature Hawthorn and Blackthorn hedge the path climbs over a gentle rise and heads for a narrow sprawling wood that stretches in both directions ahead of me. At the boundary of the wood a thin path that I have often taken weaves into the trees over a soft mulch of mouldering leaves. It's cool and shady and in the spring is pretty with Aconites and Bluebells. It soon slithers sharply down a bank skirting the edge of a small, ancient Chalk quarry, little more now, than a steep sided depression to emerge alongside some stables in a paddock usually occupied by several Shetland Ponies.
Looking up at the sky I see it has changed once more, the thin Horse tails of hazy Cirrus have drifted away, billowing white Cumulus builds soaring edifices over the river, there is more blue sky deep, rich and clear. I choose, to stay high, the way stretches ahead of me, a wide grassy track that follows the edge of the wood enjoying the cool welcome shade of the heavy drooping boughs of Beech, Ash, Oak and the invasive Sycamore. There are too many Sycamore in my opinion although if the Ash population is decimated, as predicted, by the recently arrived disease to which it is vulnerable I may yet end up being grateful for their presence. A thick dense border of Nettles lines the tracks edge hemming in the trees. On the other side a rising hump of warm golden Wheat meets the cool blue sky. A staccato of poles strung together by transmission lines march across the field, spoiling the vista just a little, but there is too much beauty here to be marred by such a thing
The path takes a graceful curve beneath the sighing trees, the sound of traffic dies behind me as I progress. Rooks call gratingly from the tree tops. The Sycamores give way to delightful, spreading Beech trees, their shape bold and confident, then ragged Ash an enigmatic mix of clothed and naked limbs, of half life and half death. A Sweet Chestnut ripens its spiny fruits in the days warmth alongside a tall and bare  trunk, a slender, silent, standing sentinel of the woods, clinging to dignity as decay slowly consumes it, riddled with the holes of woodpeckers.
I come, further on, to a Beech tree, magnificent and huge, standing tall, its ghostly  bark a pale contrast to the livid lime green of its oval leaves. A massive limb lies broken on the soft ground beneath it, on a crunchy bed of crisp brown leaves, swathed in a tangle of brambles and nettles. Several feet up, twice the height of a man, a cavernous hole scars the trees wide trunk. A winters gale passed this way, crashing through the trees, roaring with fury, mercilessly looking for weakness and finding it in this first formed limb, savagely ripping it from living tree, casually discarding the huge fractured bulk where it fell at the trees foot without care nor compassion, already wreaking devastation elsewhere. I can see jagged splinters of wood standing like sharp daggers inside the hole, the silvery bark curls a tender caress over the inflamed edges, soothing its severity. A cascade of Bracket Fungus growing one edge resembles a falling tear. This deep scar will never disappear, the wound is too big and too deep. The tree, in life will heal over the wound, given time, but its mark will always remain. It will forever carry the scar, a permanent, ever present reminder of what it once lost. Yet in life, even with its loss so apparent, its stature is not diminished, its grace remains effortless and its beauty constant; can any of us ever hope for as much.
A little further and the path descends a tiered grassy bank to the shallow valley floor  passing through a gate by a muddy cattle pond, pleasantly shaded by the drooping branches of a Horse Chestnut. A dancing cloud of Mosquitoes, like a shiver, trembles above the thick water. The other side of the valley is livestock pasture but it is empty today and the grass is long. The path, laid flat, betrays a cautious line easily followed beneath the high stacked round bales of the farmyard vibrating in the fierce sun on the valleys lip. The wind sets off a percussion in my ears to the accompaniment of buzzing flies. Quietly the valley simmers in the heat. 
Through a gate, pastural gives way once more to arable and a field of peas, warm, fat pods heavy on the wilting tangle of plants remind me that although it's almost two o clock I haven't got round to breakfast yet. I scoop up a delicious handful, savouring the satisfying pop of the pods and the clean, fresh sweetness.
Approaching the final part of the walk into an enchanting wood of mature Beech and Ash trees lying before me, the silence is pierced suddenly by a birds insistent call, an alarm, a strident warning for caution. I look up and see two hawks defiantly circling overhead, too far distant to identify. I enter the wood, it is immediately cool, the sound of the wind dominates, a hard packed dirt path stalks between the stout grey trunks, sidling by a bossy Elder bush. A carpet of Nettles covers the narrow valley floor squeezed tightly between steep chalk banks. Dusty shafts of sunlight sift through the verdant foliage spilling rippling pools of soft light onto Ground Elder and blankets of shrivelling bronze Beech leaves. There is a reverence in this towering arboreal cathedral, quiet but for the winds gentle hymn in the tree tops, it a place that inclines you to lower your voice, to talk in a hushed whisper. Animal tracks cut across the path in places, their course evident through the sparse undergrowth, damp patches of soft mud sit in shallow scrapes holding a host of flies in a hypnotic spell, Black birds, unseen but heard, search through the rustling leaf litter.
Small heaps of stark white Chalk marking the entrance to animal excavations, Badgers perhaps, is muted by a wash of green lichen growing on the exposed stone, a subtle compliment to the drifts of ochreous Beech leaves.
 I pass the fallen tree where I sat with Kim when she was poorly, clusters of bright red Arum berries grow nearby, she was unable to walk further than this point, a poignant place of memories for me, just a short distance from the road.
A yellow dog runs up to me barking aggressively, I bend to stroke it and it turns submissive. I notice a small snail with a yellow shell a black stripe following the whorl of its shell, it is sitting fully extended in the centre of a Nettle leaf. It feels like something weird is happening.
Birdsong collides with my consciousness, I am surprised by its suddeness. I'm reminded of times when I would be out walking with Kim. Giving my attention to something, Kim would run a few steps in front of me and turn, pushing her hands into my chest as she walked backwards, a broad smile on her lips, playfulness spilling out of her face, "hey what about me" she'd say. It always made me laugh, I'd wrap my arms around her and give her a love. The birdsong now lodged into my consciousness in the same insistent way. People who ought to know better and with nothing better to do with the too much time they have on their hands have asked me, on occasions, if I believe in God. I side step around the end of a tree laid across the path and arrive at the road, turning right to head back into the village. They ask me, do I believe in fate, that the events of life are perhaps pre-ordained. A moorhen, startled, Red billed and neck extended, dashes across the road on spindly backward bending legs slipping through the gap in a picket fence seeking the sanctuary of the large ornamental pond in the neat gardens of the Grange. I don't believe, I answer; in anything like that. I pass the crumbling Chalk barn that has been under repair for years the stagnant scaffold rusted red with inactivity. I believe in dreams, I believe in I don't know, I believe in; not believing. Cows, mildly distracted, raise their lowered heads to watch me pass with studied indifference, relentless wet jaws continuing their rhythmic grinding. When I'm asked if these occurrences are a sign, I'm cautious of answering, of admitting. I watch the cows watching me, watching them. If I admit to it; then I have to believe in something; yet I'm past the point of believing it coincidence. I see my van on the road ahead where I left it. Are these signs? I wonder. I think, I think they are. I can't handle this shit, What confuses me is, what do they mean.
I think I need to go for a walk now.