Autumn feasts

A couple of miles from home is a National Trust park. I used to walk there at least once a week, knowing that at worst I would only come across a handful of people, mostly local and people I’d seen before, and that I would almost always find space in the tiny carpark.

    At the start of Lockdown however, people began to swarm to the park, their cars filling the carpark, lining the road and taking over a small wood opposite.

    I didn’t begrudge people the space (much). It’s good that people enjoy nature – good for them and good for the environment - in that the more we appreciate it the more we’ll work to preserve it. But I did stop going there myself both because I like solitude on my walks and because I didn’t want to put myself in the way of infection unnecessarily.

    Numbers have hardly diminished since, but on Wednesday I decided that I would give the place a try. I desperately needed to walk somewhere different. It was part of my new resolve.

I found a parking space without trouble in the small wood but as we walked across the road to the main gate two dogs on leads tried to kill Ellie and then three wildly excited Labradors tried to bowl us over. (Their human companions behaved perfectly.) I soon left the main path therefore and headed for the woods and the network of tiny secret paths I’d mentally mapped over the years.

It was a beautiful still day and I had no goal in mind except to put as much distance as possible between me and the entrance and to spend as long as I could away from home. I was feeling fractured and directionless, and being inside made it worse. 

Out of the woods I passed this peaceful herd.

In spite of what they say about bulls, and cows with calves, in my experience it’s the bullocks you have to watch out for. They career around aimlessly, one minute ignoring you and the next galloping in your direction. It’s as if they don’t know what they’re doing, they’re off their heads, they have no one to tell them how to behave. (Like students, I suppose.) And I feel sorry for them. Groups of mixed ages and sexes are what nature intended, and what works.

A couple of miles further on and I was at the other side of the park. I decided to stop for lunch at this tiny disused chapel which I hadn’t visited for years.

I propped myself against a tomb and took out my tahini sandwich. Ellie busied herself investigating the rough grass for rabbits . . .

and snapping at flies . . .

. . .  before eventually settling down next to me.

As I ate, I thought of the Acland family who once owned the park, whose chapel this had been and whose gravestones were keeping me company. They put their Socialist principles into action and donated their grand house, gardens, parkland and hundreds of acres of farmland to the National Trust, moving to live in a small cottage in a nearby village.

The sun was almost shining, I was utterly alone and all sounds had died away. For some reason I remembered another time nearly fifty years earlier when I was sitting alone in the sun in a peaceful place. I was in the garden of my hall of residence at the end of my first year at university, and frantic with boredom. How different I felt now.

On the way out of the graveyard I passed this ivy, buzzing with wasps and flies. Only ivy produces flowers in quantity at this time of year and it’s a vital source of food for insects, while the black berries feed birds over the winter. I thought of the farmers round home who’ve taken to scalping the hedges in autumn, destroying hips and haws, berries and nuts. No wonder animal species are vanishing. How can farmers be so blind? One day not too far away, humans too might be glad of this wild larder.

The graveyard had been full of toadstools . . .

. . . and now they lined the path as well, hiding in the grass and watching me like gnomes.

Fat shiny acorns littered the ground. It seemed to be a good year for acorns and I hoped the wildlife (dormice? squirrels?) was taking advantaged of them and growing fat and healthy.

I paused at the edge of a field and took yet another photograph of ploughed red soil. I love ploughed fields. I think it's because they remind me of the sea.

We crossed a road and took other paths I vaguely remembered from way back. I had no map with me and wandered free. Ellie however – usually so bossy – was spooked by some frisky cattle, not realising that there was a fence between us and them, so we returned to the road. We crossed the estate drive and saw people queuing (2 metres apart) to get into the house. Poor sods, I thought. I’m not one for stately homes. White elephants more like.

We’d been out for three hours and I was ready to return. I spent the rest of the afternoon in calm, purposeful activity. I hadn’t felt like that for months.

The next day, as I sat in a field recovering from a trip to Sainsbury’s, I realised that what the walk had done was feed my soul. I must do it more often. Thank you National Trust. Thank you Aclands.