puddleshark

Winter has returned, drawn back by the snow of white blossom on the blackthorn in the hedges: a Blackthorn Winter. A wild cold west wind blowing on the downs above Ringstead Bay when I set off this morning. Even wearing hat, gloves, sweater & winter coat, and walking briskly, I was never warm.

The walk almost ended before it started. A herd of young cattle had been turned out into the first field I had to cross, and were gathered on the narrow path through the gorse. But I had set my heart on walking to White Nothe this morning, so summoned up my courage and grabbed a big stick out the hedge, and - muttering rude things about the farmer under my breath - ventured into the field. But it was fine. I stood patiently behind the cattle, with my big stick, and they slowly moved themselves off out of the way to a far corner of the field.

Any walk in which I am not chased by young cattle is a good one.

Up on the coast path, above Ringstead Bay. A narrow twisty path overlooking the undercliff and the sea. At least it is not slippery at the moment - last week's sunshine has baked the clay hard. A crow was perched on the gorse beside the path, flew up as I approached, and circled above me making a curious two-tone croak. Not sure what that means in crow language, whether a greeting or a curse, but I nodded courteously in return.

The wind was gusting fiercely, so my pictures may be a little blurred by photographer-trying-not-to-be-blown-over camera shake. I had taken along my little wet weather camera, as the forecast was chancy, but in the end it never rained at all. By the end of the walk, the sun was out, and it was glorious. (Of course, if I had taken my main camera, it would have poured down relentlessly...)

Reaching White Nothe, sat for a while on the stone bench with the glorious views eastwards towards Lulworth, with the wind at my back. It was a race to drink my coffee before the wind could blow it stone cold.

The cloud began to break, the sun turning the sea a dazzling silver.

In the centre of the picture, the top of the arch at Durdle Door just visible, poking up behind Bat's Head.

Refuelled with caffeine and chocolate, set off a little further eastwards along the coast path.

The coast path passing a beacon, erected in 1908 apparently, "for the use of His Majesty’s ships when prize firing". The path starting to become busy with walkers. But it was time for me to turn inland, and take a slightly more sheltered route back through the fields.

A lonely path, through vast hedgeless fields. Just the blue sky above, and the wind rippling through the grass, and the skylarks singing. Though their nests are doomed, poor things. The fields are the monotonous fertilized green of ryegrass grown for silage, and will no doubt be cut for silage in the next few weeks.

I understand the farmers' predicament. Haymaking has always been a chancy business, dependent on enough days of settled weather to get your hay cut, and turned, and baled, and brought in. Whereas silage can be cut in a few hours whatever the weather. Still, silage fields are an ecological disaster. Not a weed or a wild flower or a bumblebee in sight.

The wind in the wheatfield (or the barley field, not sure which, but barley field doesn't have the same poetic ring).

The path not taken, this time. The chalk track to Down Barn, and West Chaldon.

Cloudshadow travelling over the downs.

Nearing Sea Barn and Holworth House.

I took the steep lane down to the little wooden church, St Catherine's by the Sea, and sat on a wooden bench in the tiny churchyard, with views back along the coast to White Nothe.