Imprint was the theme of our recent exhibition.
Hattie the dog and I imprint our footsteps/pawprints in repeated rotations thru and around the fields about here. There are many footpaths, some sign posted and some just invitations of flattened grasses.
The one up the hill to Hill farm is deeply rutted and then back filled with horse poo. On occasion the farmer adds sand and gravel to the mix.
When we have heavy rain, the run-off drags most of the ingredients down the steep path, across the road and into the drains and gardens of the "new" houses below.
Once upon a time there used to be allotments on that site, many gooseberries and peas were grown and delivered to the village shop to be sold to the village populace.
Everyone was happy with the arrangement, but somehow the land was sold to a builder and a Close was built. The Closees are not amused when they awake to a mucky lawn, so after some years [complaints have to compost for some while in the country] the farmer found some evil tarmac concoction and covered the sand and poo for about half the distance of the path. Presumably his half.
The village awaits results after the next rain storm, hopefully tonight as it has been very hot for a very long, un-English time in this corner of the country. We could do with some air freshening.
Another path leads thru the horsey field, now without the entertainment of horses, with a side turning off thru the cows or sheep depending on whom is renting the pasture that month.
The Grindel runs across the bottom field, so feet can get rather wet if following this path, the cows enjoy this feature and stand about hock deep in mud and contentment gazing dreamily at passers by, such as Hatty and I. Unless they are young and curious, in which case they lower their heads, bat their long silky eyelashes and advance in a inquisitive semi-circle, if they were children they would be holding hands.
If we keep walking down the hill, one way or another, we reach the river, then we can go right and inspect the houseboats, or left and to pass the yacht club and boat yard. Hatty doesn't mind which we choose just as long as we keep moving on.
The path up [or down] the Long Fields has been officiously designated a Cycle Path, and has the signs on tall poles to prove it. This advent was largely ignored until Tonka type earth movers arrived and proceeded to surface the path with flinty stones, presumably so that if a cyclist ever did use the path [none sighted so far] they would be unseated by the strange terrain and then receive everlasting scarred knees to record the adventure.
The horses that carry riders down, and up, the path [it is also ordained a bridal path] reject the sharp, shifting stones and have made a new imprint by the side, thru the farmers crop.
Walkers, including Hatty and I, also reject the unsteady and noisy stones and take refuge in the soft earth and horse shoe prints.
Thus a new imprint is added to the pages of the country journal.
Hattie the dog and I imprint our footsteps/pawprints in repeated rotations thru and around the fields about here. There are many footpaths, some sign posted and some just invitations of flattened grasses.
The one up the hill to Hill farm is deeply rutted and then back filled with horse poo. On occasion the farmer adds sand and gravel to the mix.
When we have heavy rain, the run-off drags most of the ingredients down the steep path, across the road and into the drains and gardens of the "new" houses below.
Once upon a time there used to be allotments on that site, many gooseberries and peas were grown and delivered to the village shop to be sold to the village populace.
Everyone was happy with the arrangement, but somehow the land was sold to a builder and a Close was built. The Closees are not amused when they awake to a mucky lawn, so after some years [complaints have to compost for some while in the country] the farmer found some evil tarmac concoction and covered the sand and poo for about half the distance of the path. Presumably his half.
The village awaits results after the next rain storm, hopefully tonight as it has been very hot for a very long, un-English time in this corner of the country. We could do with some air freshening.
Another path leads thru the horsey field, now without the entertainment of horses, with a side turning off thru the cows or sheep depending on whom is renting the pasture that month.
The Grindel runs across the bottom field, so feet can get rather wet if following this path, the cows enjoy this feature and stand about hock deep in mud and contentment gazing dreamily at passers by, such as Hatty and I. Unless they are young and curious, in which case they lower their heads, bat their long silky eyelashes and advance in a inquisitive semi-circle, if they were children they would be holding hands.
If we keep walking down the hill, one way or another, we reach the river, then we can go right and inspect the houseboats, or left and to pass the yacht club and boat yard. Hatty doesn't mind which we choose just as long as we keep moving on.
The path up [or down] the Long Fields has been officiously designated a Cycle Path, and has the signs on tall poles to prove it. This advent was largely ignored until Tonka type earth movers arrived and proceeded to surface the path with flinty stones, presumably so that if a cyclist ever did use the path [none sighted so far] they would be unseated by the strange terrain and then receive everlasting scarred knees to record the adventure.
The horses that carry riders down, and up, the path [it is also ordained a bridal path] reject the sharp, shifting stones and have made a new imprint by the side, thru the farmers crop.
Walkers, including Hatty and I, also reject the unsteady and noisy stones and take refuge in the soft earth and horse shoe prints.
Thus a new imprint is added to the pages of the country journal.
