To Farmcote

The feel of the day, was a little glum on a long slow upward trudge, on a prehistoric track towards an ancient isolated small church. The monastery, now in ruins by the might of Henry the 8th, near the beginning of the track.

It is a steady climb in the footsteps of ancient people going to a hilltop camp and the monks later going up to a little church.

It is a steady climb but at the top the views and the refreshing winds are worth the effort. Going off to the left of the track, I aim for a patch of scrub grass, that will give a panoramic view across the valley and beyond, towards an Anglo Saxon village.

I sit below the camp where Cromwell is reputed to have viewed the firing of the monastery below.

It is good to sit down. The Saltway visible in the distance beyond the tiny settlement. The Skyscape, a brilliant blue with moving white clouds. The warm winds, sing through the trees. The sheep are grazing, but curiously, every single one is facing towards me as it feeds.

Lying on the grass, in the sun with my rucksack unpacked means to me that this is now my little camp. I am of the ilk that has a deep contentment, by having a rucksack, which contains all that I might need.

No noise no people no loud notes, other than the coming and going of the strength of the wind. The undertones of it sanding through the trees. Watching the clouds, the landscape is alive with changes, caused by sun and shadow.

Yet there is a sense of loss, of not quite having it, although I came here and need quiet, like I need to breathe. The heart is not letting go. It is anxious still.

Like seeds and plants, everything has a season. It is just the fruiting of that day did not germinate then.

In comparison winter cannot be ignored, because the wind felt is stronger, the sheep often seek shelter. A smile demanded by the clouds prancing about the sky.

Skydrift Moon