It has been two weeks since our Mark Cross extravaganza (by the way, I did not catch Orf in the end), and much has changed. We have a major fence controversy on our hands with our new neighbours and have been left feeling rather uncomfortable in our own home. But we have a plan, and we will be executing it thusly. I shall say no more for now.
However, with that said, we had been feeling particularly heavy recently. As a result, this week’s walk was perhaps particularly important. I am pleased to say that as I sit down in the sunny beer garden of the Leicester Arms after nine hot, happy miles, it has gone some way to lighten the load.
I take three, deep sips of Orchard’s Thieves. Is there such a fine taste, such a refreshing feeling, as those first gulps? Beth is sipping at a pink gin and lemonade opposite, as Sabrina Carpenter is followed by the much-preferred Smash Mouth.
The day began with a pair of dippy eggs prepared lovingly for me by my wife. This was then followed by a drive to the Tonbridge Sainsbury’s to pick up our lunch (not a supermarket we frequent often), which had undergone something of a makeover since the last time we were there. It feels suddenly like an airport and requires an approximately half-mile walk before you reach the terminal.
After parking up in Penshurst village centre, we set off at quarter past eleven, beneath a grey but bright sky, through a warm day. We made our way past Penshurst Place, where people were flagrantly ignoring the “No Parking” sign (although to their credit, no one had parked in front of the sign itself) and climbed a short rise past a herd of black, dozy cows. We followed a concrete track, where Beth displayed an unusually good memory for the route from our previous visit – an anomaly that occurred often throughout the day, of which she was very proud. Next was a stint running alongside a river, already feeling the heat of the day, discussing the possibility of getting some kind of Tick Removal tool. So far, the day had been smooth and peaceful.
I take a couple more long sips of cider. Sweat by David Guetta and Snoop Dogg is now playing, Beth is flicking through her camera, taking a look at the photos she has taken over the last few hours. She smiles and turns the camera to show me photos of young cattle clustered around a wire fence. Photos of inquisitive noses stretching forth. Photos of a hand scratching their heads. A photo of me being licked by one.
We had turned away from the river, we began to walk along the edge of a field. Ahead, we could see the day’s second herd of cattle clustered around a tree beside the opposite fence. We have a healthy respect for cows, and following last week’s experience, Beth was perhaps more on edge than normal. As we walked, we both monitored their behaviour and took notes of potential escape routes. A metal gate, easy to jump over. A fallen tree, which would be simple to climb. Yet as we approached, they remained unbothered. As our gate was only a few feet from the slumbering herd, Beth chose to hop over an earlier gate and walk along the “safe” side of the fence. Being the daring hero, I decided to try my luck. I got nearer and made it to the gate without incident. A couple of cows rose to their hooves and moved a few paces closer, but, as Beth said, it seemed more from curiosity than anything else. She came through the gate to join me once she knew it was safe, but only after returning to the safe side did she close the rest of the gap to say hello. The young cattle approached and reached out noses, as we in turn reached out our hands. After some assessment sniffs and tentative touches, we were deemed safe. One individual, tag number ending 419, found my head scratches particularly pleasing and said thank you by licking my face. As we finally said our goodbyes and left with a wave, he and his friends continued to stare. Beth wondered if he would ever be petted again.
This highly positive cow encounter went some way to repairing Beth-bovine relations, and we carried on with an extra smile. Our path continued through a series of arable fields, which rose all the way to the village of Bidborough. After traversing a series of little alleyways, we passed our previous lunch spot without stopping due to a lack of hunger. We walked for about another forty-five minutes through cut or ready-to-be cut meadows before finally settling beneath an English Oak, looking down over a farm. Dozens of young oaks were growing beneath following last Autumn’s bumper season, so we were careful to avoid the baby trees. I spotted a fast-moving shadow of a jet flying over the fields, and listened to a voicemail from my Gran, who presumed that we were out walking when she had tried to call – 10/10 guess, Granny!
I look down at my pint, lift it to my lips and take another sweet sip. Teenage Dream has just finished playing and has been replaced with Airplanes by B.O.B. The first pint always seems to go too quickly. Beth too, is happily making her way through her gin.
Following our Sunday lunch, we carried on heading back to Penshurst, the bleating of sheep echoing across the countryside. As we crossed a road, I heard Beth stop beside me with a sad “aww”. I looked around to find her standing over a very lethargic bee. We tried to help. We offered it Beth’s Ribena; the drink was sugar-free and thus uninteresting. I then suggested he might like my sweets, thinking of maybe tearing a head off of one of my special gummy worms, which had been gifted to me for my birthday. Beth obviously decided the situation was more serious than that and gave him the whole thing. Needless to say, he did not want this either, and the worm went to waste. We then tried to mix some of the worms’ sugar with water, but at this point, the bumble more p*ssed off than anything. In the end, this may have been the best result we could achieve. Our encouragement had energised him somewhat, and he walked his fuzzy bee butt away into the undergrowth to escape our rescue efforts. At least he was now in the shade. Hopefully he’s okay!
We carried on through meadows and down a long farm track, ensuring not to make the same mistakes as previously. Shortly before arriving at the road which would take us back up to Penshurst, we passed a scrubby field. When we looked closely, we noticed some ewes and their overgrown lambs grazing amongst the tall stalks. On the path ahead, I could hear one bleating particularly urgently. I came face-to-face with a lamb through the electric fence. It did not seem nervous, yet neither did I think it was the cause of the commotion. No, I had my eye on the odd chap lying partially obscured amongst the stalky plants just behind. My suspicions were confirmed when he leapt to his feet, bleated the same bleat and ran urgently and erratically to stand beside his friend and stare at us, too. We asked him what was wrong, and aside from a sore hoof, he would not say. Perhaps he was just an unusual sheep, daring to be different. Good for him. We left he and his friend to it.
Finally, we climbed back up into the pretty village and made our way to the Leicester Arms. And here we have been since. Beth has drunk enough that she has reached the point where she is flicking through the photos on her phone and showing me with great enthusiasm. Rizzle Kicks are now playing, and my glass is finally empty. I’m going to go and get another pint.
I think I’ll just stay here. At least for a while.
Matthew G. Huggins 