Rain is cool.
Rain is wet.
How much longer ‘til we get
Some?
~ Unnamed Vegetable with Bongos, Mr Potato Head Saves Veggie Valley, circa 1995
Things have gone beyond the bright, glowing yellow of mid-summer meadows. It has been several weeks now since the area last experienced rain, and things are starting to look distinctly brown and unseasonably lifeless. Today was no different. Another hot day loomed, threatening to top out in the high twenties, with not a drop of rain on the forecast. This did, however, provide us with an opportunity. Yesterday, Beth purchased us both some walking tops from Mountain Warehouse – they were in the sale, and she got an absolute bargain. We had always been dubious about specialist walking gear, particularly for the type of weekly walking we normally do. Yet, for reasons that I will explain at some point, we deemed them potentially necessary in the near future. With the high temperatures and good distance that the day would present, this seemed like the perfect time to try them out.
We’d made an effort to get going in good time this morning and parked up at about ten. We got our boots on, and I said, “Let’s go”, at which point Beth began walking confidently in the wrong direction – she doesn’t always remember the routes so easily. Once we were both facing the right direction, we left the carpark and began to make our way through the first section, comprised of a wide track through a good stretch of woodland. The sky was clear and bright, and things were easy going through the sporadic shade. The path here had been slightly muddy toward the bottom in the past, but it certainly wasn’t today. We climbed out onto Poppinghole Lane and walked along the always-quiet stretch of road. We passed a field of sheep as the road fell, rose, fell, and then rose once more, which was hot, sure, but all remained simple and undramatic.
And then we encountered a stile.
It was a rather unremarkable stile. It was a stile we had encountered before – on four separate occasions, to my estimate. And yet, on this, crossing number five, I found it to be significantly more unstable. Beth asked if she would be better off climbing the metallic five-bar gate next to it, to which I said yes, hesitantly. Beth then began to clamber slowly over, at which moment I then suggested that she might want to be quick, because (the reason for my hesitation), an individual who I thought might be the farmer, was in the field, and farmers aren’t famous for liking people climbing their gates. At this point, Beth naturally panicked and half-fell, half-leapt from the gate onto me, with unexpected force. She asked if I was okay, to which I responded yes, but it feels like my sunglasses (which were hanging from my t-shirt) have been implanted into my chest. As we walked on, I noticed a few dark specks appearing on my (new) t-shirt. I examined the source, and sure enough, my wife had wounded me with the arm of my own shades.
The worst part was it wasn’t even a farmer. It was a member of the rambling group, who were just a little ahead. We took our time, trying to give them space, and took in the scenery. This small, hidden patch of the High Weald is one of my very favourites, with constantly rolling meadows and woodland, which feels somehow closed off from the modern world. We began to descend through another meadow, at which point Beth realised something; this was the walk with the cows. Not just any cows, the cows. The cows which, two years ago, had provided us with our first grumpy-cattle experience, which Beth had never quite recovered from. If I’m honest, I had hoped to get a little further along before she remembered, but felt duty-bound to then point out that there had been cows in the field we had just crossed (another fact I had chosen to hold back until we had safely exited), and that they had been completely unbothered by our presence, too busy snoozing in the shade.
Despite our best efforts, we then caught up with the ramblers. As it turns out, it takes chuffing ages to get a group of pensioners over a stile. We joined the back of the queue and waited our turn; yep, we had to wait in line – a long line – which was a first! Once the OAPs were over and on their way, we too crossed. Just a little ahead, we knew there was an old, disused Beetle, decorated with flowers. We usually stop and take a look. However, the ramblers had decided that that would be a good idea too. We took the presented opportunity therefore, and didn’t stop, instead choosing to book it past them and leave them behind.
The path then turned us toward our next climb of the day. The rise was around the long edge of a hillside field. The way up presented only pockets of shade and was definitely the most strenuous part of the day. It was also so incredibly brown and barren. A murder of crows took flight from the woodland edge ahead and swooped over the dead, parched land. We turned a corner, and the climb slowly began to level. We also began to come under the welcome protection of the tree’s shade, and soon enough we found we were at the top. Stretching away to our right were lovely High Weald summer views of farmland and great, round bales – I had been looking for a location for a fictional village, and this could well be it. We then turned away, and into the cool relief of another tree-based section.
By this point, we are normally ready for lunch, but as it was not yet midday, we said hello to our usual spot without stopping (which had grown mushrooms since last time) and carried on. We crossed the road on the other side and began our approach to Staplecross. Things were certainly hot by now, and there was very little in the way of a breeze. I was also beginning to feel a little dry myself, and so I was all too pleased when we strolled into the village and saw the welcoming garden of The Cross Inn before us. We settled ourselves down on a bench under an umbrella at about quarter past twelve, and ordered ourselves some well-earned ciders. As we slurped greedily at the cool, sweet liquid, we discussed the new tops. So far, we were both impressed. We had both remained (relatively) cool, and neither of us had felt gross when we had taken the bag off after an hour. Normally, our backs (and the bag) feel disgusting, yet today, it was not so bad. The tops were unbelievably light, and impressively quick drying.
After a slightly longer pub stop than normal (forty-five minutes), we set off again. On both previous occasions, we had managed to cock-up our leaving of the village, and both times in the exact same way. However, with a little determination and an eventual learning-of-lessons, we managed to do it successfully for the first time ever – woohoo. This then began a stretch containing a series of pretty meadows, which I believe are there purely to lull you into a false sense of security.
For just ahead, awaited the cows.
Of course, we had met them once since that first occasion. Just under a year ago, we crossed the farm and dared set foot onto their territory. On that visit, they had been calm. This gave us 50:50 odds of an incident. We arrived at the end of the meadows and cautiously crept through the gate. We began to walk across the dry field.
“I see no signs of cow,” Beth said.
Unfortunately, I had seen signs of cow: pats.
Seconds later, over the gentle brow of the hill, I spotted them. The herd were huddled together in the middle of the field, soaking in the blazing sun – they are certainly some tough leather. I instantly recognised the large, white mother – she had been one of the main instigators, if not the main, of the original encounter. I looked at them. She stared back. I pointed them out to Beth, who quickened her step. I continued to monitor them. The others remained unfazed, but she had certainly taken note of our presence. Fortunately, the field was large, and we were some distance away. Any closer, and I suspect we would have had more trouble. However, as if she could hear my thoughts and agreed, she then settled herself down. I too relaxed, and slowed down to appreciate the herd. They are certainly a memorable bunch, even without additional reason. They are of mixed colour and (presumably) breed, unlike the normal monocultures common across farms. I also decided that the big white mother cow is just a particularly grumpy character. All species vary from individual to individual, and I think she is just a naturally mooodier lady than your average cow. She certainly stands out in our minds, amongst the hundreds we have passed; she is, therefore, a cow of note.
Main obstacle of the day now behind us, and we settled back into the rhythm of walking. As we left the farm behind, we entered into an unusually grown-up discussion about the climate and global warming and all the joys that come with it, which saw us well into another patch of woods. We then moved on to Henry VIII’s wives. This is something of a specialist subject for Beth, and so she was all too glad to go through them all with me. I received my own personal lecture, in which I learned about the origins of each wife, their time as queen and their eventual endings, and the reasons for them. We concluded with the untimely death of Catherine Parr, who had at least been fortunate enough to outlive Henry and marry her true love, Thomas Seymour, just in time to reach the day’s planned lunch spot.
Here, there is a particularly handsome, lonely oak in the middle of a large sweeping field. It is one we have sat beneath both times, and on the first occasion, Beth had played the song which eventually ended up becoming our first-dance. However, we had never stopped to eat beneath it before, and so today was a good chance to do so. We sat down and lent ourselves against the oak’s mighty trunk and ate our usual meal-deals. However, I had a not-so-secret ulterior motive. Due to us both being excellent, we had each managed to fail at getting each other’s wedding anniversary presents in time for the actual day. Fortunately, the way things worked out had ended up presenting me with the perfect time and place to present this particular gift, which I had stashed away at the bottom of the bag before we had left home. After lunch, I finally gave Beth the gift, only two weeks late. She opened it to reveal a wooden box. Beth lifted the lid, and with the turning of a small handle, “Detectorists” by Johnny Flynn tinkled out. We decided to see how well we could remember our first dance routine and re-created it beneath one of the High Weald’s finest trees.
We left the shade of the oak, and headed back out across the hot, open meadow. We regularly stopped to look back at the tree, as it got smaller and smaller among the wide landscape, until it eventually disappeared behind the slow brow of the hill. We carried on past the Dragon’s Teeth, and crossed over the road. Ahead of us was the Sedlescombe Organic Vineyard, which we had been tempted to stop at every time we had passed. I mentioned this to Beth, who shot me a sideways look. Five minutes later, we were sitting in a beautifully peaceful garden, each with a flute of sparkling rosé wine in hand. Despite the main road being maybe less than a hundred yards away, we couldn’t hear it at all. Instead, we sipped our juice overlooking the quiet, sunny vineyard – it was lovely! Again, we stopped for perhaps longer than we had expected and were already thinking of excuses to come back by the time we had left. This was also the second example of spontaneity of the week (again, more details to follow – you hadn’t forgotten, had you?), which is most unusual – but certainly no bad thing!
After this unplanned stop, the end was nearly in sight. It was a simple stroll through a couple more brown fields, before we saw the blessed shore of the woodlands which had started the day ahead. We entered, and made our way up one final small climb, before the car appeared before us. By pure sLkUiClKl, I had managed to park us in one of the only shady spots available in the afternoon, and so the car wasn’t so skin-scorchingly hot when we got in. And then we drove home, very content with what had been a fantastic adventure.
And so, “what of the new t-shirts?” I hear you asking. In a word – a triumph! We were notably cooler than with our normal, muggle tops, and less sticky too. I also can’t get over just how light they were. I honestly feel like the first time I tried it on Saturday evening must have been exactly how both Bilbo and Frodo felt when they both tried on mithril.
P.S. Well, our lovely day didn’t end there. We got home, and as I was finishing up the blog, Beth began to set the table. This is most unusual in our house, as most evenings we tend to eat off our laps. Down went a hitherto unseen green tablecloth, and up went three candles along the middle. I was then told to close my eyes and hold out my hands, into which she placed a present. As I opened the flat, square-shaped object that was my 1st anniversary gift, I was greeted with the sight of one of my very favourite photos from our wedding, with the words “Matt & Beth” in the corner. What wonderful, lovely, thoughtful Beth had given me, was a pressed vinyl containing the songs of our wedding day.
I absolutely love it!
She then served up a delicious and very grown-up meal of bean pie with broccoli, courgettes and roast potatoes, as we listened to the sounds of our wedding day crackling from the turntable. What a lovely day indeed. In the end, this Sunday felt like an anniversary too; one that was perfectly “us”.
Matthew G. Huggins 
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