Well, you’re welcome, folks!
Previously, as you know, we went on a noble quest to Cymru to save the kingdom. Our brave and daring journey led us to tame a great dragon, Yr Wyddfa, and to send her back to the South East ahead of us. By the time we arrived, she had unleashed her Welsh downpours and gales over the Weald, to rescue it from the great heat and deathly dryness.
The only trouble is that we have since had trouble getting the aforementioned beast back on her metaphorical leash. Having been so desperate for rain for weeks and weeks, we are not complaining about the recent rainfall; however, they do seem to be making up for lost time. And so, equipped with coats, we ventured out to see if we could track down Yr Wyddfa, wherever she had got to, and perhaps tempt her to calm things down to a more seasonably appropriate level.
Rumour had it that, on this particular morning, our dragon was resting somewhere within the western High Weald. This led us to Horsted Keynes for a second time, to begin our latest quest at around half eleven. The day was humid and changeable, flitting from overcast to sunny, and a stiff breeze blew through. The Green Man, who was known to wander the Weald from time to time to time, winked at us from the pub sign gently creaking in the breeze over the road and wished us good luck; “You’re going to need it.”
We headed out of Horsted Keynes and through the day’s first woodland. Since we had last walked the footpaths of the Weald near Bodiam Castle a couple of weeks ago, in which time our dragon had been busy at work, the deathly browns and yellows that had made up the world had since ebbed, and a certain amount of green had been. The bracken, for example, whilst still showing plenty of yellow and brown, had notably more life to it than it had. The trees too looked a little more alive; however, I do believe that these autumnal colours will not fade now and will simply continue for the weeks ahead. Nonetheless, I am very sure the foliage has all been grateful for a long overdue drink.
Still no sign of the dragon though. We left the woods and began to climb. At the top of the hill, we began to walk across open farmland, which again was notably fresher and greener than it would have looked two weeks ago. The day remained largely overcast, but the rain stayed at bay, so we assumed Yr Wyddfa must still be sleeping. Beth decided to harness the magic of the Green Man himself here, to help us locate her, and so gave a handy oak tree a hug, hoping to evoke its favour. Shortly after, the distinctive, sweet smell of haylage reached our nostrils, and a flock of sheep came into view moments later. One member walked toward the water trough, which we happened to be near, eyeing us suspiciously, before returning to its fellows.
It soon became evident that Beth’s attempt at magic had worked, and that the Green Man could work impressively quickly. As we walked around the edge of a large, arable field, a delicate shower began to sprinkle down over our heads. By the time Beth had begun to put her coat on, however, it had passed, and Yr Wyddfa had obviously rolled over and dove back into her deep sleep; nonetheless, the Green Man was clearly hard at work trying to wake a sleeping dragon (despite this being a notoriously misguided thing to do).
We carried on our way, briefly sharing the footpath with a pair of grouse, as we continued to cross through sheep fields. A train tooted as it passed alongside us, and we stopped to laugh at three horses stood in a row, the middle one rhythmically hitting each of his friends in the face with its swishing tail. After crossing the tracks, we headed down into a patch of trees nestled at the bottom of a small valley. As we entered, the rain began once more. The Greenman continues to work hard.
As we climbed up out of the shelter of the trees, the rain continued, enough that we paused at the field edge to put Beth’s bag’s special coat on. Oh yeah, for this walk, Beth had wanted to take her new bag, which she had purchased before climbing Snowdon. Partly because she was really pleased with it, and partly to practice wearing a bag all day for…well, we’ll get to that; you hadn’t forgotten, had you? Anyway, the new bag comes equipped with a special inbuilt coat for such moist occasions; and so, on it went!
The Greenman is dancing now, clacking sticks and shaking bells about Yr Wyddfa’s sleepy head. She opens a bleary, irritable, yellow eye.
We continue on our way, the ground beginning to climb steeply beneath us. Then, I hear an unmistakable sound. The distant – yet perhaps not as distant as one might like – noise of two wings stretching, disturbing the air with a lazy, reverberating swoosh. The rain began to fall harder. A deep rumble echoed through the hill, as Yr Wyddfa raised its head to grumble at The Green Man. At this point, The Green Man wisely fled, satisfied that his job was done. Again, we heard the sound of the great dragon on the move, disturbing the air with little effort, and by now the rain was pouring over us. We ducked beneath a young, shrubby oak at the side of the field, and took shelter like two of her Welsh sheep. Yr Wyddfa leapt into the air and took flight, without giving us even a chance to talk things through. Fortunately, she did at least take the worst of the weather with her. The rain fell to a drizzle as we emerged back out into the open and was gone by the time we reached the top of the slope. We were about due for lunch by now; however, fearing a sudden U-turn and not wanting to get unnecessarily moist, we ducked into the conveniently timed old smoke-house, which sits next to the Highbrook Church. This round old building is open for people to visit, and on this occasion provided us with a comfortable, dry spot to refuel ourselves.
As we headed out of the tiny village of Highbrook back toward Horsted Keynes, we could certainly feel the dragon’s presence still lurking nearby. The occasional speck of moisture landed on our faces, and the quest was not yet lost. We passed beneath the grey blanket of Wales covering a Wealden bed, over farmlands, orchards and gardens. Eventually reaching a road, we heard some erratic, incessant honking ahead. You may think this was related to Yr Wyddfa, perhaps taking an absorbent amount of time to cross a road; but sadly, you’d be wrong. The honker in question came around the corner and slowed next to us, window rolled down. She informed us that, around the corner, there were two pheasants “trying to kill each other”. She had said that they had jumped into the bushes, but to look out for them. We said we would see what we could do, and she drove off, satisfied. We turned the corner curiously and peered into the undergrowth. Beth was the first to spot them; sure enough, a pair of male pheasants. At this moment, they were not being overly aggressive, pecking around the undergrowth, perhaps a little posturing, but very little violence. They disappeared, and I felt a little disappointed. Beth had spotted some feathers on the road though, so there must have been some fighting going on. Neither of us had seen this behaviour amongst pheasants before, and could only assume that it was a strange byproduct of the nearby presence of a dragon.
Shortly after, we crossed beneath the rail line, stopped to wave at its passengers (why do we do this?), and then approached a stretch of the walk, the prospect of which had been making one of us nervous. From previous experience, we knew that the approaching farm housed cattle. Specifically, the herd included at least one bull and, more concerningly, calves. There were warning signs everywhere, but fortunately last time they had all been in the barn (shoutout to the fence-damaging deer). We entered the farm cautiously. We crossed the wide, open, gently sloped field, keeping an eye on the low crest ahead. Beth trod anxiously on my heels, yet all we saw were pats. As we made it to the farmyard, we spotted the herd split, once again, between three barns. Cows large and young watched us calmly as we passed, and we were in the clear.
Or so we thought.
Exiting the yard, we headed toward one final, large field, which sloped down and away from the farm. As we neared the gate, I spotted two horses…and three cows. Each cow stared at us as we approached. Beth stopped in her tracks. I went in to test the waters. As more of the field came into view, I spotted that the three were not alone. About five further cows were sitting together, and as they spotted me, two climbed to their feet. This was not a good sign, and at this point I already knew that we weren’t going to cross. We may make it, albeit uncomfortably, but also we may end up being chased over a very large field – there’s a lot of inertia in a cow. Nonetheless, I stood my ground at the top of the field, as more of the cattle got to their feet. A very angry-looking black and white cow stood nearest, glaring at me, as slowly, his fellows began to step closer and closer toward our corner. At this point, I spotted one particularly beefy cow at the back of the herd, and two pendulous testicles swinging between his legs. The bull looked at me, and together, he and his herd slowly headed over. They did not seem overly displeased at our presence, but enough that, at this point, I decided that they were close enough that I should probably make my exit. I rejoined Beth on the safe side of the metal gate and watched as the herd stopped nearby around their battered, round hayrack. Together, they munched on some hay, a couple coming to slurp from the water trough in front of us. By now, the two horses had also decided to see what we were doing. They trotted over with the kind of self-righteous, flinchy energy common amongst equine kind (I don’t particularly like horses, has to be said). The cows clearly agreed with me too, as they shuffled out of their way with a decidedly irritable side-eye. The pair came and stuck their big heads in front of us, and pranced about in circles, appearing slightly agitated at both us and each other. They then retreated and settled down to graze nearby; perhaps they would have caused us the biggest trouble, had we decided to cross!
However, we had not, and so made our way back into the farmyard, to pick up our alternate route. It was not too much of a detour; we popped out on the road that ran alongside the farm and headed down to meet back up with the prescribed route in the far corner of the cow field. This might not have been the nicest road to walk down; however, it was preferable to either a bovine or equine death – or some horrendous, gruesome incident involving both. Once safely past the danger and on the route, we were well and truly back within the outskirts of Horsted Keynes. We headed past the church and up into the village, and then we were back. In the centre of the village, opposite the green, still sat The Green Man’s very own pub – a fine, classical, old-school country establishment – and so, following his earlier help, we thought we would pop in to say thanks. We sat outside with two pints of his exquisite, scrumptious cider, and took a refreshing sip.
At that very moment, Yr Wyddfa suddenly swooped right down over us. Her great wings beat a fierce wind through Horsted Keynes. Umbrellas rattled, pints wobbled, and drizzle began to spatter on our faces. Fortunately, this presented us with just the opportunity we needed. Choosing diplomacy rather than force, we quickly bought the dragon her own pint of The Green Man’s cider (which has magical powers, don’t you know), and over his finest pressed apples, we talked. We thanked her greatly for all of her help, returning our beloved High Weald to its luscious, fertile state, and that, if she wished, she could return home to her own valleys, and the magnificent mountain which she calls home. She thought about her valleys, and all the sheep which were surely missing her. With a smile and a cheerio, she spread her wings and flew home to Cymru. And with one final, great gust of wind, she was gone.
And so, the High Weald was saved, the dragon returned home, and our quest was at an end. And so too, was another year’s walking. During this, our third year of blogging our walks, our boots have carried Beth and I over two hundred and fifty miles, through both the comfortably familiar and intriguingly new. We always love our walks, and have found that, at the end of particularly tough weeks, they have become all the more important. The winding footpaths and little lanes provide us both with a sanctuary, and a peace which is hard to find. We both love our walks dearly, as of course, we love each other.
Now, let us look ahead, to blogging year number four. I have a feeling that things are going to start with a bang, in such a way which they have not before…. You hadn’t forgotten… had you?
Matthew G. Huggins 