Andy and myself finally made it to Ditchling about 2:00pm. Not too bad considering it was a Sunday. Hadn't gone out last night though. Stayed in and couldn't sleep. Watched it get light. Watched a man in the 6:00am gloom try, and fail, to steal a padlocked bike across the street.
Got off the bus. Cold breeze. Wished I'd worn my leather jacket. Greying skies. Got walking though and wasn't cold. Intermittent sun. Fascinated by tiny clumps of woodland in the centre of fields -I have always called them spinnies. Something sinister and magical about the name.
And in the spinneys a silence and the sound of imagined hooves. Barbed wire and bones. Wild country. The sound of cartridges being fired in the distance. Over fence and under bush. Thorn scratched skin.
Woods fenced off. Warning signs left by the fey; 'Private No Footpath' meaning in this bluebell wood, you won't get out.
Coming back, not quite lost but not knowing where we were. Spinnies and trees moving about. 'I don't recognise this bit'. Andy on one side of the barbed wire, myself on the other. Horseriders on the ridge.
Finally back, waiting for the bus.
Watching the ghost-stormy skies light something over England.
