As through the wild green hills of Wyre
The train ran, changing sky and shire,
And far behind, a fading crest,
Low in the forsaken west
Sank the high-reared head of Clee...
A E Housman's Shropshire Lad (XXXVII in this case) used to me more familiar territory. For the most part I've left behind Housman's simply phrased rhyming melancholy. However the phrase changing sky and shire remains in my mind. And that is what Brena and I did today, through hills closer than wooded Wyre.
These hills are shared between Oxfordshire and Berkshire, the actual border a sinuous remembrance of ancient parishes. Following old lanes, several times we crossed from one to the other and back.
The sky changed too. We arrived at our start point as a slate grey curtain drew past, soaking land to the north but not us. Climbing to the first ridge, a grey bar of cloud passed aloft, dropping a light drizzle that did not warrant a coat. And then the sun burst forth.
Here we are looking across Woolstone Down as it rises to Uffington Castle, there on the horizon. We were warm in the sun, that slight drizzle having quickly dried from us. The whole world seemed bright and beautiful, every tree and plant bountiful, the trails openly beckoning. "Come and ride", they seemed to say, as the hills embraced us in welcome.
We passed the neolithic barrow of Wayland's Smithy, then turned south along another silent lane. The old barn next to the grassy way stood part-filled with baled straw. But it is a long time since anyone lived up here, or a horse or cow was stabled. Modern agriculture takes place amongst the relics of the past - the barrows from thousands of years ago, medieval lanes, dew ponds a couple of centuries old, and barns built from war-surplus materials. And it is the oldest that seem most resillient.
Dark clouds sped in from the west, driven by a chill wind. It occured to me how little shelter this landscape offers, how open and windswept are the rolling hills. This place should be one vast grassland, perhaps dotted by woods, not constrained by agriculture. Thus it was for centuries, or perhaps millennia. There should be shepherds scattered about, wild men with cozy huts where the traveller might shelter shrouded in woodsmoke and banter. At the edge a forest would shield this fanciful land with all its hardship and romance.
As it is, I thought about the old barn, wondering whether we might shelter amongst the straw whilst loose paanels of corrugated iron creaked and banged in the wind.
But, yet again, the rain passed us by, her cloak brushing us with a few cold wind-scattered drops. This can be a bleak land, but not altogether unkind.
A shallow valley opened its arms to us, a low ridge affording surprising shelter. We were alone. Not a person was in sight, not a horse, just the occasional Red Kite wheeling above in search of small and unwary creatures. As we descended the shallow dry valley bottom Brena made the occasional lunge at green barkey ears, for it is food that motivates her most, and not dreaming or imagining. And I was glad that she is not a horse who needs to drink often, for their is no water here, none for several miles until the village of Lambourn is reached - it's very name a sign that here sheep were watered in the distant past when places were named. But we did not go that way, for truck and trailer were parkd to the left, over the ridge and down the other side.
We crossed the grassy crest in the sun, and descended happy and a little tired. My lunch awaited, a little late in the afternoon it is true, and grazing for my ever-hungry beast.
I lay in the long grass after eating, performing a few necessary stretches to take care of my back.
Then I sat up, and saw more sheets of grey rushing wind-blown from the west. There was no time to lose. I prepared the trailer, loaded Brena who went in willingly knowing there to be hay inside, coiled up her tether and put it into the truck. Heavy droplets of rain battered the roof as sharp gusts shook both vehicles. Lights on as in winter we set off for home.