Treasured fairyland of fine and familiar that brings hope for future

MY friend Matthew Coome applies the handbrake in a shady spot inside a mature woodland about 40 yards north of the A4130, the fast road that runs from Nettlebed to Henley.

No sooner than I step out of his car I realise that I’m in fairyland. We are aside a dip that leads a short way to Catslip, just short of beautiful Crocker End with its quintessential south Chiltern houses that lies on a rise a short way off further to the north.

I’m surrounded by huge, old, widely-spaced beech trees, some twisted with folkloric-looking trunks, others branching at head-height with abandon. It is all a little difficult to take in. Some of the beech seem to beckon like sirens, others appear to stare at me with aged knowing through wooden, inscrutable, knotty eyes. I wonder why I’d not once thought of exploring the area with my late wife Rosemary.

I spin around and notice a large cohort of oak alongside decidedly spindly hazel and a slender rowan. This segment of woodland is clearly very old, the space between the trees substantial. I wonder at all the mycorrhizal activity going on below me.

We set off along an exceedingly narrow, dipping lane towards Crocker End to find ourselves all of a sudden in the open in this decidedly confined space, high hedgerows tower either side. We stop briefly to take in the view of a rolling field to our right past the broad trunk of an aged, scaly-trunked sycamore and across one of the old hedgerows. It is populated with dark-coloured, heavy, chunky cattle. Not being a farmer, I’ve no idea of the breed or breeds but they look content and decidedly beefy as they munch away on the flower-filled sward with bovine contentment.

The narrow and dangerously pot-holed lane is a rewarding treasure plant-wise. A large variety of late-flowering species are on display on the verges below hazel, wych elm and field maple, from lilac-flowered field scabious (Knautia arvensis), the yellow, delicate blooms of perforate St John’s wort (Hypericum perforatum), the pink and near-white striped, little bonnets of field bindweed (Convolvulus arvensis) and black horehound (Ballota nigra) with its pinky-purple, hooded flowers.

I spot rough-leaved wild hops (Humulus lupulus) climbing to the top of the hedges with their aromatic, pistillate, female flower cones, the sound of the busy road now far away, diminished, barely discernible.

Down in the dip and across a metal gate to our left is summer’s common teasel (Dipsacus fullonum), stiff-stemmed, desiccated and standing proud is a favourite food source of brightly-coloured goldfinches, they gorge on the nutritious seeds.

A bell tinkles as we step aside to allow two cyclists to pass by. I feel as if I’ve stepped into a quieter, simpler past. All is so bucolic and enjoyable, no modern-day rush or bustle.

We turn back and make our way slowly up the hillside that I’d underestimated — short-lived but challenging. On the way I mention the old Carpenter’s Arms pub in Crocker End that I last visited in the Eighties and remember a small barn outside astride staddle stones. It must have been an old grain store, the interior treasure protected from rodents. Approaching some small but attractive cottages to our left we turn down a bridleway that indicates the way to Bix.

The stony path below shimmers in the sunlight, bracken fills the undergrowth on our right, honeysuckle clambers high with will through young cherries and silver birch, the vapour trails of unheard aircraft bisect the sky looking akin to Scottish saltires. It is quite a sight.

All the usual suspects lie below the trees from sedges to enchanter’s nightshade. All is fine, familiar, in order.

Meeting yet another gravelly crossroads we take a right turn towards Matthew’s car. It is here that we come across some huge holly trees, their lower leaves spiky, those above the “browsing line” spike-free. A theme that will come full-circle a while later.

At home I take a phone call from the hospital. My dear mother has taken a turn for the worse. I pay a visit later, which turns out to be a last goodbye.

My friends rally around and as planned, some few days later, we take another brief walk accompanied by our friend Dave Kenny. We head north again but this time we stop and park a few hundred yards away from All Saints Church, a peaceful setting in Rotherfield Peppard that forms part of an area known quaintly as Arundel.

An easterly path leads past the timeless setting. Across and beyond a metal gate I spot some dark mullein (Verbascum nigrum) bearing upright spikes of yellow flowers with deep crimson interiors, one of my favourite flowers of late summer and early autumn. I always hankered for some in our garden, one of the last glowing lanterns before the ensuing months of drabness.

The going is very stony, flint all around as far as you can see, glistening where split by human hand or ploughshare under an increasingly low-hanging sun.

We’re on the edge of a cropped field. Dark-green Crowsley Park Woods lie in the near distance, pleasant vistas all around.

A pair of summer’s swallows, my first this year, fly with astounding, balletic agility scarcely above stubble as they eat unseen insects on the wing. They will depart soon on an unfathomable journey south and with hope will return next year.

Meeting the woodland edge we turn back as I’m a little weary and trying to come to terms with yet another change in my life.

As we approach the confines of the churchyard on the pathway we bump into my friends Richard and Jackie Fortey, both wielding old-fashioned white-wooded walking staffs. Richard has fashioned both from the wood of holly, presumably from his own piece of Lambridge Wood, near Henley. Richard is most pleased to have fitted ferrules to the base of the walking sticks as he thought that no-one would understand his descriptive request.

At my asking, we take a brief stroll around the elevated area of the common on the other side of the fast road from the charming, small primary school.

Wandering past Peppard
Cottage, we come across a wooden bench. I sit down for a minute to remember all the times over the last 60-odd years that I have enjoyed this place, from family picnics to times with Rosemary. I hope that nothing changes. That memory will still remain, engrained.

We leave and I’m home.

In the early evening, on my way back from the shops, I scale the concrete steps beside the Last Crumb, formerly the Prince of Wales pub, to enter a corner of Balmore Walk.

A glorious, golden sunset is unfolding and I’m pleasantly surprised to watch a pair of pipistrelle bats going about there business in and around some silver birch trees and a large hazel.

Over subsequent darker, wetter days the evenings are closing in with alacrity as we’ve passed the autumn equinox but the bats are still flittering between the trees and our robin is singing at full throttle, a sign of approaching winter.

Bring on spring.

To my mother Maggie — October 22, 1932 to August 26, 2024. God bless you my dear. Always with me wherever I go.

vincent.ruane@hotmail.com