One Pot Screamer Files

A winter’s Tale:  ‘When the Kite builds, look to lessen linen’

(William Shakespeare)

The names Goring and Streatley, to me conjure up a bygone era, an era of style, names that evoke a certain place in time. I could easily imagine arriving at Goring and Streatley station from Paddington not in a Class 43 diesel engine but a steam locomotive. Perhaps the locomotive engine would have been dark green and the coaches finished in a cream and chocolate two tone livery.

A little under an hour from London, Goring and Streatley as the name suggests are two places, separated by the river Thames. Goring and Streatley Bridge links the two villages, Goring-on-Thames and Streatley. Goring, which is situated at the south west tip of the Chilterns, a forty seven mile stretch of chalk escarpment to Hertfordshire in the north east is the Oxfordshire side and Streatley is on the Berkshire side. After alighting on the Goring side and having made a cursory study of my Ordnance Survey map I set off in a north easterly direction away from the river and Streatley, uphill along what I now know to be Reading Road. A quick look at the time told me it was 11.43am, plenty of time for me to explore the area, as usual I didn’t really have a plan other than a  vague idea of reaching an eccentric  public house somewhere close to Checkendon.

My imagination was further fertilised as an oncoming vintage car ghosted by, I had to be careful; the B4526 Reading road can take the unsuspecting casual walker by surprise. I remember some good advice was that wherever possible, always to walk facing the oncoming traffic. Sounds obvious now but then one can at least see danger is oncoming before taking evasive action. I passed Flint House on my right, otherwise known as ‘The Police Rehabilitation Centre’, according to their web site it looks very much like a five star hotel with a bit of rehabilitation thrown in, I’m not sure it’s worth becoming an officer of the law in order to sample the refinements of Flint House.

I clambered over the nearest gate and walked parallel to the road, the rustle of dried corn plants sounding not unlike aluminium bottle milk tops threaded with cotton quivering nervously in the breeze. Occasionally a pheasant would break cover from a hedgerow, a beating of muscular wings accompanied by a whistle of air and a shriek before disappearing amongst the corn stalks. The sound of shotguns being discharged peppered the surrounding countryside. Overhead, magisterial Red Kites soared silently on the thermal air, a deft flick of their V shaped tail feathers and they would wheel this way or tilt that way.   

Red Kites were a common site across the country three hundred years ago, the english language takes the name ‘kite’ from these rapacious raptors, in medieval and Elizabethan London they were common scavengers, between the sixteenth and nineteenth century Red Kites were severely persecuted until they were almost wiped out. Their persecution was largely due to ignorance; they look an intimidating sight with a wingspan easily in excess of five feet, especially when they numbered five and six or more birds at a time.  Up until then Red Kites were given protected status due to their willingness to clean the London streets of carrion.

The beautifully illustrated ‘AA Book of British Birds’ first published in 1969 by the Readers Digest, states the natural habitat of the Red Kite as mid Wales,  at that time numbering only twenty pairs;  going on to say ‘they were seldom seen elsewhere and considered to be very rare’. This was until they were successfully reintroduced in England in the late eighties.

Red Kites feed mainly on carrion; they’re also partial to grubs and small mammals such as mice, rats and rabbit. Worms, frogs and fledgling birds such as rooks and gulls are also on the menu, they are opportunist regarding their feeding habits. Preferred habitats are open farmland and wooded areas, their nests are rather untidy looking affairs consisting of sticks and large twigs, often lined with moss, wool, paper, hair and even bits of plastic. The guide describes their call as a ‘weeou - weeou - weeou’ mmm… I have to say, they didn’t sound like that to me although I was very pleased to hear their call.

The compass is a wonderful piece of equipment; I keep a little pocket one I picked up from Stanford’s the map shop for less than a tenner. I find it invaluable when I’m out and about in London on business. A big city such as London is awash with reference points, take the river for example, if I know where I am in relation to the river a quick look at the compass will tell me in what direction I should walk in order to reach my destination. Along the way I’ll see things of interest I would never have otherwise seen had I adhered to the beaten track. In the countryside, especially an area where one is unfamiliar with one’s surroundings and there appears to be few points of reference, both an Ordnance Survey map and compass are useful editions to one’s armoury.

Having crossed the Reading road I started down a bridal path that eventually led onto to Elvendon Lane. Now I was well and truly in the sticks, the lane was quite narrow, barely enough for two cars to pass, cutting a winding swath through mature woodland. Overhead I heard the unmistakable, and slightly eerie call of the Red Kite, if I didn’t know better I could have sworn they were keeping an eye on me. Through the boughs and just above the tree canopy were the unmistakable shape of the red Kite.

On I walked, unsure of my coordinates, I left the winding Elvendon Lane and entered Old Elvendon Wood, the ground was thick with layers of rust coloured leaves.  The air was still and I was enveloped in a heavy silence, for the first time I was truly on my own. No continuous hum of traffic or wailing of sirens here, I was expectant of maybe someone suddenly appearing, shattering the silence and breaking the spell. I looked ahead in between piles of logs stacked neatly on each side of a track and then behind me, not a soul, only solitude and peace.  

After walking through the wood for a further fifteen minutes or so I joined a road, a sign post directed me toward the village of Woodcote, meaning ‘cottage in the wood’. My approach into Woodcote meant that I had missed the heart of the village and found myself in a smart residential area. The well kept houses were each adorned with neat and tidy gardens, over half the houses in Woodcote are of the detached kind and it was a fairly safe to say that I was in middle England.

There has been a settlement at this spot for thousands of years, in keeping with much of England’s ancient heritage. The village nestles in an area of outstanding natural beauty (AONB) and was awarded the status by the government in 1965.  One of the aims of the award is that area should be protected and its natural beauty enhanced.  In 2008 the village of Woodcote  won the Oxfordshire Village of the Year Competition. Woodcote was the home of Maggie Beeson, the oldest bell ringer in Britain until she passed away at the grand age of 104. Each summer the village hosts the annual Woodcote Rally which includes a real ale festival.

 http://www.woodcoterally.org.uk/festivalofale.html 

After leaving Woodcote, I made my way toward the small village of Checkendon and found myself at a cross roads.  Looking behind me in a north easterly direction I could see what I now know to be Didcote Power Station in the distance. I opted for a fuel stop at the Blue Tin Farm shop, really it was an excuse to talk to someone and after exchanging a few pleasantries and purchasing six locally made Merguez sausages and a small jar of pickled beetroot I continued on my way.  Locating the Black Horse was beginning to feel like a search for the Holy Grail, the light was beginning to fade and I was not at all sure that the hostelry would be open. This was after all deepest Oxfordshire and not the hurly burly of London where public houses tended to be open day and night.

Having eventually found the pub I would have liked to have reported that it was everything I expected, and more. I would of course found much pleasure in immersing myself in its undoubtedly delightful wares whilst simultaneously acquainting myself with its unique ambience, however it was closed. I would have had three hours to wait for opening time, so instead I walked the half a mile or so to the village of Checkendon, mentioned in the Domesday Book circa 1086.  Whilst waiting in the dark for a taxi I’d found via my phone I took the time to view the Norman parish church, apparently one of the finest in Oxfordshire and noted for its 13^th century paintings and semi circular apse. The church is situated in the centre of the village next door to Checkendon Court, a fine Tudor mansion which was cloaked in darkness. The centre of the village hosts a pub called the Four Horseshoes which similarly to the Black Horse was closed. The enlightened comments on the ‘Beer In The Evening’ website are worth a look.

http://www.beerintheevening.com/pubs/s/32/32502/Four_Horseshoes/Reading

http://www.beerintheevening.com/pubs/s/32/32503/Black_Horse/Reading

My taxi arrived in good time and after a brief discussion about Sid Barrett who was integral in forming Pink Floyd and David Gilmour who once lived locally at Hook End which is now a major recording studios. I was dropped off at the Catherine Wheel in Goring. After warming myself in front of a roaring log fire whilst enjoying two pints of Oxfordshire Brakspear ale I hopped back on the London bound train and returning home in time for Match of the Day.

I had been planning to take a trip out to Dungeness on the south east coast of England in the beautiful county of Kent. Dungeness was the home of the late Derek Jarman, once a powerhouse of British counterculture, today Dungeness is probably better known for housing two nuclear power stations, Dungeness A and Dungeness B. My plan was to take a few pictures with my trusty old Canon AE-1 and use a roll or two of black and white. I opted for Ilford ISO 400 and ISO 125. The photos here were taken with the ISO 400.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Derek_Jarman 

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dungeness_Nuclear_Power_Station

I’m familiar with parts of Kent, I have a good friend Jerry Vaughan, who makes a living taking photographs of the Kent coast, he has a gallery next door to the famed Oyster restaurant. Jerry sells some wonderful analogue cameras, in fact the last time I was in Whitstable I purchased a lovely little Olympus Trip for less than forty quid with a stylish faux reptile skin embossed covering which I still use.

http://www.jvaughanphotography.co.uk/ 

I boarded the train from London Bridge to a small hamlet called Sandling, just past Ashford. Ashford is the gateway to Europe and a major terminal for continental bound Eurostar trains. I’d done a little research before hand and planned on walking from Sandling to Hythe where I could perhaps get a bus or narrow gauge steam railway to Dungeness, some thirteen and a half miles from Hythe. Walking out of the station at Sandling I was met by a road; do I take the left or the right? There were no sign posts. I asked a taxi driver who pointed left so off I went, along leafy country lanes, the autumn sun illuminating the yellows and burnt oranges of silent leaves which hung forlornly, waiting for the guillotine of a wintery gust to strip the trees of their finery.

I walked for twenty minutes or so along undulating road, the next hillock or bend would reveal a country residence offset from the road, these were well heeled homesteads, each one with its own story to tell, perfectly in keeping with their surroundings. After a while I began to sense her, not knowing where or when she would reveal herself, my anticipation prickled then absolutely without warning appeared a dazzling golden glint in the middle distance where the autumn sun caught her, I climbed over a sty and energised by the sight in front of me I excitedly walked on.  A few miles ahead of me I could make out the absolute straight, clean horizon, the sky and the sea were at one where they met, the silvery English Channel calm, at peace and breathtaking in its silent brooding beauty.

The way I’d approached Hythe from Sandling station meant that I meandered down through a manicured  residential estate, the front lawns, hedging and edging perfectly kept, there was no detritus to be seen and for that matter no people. I continued down winding footpaths and into cul-de-sacs offering more footpaths that connected more cul-de-sacs to footpaths, after what seemed longer than necessary I found myself on a main road that led downhill toward Hythe town centre.

It had never really occurred to me until then that when exploring an unknown area on foot a small matter of thirteen miles becomes a major obstacle, a matter of 71’280 feet to be sure. I decided on boarding the last steam train run of the year from Hythe, the smallest passenger steam train in the world. I only had four or five hours of light with which to play and even less time due to the fact that it stopped running just before night fall. The men in coats at the ticket office of the Romney, Hythe and Dymchurch Railway had scoffed at my cavalier suggestion that I could walk at least part of the way stating that it would take three days for me to walk to Dungeness and back and that was with a tail wind. They had tickets to sell too of course, although they did suggest the local bus service as an alternative.

http://www.rhdr.org.uk/pages/11.html

I had researched the option of taking the RHDR Railway to Dungeness and back, however due to its one third scale, 25 miles per hour top speed and rail tracks only fifteen inches wide coupled with a few too many Kentish ales the night before I had left myself with little option but to take the train to New Romney, four stops on from Hythe.

To add to the melee this particular weekend was the last of the year the train ran a service to Dungeness before hibernating for the winter, save for the special Christmas service during December when it runs a ‘Santa Special’. The run coincided with Halloween weekend, when virtually every little ghoul in Kent was boarding the Lilliputian oddity to attend various parties further along the line. My now gargantuan seeming frame was seated opposite a Scream, a Skeleton and a Count Dracula, the gruesome trio would have made a lovely picture, framed perfectly by the sides and ceiling of our 1920’s wooden carriage. I refrained from taking a picture, sadly, an opportunity missed. I was the self conscious one. I’ve saved the scene, maybe next year. Later, the darkness would be punctuated with hummers, crackles, bangs and whistles, the following Saturday would be November the 5^th and the skies would be illuminated by fireworks and bonfires, the autumnal air laden with sulphur.

Having alighted at New Romney, I made my way down to the seafront to take a few pictures. Luckily, Jerry was happy to drive over as he was keen to try out his Japanese Mamiya M645 box camera before the light split behind a backdrop of cloud and the cloak of night took hold. We decamped to the Pluto Inn for a pint accompanied by fresh cod and chips, served by jolly witches. I enjoyed my trip to Kent, even though I didn’t get see all the things I wanted to, I want to go back there next spring to explore the ‘Sound Mirrors’ at Greatstone and see more of Dungeness. Next time I’ll be better prepared.  Jerry very kindly dropped me back at Sandling, where I boarded the return train to London and got home in time for Match of the Day.

http://www.greatstone.net/history/sound_mirrors.htm