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- Apr 23, 2008
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The Red van swung left, off at the roundabout at the edge of the conurbation
slipping the shift into 5th, the pilot eased in the seat, lighter flickered and the half tab of the roll up that lay on his bottom lip glowed deep red, the scarlet of fire glowing in the pale light of the morn
the yellow globe was rising now, light spread before the traveller, weakening the halogen beams that illuminated thier coming
slower roads now, ancient roads, roads that had seen Caesar and his troops advancing towards the warbands of the Celtic Kings, where Hengist and Horsa had trod, leading the tribes that came after them, giving this Island its Name
The thrum of the diesel engine hieghtened as it echoed off the magnificent bridge the road swung under, the latest page in the history of this land at the edge of the sea, mighty trains thundered over this, trains that rode iron tracks under the sea,
Seas that had been the walls of the people since times before times, breached by technology rather than war,
engine dipped lower as the wheel was swung to the right, toward the edge of the escarpment, the long line of low chalk hills that cut toward the east, ceasing only at the shore
wending its way down the lane went Wolfsburgs finest, the first hamlet drew near, the church, the pub, the war memorial grouped round the village green, the few houses slipped by and the hedgerows returned, the lonely village hall sat resplendant in its magnolia colouring next the pitch that saw modern tribal games, then this too was consigned to the rear view mirror
yawning, the passenger rose from his slumber, the faint breeze through the pilots open window exciting his nostrils as he sniffed the air
"Nearly there mush," nothing else was needed, up and feet on the dash, the tounge dropped out, Hanging, as the bright sparkling eyes of the black terrier met his mates, "Nearly"
high yellow brick pillars either side of the road, dirty stained brick, allaying to thier age and use, an industrial Argonath sat either side of the highway
left turn, swinging the wheels the tyres clawed concrete, huge long deep slabs and rose to the summit of the slope, rolling off the top and into a clearing, crunching to a halt in the open space, silence came with a mere flick of a wrist,
you could see the small dog shivering, that peculiar rolling shiver that started at the head and leaves at the root of the short stubby tail
"malright then" the question was replied by a snort and a get down, "Angon him!" to no avail, dog and feet fight tio find the best spaces for alightement and the doors swung open, out, out it shot, fleeing the confines, back to its natural habitat
Pilots doing the doing, haversack, long lead, water, smokes, bum paper ( local legal requirement for all those tasked with adventuring with a dog)
security taken care off and where was him, daft question, replying to every other pup that had left a message, damn near empty afore the start,
Glance up the track saw the gate and beyond, a dead straight track, built up above the next to ground, a causeway near on, leading into the distance, an empty distance, no-one in view, the straight tree lined corridor promised isolation, far from the madding crowd, east to west it ran flanked by native trees, oaks, beech, wild cherry, ash, hazel, a mighty plethora of trunks either side, unleafing thier promise of cool shade from the summer sun to come, at the base the occasional flash of golden colour flickered into view, the paler carpet of primrose and the white and gold of the taller daffadowndillies
hes under and through the kissing gate now, on his way, nose down and shortstepping, the pilots eyes feast on the signage, everything from warning of trespass off the track from the army to the national signs of a named byeway, adopted now it is, though this was never a byeway when this was formed
built by men of iron, a parculiar breed they were, itinerant, travelling the country like pikeys of old, shovel and barrow in hand, The navigators
For this mighty road was an iron road, laid far before the modern hi speed link to the south, built by hand, far fewer were the machines in those days, the pair were on a railway,
South eastern Railways folly it could be said, built back in the 1880's to rival the other local rail company, the SECR line that proved far more popular for the journey to englands gateway
following the black spot of fur that was now rapidly receding from sight, the gate was flip and flapped and the boots crunched on hard packed cinder, tramping on a bit to catch up, no lingering at the start, things were new, things were to be investigated, important things,
wasnt long though, the lure of sniffs and off road excursions halted the westward path of the pup, pilot breathed easier now, passing he murmers, "Mere" and the short snout lifts, checks and returns to the grass and scrub, in and out, using paths under the low spreading branches, he follows,
half mile in and the cobnut trees are passed, later on these would be worth a good old halt, a search for those green shelled nuts that taste so nice burst from the soft husks before they brown and harden, those that you can find though, that are missed by the others who covet them also, for many show the marks of the sharp toothed tree rats and mices who breakfast on them too
on further, time for a calling, hes lagging now, loitering with intent you could say, "Mon then" pilot tramps , measured steps, first point of call is but half mile onwards,
the parting of three ways, a junction, left, right or centre, each has merit,
to the left an arable field, to the right rough cow pasture, army land, training area, or forward, heading along the hardened way
stopped now, at a puddle he is, licking, drinking, "Oi", takes no notice, "Oi",head up and looking, "Mon" the command is accompanied by a wave of the arm for although he is a good un for hard of hearing when it suits it, he is a bit deaf these days, but he knows, knows far more than he lets on he knows, but he knows
halting now, we are here, off over the pile of road shavings the army works gang keeps here, hes looking for another of the young rabbit that a decade ago breathed its last breath in between his teeth, young dog then he was, quick and alert, still thinks theres another kill there he does, if it was there once, who says there aint another
leaning on the field gate, the hand swings toward the bag, tin out, fag rolled and ignited, farmers field this, mainly hay, though corn or wheat some years, off to the front are wild woods, past the fence of the field, hard work to travel through if your not on a path, part of the shooters ground, for deep in them lie brood pens for the young pheasant that live such short lives, signed keep out in places,
turning, his eyes flick upwards, there beyond where the small black dog resplendant on top of his mound is sniffing the breeze, eyes closed nose held high, is an open gateway, barred only by the leg breaking cattle grid that lies between the weathered posts, training area is the large sign, Keep out,
turning further, the trackway continues its path westward,
slipping the shift into 5th, the pilot eased in the seat, lighter flickered and the half tab of the roll up that lay on his bottom lip glowed deep red, the scarlet of fire glowing in the pale light of the morn
the yellow globe was rising now, light spread before the traveller, weakening the halogen beams that illuminated thier coming
slower roads now, ancient roads, roads that had seen Caesar and his troops advancing towards the warbands of the Celtic Kings, where Hengist and Horsa had trod, leading the tribes that came after them, giving this Island its Name
The thrum of the diesel engine hieghtened as it echoed off the magnificent bridge the road swung under, the latest page in the history of this land at the edge of the sea, mighty trains thundered over this, trains that rode iron tracks under the sea,
Seas that had been the walls of the people since times before times, breached by technology rather than war,
engine dipped lower as the wheel was swung to the right, toward the edge of the escarpment, the long line of low chalk hills that cut toward the east, ceasing only at the shore
wending its way down the lane went Wolfsburgs finest, the first hamlet drew near, the church, the pub, the war memorial grouped round the village green, the few houses slipped by and the hedgerows returned, the lonely village hall sat resplendant in its magnolia colouring next the pitch that saw modern tribal games, then this too was consigned to the rear view mirror
yawning, the passenger rose from his slumber, the faint breeze through the pilots open window exciting his nostrils as he sniffed the air
"Nearly there mush," nothing else was needed, up and feet on the dash, the tounge dropped out, Hanging, as the bright sparkling eyes of the black terrier met his mates, "Nearly"
high yellow brick pillars either side of the road, dirty stained brick, allaying to thier age and use, an industrial Argonath sat either side of the highway
left turn, swinging the wheels the tyres clawed concrete, huge long deep slabs and rose to the summit of the slope, rolling off the top and into a clearing, crunching to a halt in the open space, silence came with a mere flick of a wrist,
you could see the small dog shivering, that peculiar rolling shiver that started at the head and leaves at the root of the short stubby tail
"malright then" the question was replied by a snort and a get down, "Angon him!" to no avail, dog and feet fight tio find the best spaces for alightement and the doors swung open, out, out it shot, fleeing the confines, back to its natural habitat
Pilots doing the doing, haversack, long lead, water, smokes, bum paper ( local legal requirement for all those tasked with adventuring with a dog)
security taken care off and where was him, daft question, replying to every other pup that had left a message, damn near empty afore the start,
Glance up the track saw the gate and beyond, a dead straight track, built up above the next to ground, a causeway near on, leading into the distance, an empty distance, no-one in view, the straight tree lined corridor promised isolation, far from the madding crowd, east to west it ran flanked by native trees, oaks, beech, wild cherry, ash, hazel, a mighty plethora of trunks either side, unleafing thier promise of cool shade from the summer sun to come, at the base the occasional flash of golden colour flickered into view, the paler carpet of primrose and the white and gold of the taller daffadowndillies
hes under and through the kissing gate now, on his way, nose down and shortstepping, the pilots eyes feast on the signage, everything from warning of trespass off the track from the army to the national signs of a named byeway, adopted now it is, though this was never a byeway when this was formed
built by men of iron, a parculiar breed they were, itinerant, travelling the country like pikeys of old, shovel and barrow in hand, The navigators
For this mighty road was an iron road, laid far before the modern hi speed link to the south, built by hand, far fewer were the machines in those days, the pair were on a railway,
South eastern Railways folly it could be said, built back in the 1880's to rival the other local rail company, the SECR line that proved far more popular for the journey to englands gateway
following the black spot of fur that was now rapidly receding from sight, the gate was flip and flapped and the boots crunched on hard packed cinder, tramping on a bit to catch up, no lingering at the start, things were new, things were to be investigated, important things,
wasnt long though, the lure of sniffs and off road excursions halted the westward path of the pup, pilot breathed easier now, passing he murmers, "Mere" and the short snout lifts, checks and returns to the grass and scrub, in and out, using paths under the low spreading branches, he follows,
half mile in and the cobnut trees are passed, later on these would be worth a good old halt, a search for those green shelled nuts that taste so nice burst from the soft husks before they brown and harden, those that you can find though, that are missed by the others who covet them also, for many show the marks of the sharp toothed tree rats and mices who breakfast on them too
on further, time for a calling, hes lagging now, loitering with intent you could say, "Mon then" pilot tramps , measured steps, first point of call is but half mile onwards,
the parting of three ways, a junction, left, right or centre, each has merit,
to the left an arable field, to the right rough cow pasture, army land, training area, or forward, heading along the hardened way
stopped now, at a puddle he is, licking, drinking, "Oi", takes no notice, "Oi",head up and looking, "Mon" the command is accompanied by a wave of the arm for although he is a good un for hard of hearing when it suits it, he is a bit deaf these days, but he knows, knows far more than he lets on he knows, but he knows
halting now, we are here, off over the pile of road shavings the army works gang keeps here, hes looking for another of the young rabbit that a decade ago breathed its last breath in between his teeth, young dog then he was, quick and alert, still thinks theres another kill there he does, if it was there once, who says there aint another
leaning on the field gate, the hand swings toward the bag, tin out, fag rolled and ignited, farmers field this, mainly hay, though corn or wheat some years, off to the front are wild woods, past the fence of the field, hard work to travel through if your not on a path, part of the shooters ground, for deep in them lie brood pens for the young pheasant that live such short lives, signed keep out in places,
turning, his eyes flick upwards, there beyond where the small black dog resplendant on top of his mound is sniffing the breeze, eyes closed nose held high, is an open gateway, barred only by the leg breaking cattle grid that lies between the weathered posts, training area is the large sign, Keep out,
turning further, the trackway continues its path westward,
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