Waking in my tent this morning I was surprised it was not colder as temperatures approaching zero were forecast. Maybe the decaying leaves I was camped on in this ragged wood were keeping me warm, because walking by open fields in the hour before dawn, sparkling, white frost on the grass's leaves reflected the light from my head torch. Ice had welded gate latches together and made the wooden stiles very slippery, I crossed them slowly, cautious like an aged gentleman nervous that a foot might slip.
The lights of distant towns floated in the blackness beneath the constellations of stars. I walked through Ashmore in complete darkness. These small villages do not merit streetlights but lights were appearing at bedroom windows as people began their days unaware of my passing beneath them. I admired the reflection of a lighted kitchen window in the duck pond. On leaving the houses behind, stirring from their slumbers, stripes of red, orange and blue appeared on the horizon, silhouetting the trees and hedges I was walking by. Skies were clear except for some thin wavy bands of pink cloud and the decaying lines of vapour left by passing aircraft.
Royal Tollard seemed another pretty village of prosperous people when I crossed it in the half light. Details on the Ridgeway waymarks, now a darker shade of green, indicated I had left the county of Dorset and was now in Wiltshire. As light filled the sky I rambled up a long dry valley, mainly of grass. Dry in the sense that it contained no stream or river, a typical feature of chalk landscape but one I had missed on my muddy walk so far. My route led onto an estate with dotted trees on the valley floor and woodland on higher slopes. Notices made clear that all was private outside the line of the footpath (although at least they made clear with arrows where the footpath went).
Climbing up through the trees I reached the bald ridge of Win Green. From the top views were extensive beneath the clear sunny skies. Fields, woods and small settlements draped over undulating land. I continued on my way admiring the catkins, which my father told me were a sign spring was coming, and a still lake faithfully reflecting the blue skies and trees beyond.
Old Wardour Castle looked at its best with the sun shining on the white stone of its ruined walls. Sadly closed weekdays I could not visit its tea shop so continued by a blacksmith's forge to New Wardour Castle, an impressively large stately home in the Palladian style now split into separate apartments. In the grounds were some interesting trees but leaving the estate proved difficult. Two ladies with fur hats helped me by pointing out the button I had to press to open the gates.
A few words on the farmland I was passing. Most of the fields were grass which looked a healthy green in today's sun, but being winter the sheep were feeding on turnip (both the green leaves and the ploughed up roots it seemed) which seems to be widely planted. Temporary electric fences were used to keep the sheep in one section of the turnip field. The cows I saw were in sheds being fed on hay, no doubt cut in the summer. There were also stands of maize, but the corn cobs seemed to have been left for the pheasants, of which there were many. I also passed the stubble of some kind of grain crop. Tiring I sat on a metal bench with the name Harold cut into the metal back. There was even a flat cap hanging on the back, made of metal. An excellent spot to enjoy some lunch with a view spread out before me.
I was glad to reach Hindon and the Lamb Inn, the destination for my tired legs (a notice on the door claimed it a "Good Shoot Hotel", a sign shooting game birds was a popular pastime in the area). I was less happy about the mud I brought in despite taking off my boots and over-trousers at the door. However I was not the only culprit, marks ahead of me on the hall appeared to be muddy paw prints. Why oh why do hotels insist on light coloured carpets!
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