Now with the decline of the year begins the best
time for walking. Spring is delightful, and on winter days when I am
pent in a chilly office, I think wistfully of that day last spring when
we wandered into Kent, by orchards of young trees, each crowned with
dazzling blossom, through copses shining grey and green, where the
tree-roots had been hidden by the spreading of countless white anemones,
past hedges of blackthorn, banked and topped as if with snow. Indeed,
"spring goeth like a bride . . ." But, then, I want to stand and gaze,
to breathe the scented air, to stretch in the unaccustomed sun; and in
summer, I know, we long for water in which to bathe or dip our feet, and
then, oh! for a shady pine wood, we cry, wherein to laze till tea-time.
But in September and October, just as the robin
and the seagull now make their appearance in town and country, the
winter ramblers become obvious, and our motto, "We won't go cosy," calls
with meaning to the spirit of the more adventurous. The summer walkers,
the fair-weather folk, drop off and those who are faithful throughout
the year, wet or fine, hot or cold, are to be seen in the full glory of
their plumage—shorts of khaki and jackets of leather, suede and blanket,
all in more or less sombre hues, relieved by the brilliance of socks,
gloves, scarves and caps of every conceivable hue. An added touch of
radiant colour is given by the purple knees peculiar to this most
interesting of the winter fauna of the southern counties of England.
In winter, then, we wake at seven o'clock, or six
or five, if we belong to that ever-to-be-lauded body of stalwarts who
live on the other side of the metropolis, and in the dark of a fireless
Sunday morning, prepare our solitary and uninspiring breakfast, pack the
Bergan without which no winter rambler is complete, and trudge through
bitter winds and chill rain to the meeting-place. Not a cheerful start,
think those who lie snug a-bed, and with the inevitable afterthought:
"They must be mad," the Sybarites fall asleep again. But ... to be
climbing a slope of the North Downs at ten or eleven of a frosty
morning, and to halt at the top for coffee and the other blessed
comforts carried in those much-maligned ruesacs, and if the day be kind,
to pick out familiar places across the Weald, out into the countryside
during the winter, can feel more deeply the return of these things. How
can he tell, if he sits in an armchair awaiting Persephone's return,
whether or not the chestnut buds are swelling, whether the first
orphan'd lamb has raised its cries from a frost-enchanted farm. Indeed,
he does not know. But he who has seen so long the black smitten trees,
whose eyes have grown wearied with the colourless hills, is quick to see
a mist of green on a wood, the indication of sunlight over a valley, and
to note where amid sodden leaves, the "faint fresh flame of the young
year flushes" into life the primrose roots. Soon, spring bursts forth
and he who sits indoors cannot help but hear, and timidly steps out to
see if it is true. But we, we know it is true, and we share just a
little of the pride, for we have watched over the flowers in the making,
companioned the trees in the budding, seen the miracle in its
preparation.
"For winter's rains and ruins are
over, And all the season of snows and sins; The days
dividing lover and lover, The light that loses, the
night that wins; And time remembered is grief forgotten,
And frosts are slain and flowers begotten, And in green
underwood and cover Blossom by blossom the spring
begins."
Leith Hill, Box Hill, Colley Hill, and, perhaps,
if we are a little further south, the first ridge of the South Downs—a
magic sight— like a wall set straight across the path to the sea . . .
that is but one reward. And even to wander all day in a damp and
penetrating fog has its excitement, in that it is not such a common
phenomenon as is generally supposed across the seas surrounding us. And
to tramp through rain on a particularly strenuous ramble, and totter
into the station waiting-room in the evening feeling as though we will
never cease to lift up our feet in a mechanical march, then are warmth
and rest to be appreciated, and we are thankful for our homes and beds
in a way that we have never been before.
We hear much of "the glories of autumn," but, I
wonder, how can they who venture not into the open between September and
May, know and appreciate the real splendour of the trees. To see a
solitary tree dropping its gold on a suburban pavement is truly a happy
sight, but how much more enviable it is to look over the roof of a
forest, where every kind of tree is putting forth its best endeavours
and the soft-rounded heads weave an undulating tapestry of copper,
saffron, tawny and silver.
We swing along, ten, twenty or thirty of us, and
feel vigour replace the lassitude of summer. Our pace quickens, and we
talk at our fastest and loudest, of dances and Youth Hostel tours.
Easter with us is generally an unpleasant time, between the seasons as
it is, tricking us with false promises of warmer weather and then
sending a fall of snow or an icy wind to damp our ardours for bathing
and short sleeves. But we continue to arrange our week-end tours at
Easter and Whitsuntide, and as each one is drawing to an end, we look
ahead like children, to the next. Thus we come to the erstwhile haven of
our dreams, a public house, or very occasionally, a cafe; here we gather
round the fire and create as stuffy an atmosphere as possible, transact
Club business, perpetrate atrocious puns and jokes which call forth
groans and, if we have both piano and pianist, indulge in ear-splitting
community singing, to the great interest of the regular patrons, who
emerge from their chimney corners to inspect us at closer range. That is
the companionship of winter. In the summertime you would have found us
scattered and inert, four lunching in a field, half-a-dozen in the
saloon bar behind their manly pints of Burton, a few more drinking tea
in the front parlour set at their disposal, and sundry others,
enthusiastic photographers and archaeologists, wandering around the
silent church, the deserted street, the timbered charm of the houses
with their Sunday expression of blank dignity.
When, too, we set off after tea in the dark,
linked arm-in-arm, in twos, fours and eights, we are seized with
something of the same spirit that thrills us at the age of six, when we
venture into the strange dark street to sing carols or explode
fireworks. Torchlight, headlight, window-light and the incomparable
light of the moon, what flashes of beauty they segregate and set before
us for the delight of the moment! Corporeal bodies cease to exist,
except when we stumble against each other, and our companions are noisy
ghosts, and if we feel averse to noise at that moment, we drop away to
the rear and feel more keenly the content that the earth breathes out. A
hasty blowing of whistles intrudes on dreams and with a somewhat guilty
mind, we "close up the gaps, please!" and proceed once more with the
jocular shadows who are by day substantial ramblers.
There are few days in England when we cannot
ramble with enjoyment and perfect safety. This I have on the authority
of an Australian who has walked in both countries, many years in each.
He who has known warmth and beauty and the sun, and has gone
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