Archive for February 2012
February
In the last days of January I was confidently proclaiming to my fellow dog walkers “That’s it, winter is over!”
How wrong was I?
It is raw, freezing and bleak. The intrepid three, Carla, Capone and me, ventured out of the valley this week and scaled the White Nothe, highest point on the Jurassic coast and bleak goes nowhere near far enough. The sea was like a mill pond. Even the swell was sluggish as the water neared the point of ice. Thank God there was no wind, otherwise we would have perished in the bitter cold on that high and lonely bluff.
A day or so later and we were climbing the main path immediately behind Sutton Poyntz. What was an even green sward has turned into a sticky quagmire, trampled by the cattle meandering up and down and churned by the heavy tractor towing the water bowser to the top. When not frozen solid the mud is a foot deep in places and it clings and drags and makes walking much more difficult. It is as if the gradient has steepened and the top seems further away with every step.
Half way up and then ahead looms a slow stampede. Three abreast, the black Aberdeen Angus are coming down the hill. We need to get out of the way!
I clamber up the 45 degree slope to my right, calling the dogs to sit with me and we wait for the cattle to pass. They stop and look at us. We look back. It is a Mexican stand off in deepest Dorset. No one is going anywhere.
Only one thing for it. We climb upwards, clambering through the gorse, almost mountaineering, reaching upwards to pull on a gorse brush or a handful of coarse grass. At last, me puffing hard, the dogs not in the least bothered we reach the top and pause for me to regain my breath. The cattle pass by below. I’m not in the least cold anymore!
This morning we wake to the coldest day of the year. Two pairs of trousers, two shirts, fleece top, body warmer and three pairs of socks, hat, gloves and I’m ready to go. The dogs don’t even seem to notice it.
In the valley, the sun blazes though the distance is obscured by mist. In three or four points bright sunlight startles back off the new galvanised water troughs, like bonfires burning on a dark night.
Through the water meadow. Very heavy going as the water lies three inches deep with the top inch frozen. Every step is an effort as you break through the ice then sink in the wet ground. The sound is crisp through the frozen grass, crunch through the ice and squelch in the mud.
Up the hill at the eastern end of the valley. I’m warm now but as each breath rasps into my lungs I can feel its iciness sapping my strength. The ground is rock hard. Where the cattle have churned it up every step becomes a potential ankle breaker.
We gain the top and I need to rest again for few moments. Capone is content to snuffle and grunt and scent where other dogs have been. Carla gambols like some new born lamb on a warm spring day then throws herself on her back and wriggles vigorously to scratch her back on the rough ground.
So we turn for home, to the western end of the valley and down the hill by the path where we avoided the stampede a couple of days ago. As we near the bottom, we encounter the bull. He stands proud and majestic on the shoulder of the hill, the sun breaking through the mist and flaring out behind him.
We pass in peace in Paradise Valley.
