A ramble in the mist

A couple of weekends ago we headed out into Kent in search of a bit of wild and quiet. We followed this route, starting in Otford, and doing a circle through woods and fields. 

We headed off around mid morning and the sky was already heavy and dark, trees sillhouetted blackly against grey skies. 

The walk began with a steep incline into woods, and at the end of the tunnel of hedge we could see the mist awaiting us. 

Soon everything was shrouded in a cloak of soft grey, except for the very depths of the forest, which retained their mossy greens and browns, and isolated swathes of still-autumn leaves, hanging like baubles, their tawny colours shining out like little lights. 

We continued out over fields that had no edges, putting one foot ahead of the other, marvelling at how thick and soft it was, our voices muffled, stolen by the gloom. 

With it the fog brought a lingering damp and the mud was deep, squelchy and seemingly never-ending! 

We spotted treasures lingering in the silent woods, and we strained our eyes, staring into the misty depths. 

The path took us past brooding houses, half hidden, looming suddenly into sight. 

And the smells were of damp grass, forest floors, smoky fires from nearby chimneys. 

The animals went about their Sunday business as usual. We spent a long time with these delightful piggies!

Suddenly the landscape opened up a bit, and we finally got a bit of perspective, although we still couldn't see very far. 

We chose the driest spot we could find to have our sandwiches and cocoa. 

Soon we were tramping over waterlogged fields once again. Rust-coloured grasses and stark black seed-heads peeping up from the earth against the softest of skies. 

And in the woods there were leaves and moss and flourishing greenery, their colours as vivid rain-washed jewels. 

And finally, through yet more mud, we came face to face with these lovely creatures, heavy with straw, breathing great plumes of sweet musty breath, curious and watchful. 

And then homewards, weary and mud-logged for hot baths and a hot dinner and collapsing in front of Sunday night telly. The end.