Iwerne Minster, Fontwell Magna, Compton Abbas winding north we homeward go past stone cottages and timber framing Middle Farm, Old Way, Old Mans Cottage Cats Hill Lane and Birdbush Farm Ansty the old names stay and we travel on
My rolling road smooths over the hills reveals a distant farm house hazy gray, huddled in trees we roll on and the farm folds away gone into green. As it did when Vikings rode past hunting for spoils, women and food when the Revenue came later searching for tax payers.
This land is ancient holdings forged millennia ago only when warfare encompassed the air was this farms safety broached. Yet bombers passed over to pit and hole to blast and burn the farm house remained snuggled into the land.
Delicious dampness, fresh scented grey, Washing the stuffy warm weather away My soul is a sponge, expanding when wet, And sunshine’s a word I’d rather forget, I like the newness of autumn (but its only July!) The soggy clean clouds that fill up the sky Change is the thing, after two weeks the same, Filled with humid hot weather –Thank God for rain!