Walking the Ridgeway track in a dripping autumn rabbits scatter away lollop towards the grassy mound of Waylands Smithy an ancient tomb haunted by a Norse godsmith here in troubled England but I have no horse to shoe today
Screaming baying the hounds are loose their shrill screaking blare sings out the noise of hell incarnate caterwauling across a starless sky continuing and resounding across this night evoking howls from earthbound dogs silence from all other creatures and dread in human hearts
The wild hunt is loose
Yowling yelps rent the sky into fragments lamentation fills villages and homes palpable terror passes from neighbour to neighbour as terror rides aloft intent on unknown prey a sudden screech preludes eerie silence celestial mayhem pauses and stills the world below baits breath waits as the hunt fades slowly into the clouds
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.