The road that runs past my parent’s house hits a gentle ford, which runs under this footbridge, and then turns into a track that cuts cross-country, ending up at one of Dr Beeching’s disused railway cuttings and a tarmac road. Many years ago this would have been as valid a road as any of the ones we hurtle down in our cars. Now it is just an old cart track, used only by the village dog owners, the local farmer in his tractor and the occasional kamikaze Motocross rider.
It’s beautiful in all seasons, in the depths of winter when the track is clogged with mud and Posetta Baddog sinks up to her withers and now, in the height of the English summer, when the hedgerows are heavy with fringed grasses and wild flowers.
This is the view across the fields to Canons Ashby, a ravishing Jacobean National Trust property.
And then, homeward bound…
This post is dedicated to my darling Miss Whistle who, whilst an Angeleno for many years, remains at heart in the English countryside.