It’s baking! Not just hot but almost incandescent, far too hot to be out wandering about with a camera, in fact almost too hot to do anything, hence a second post today. I may get the urge to wander later, in fact I know I’ll get the urge, it’ll just be whether or not I can muster up the energy to do anything about it.

I admit to not being able to handle the heat nowadays, well, not in the way I might have some years ago. The thought of a beach holiday now doesn’t fill me with dread but neither does it have me reaching for the suntan lotion and a beach towel, those days are gone. Not that I was ever a great fan of just lying about, I’ve done my fair share of it, like most things in life there have been occasions when it seemed the ‘thing to do’. Like most things in life, time moves on and something else comes along to pique your interest.

Nowadays when the heat is on I’m usually found tucked away in the shadows, enjoying the cool is far more favourable, I’ll leave others to enjoy the mid afternoon heat and look forward to the cool of the evening.

Well I didn’t actually sit on a roof and kick off moss but it felt like it. Sat on the ridge off the Bath Road in yesterday evening’s gathering gloom felt more like sitting on top of the world that on any roof. I am often enthralled by Dorset’s magnificent skies and no more so than at sunset.

Sitting in the stillness, after what was an often stiflingly hot day, was blissful. Watching the setting sun playing off the bottoms of westerly driven clouds, listening to the bleating of sheep in the meadow down by the riverside and watching the cows across the river making their way back towards the farm accompanied by the squawking of the pheasants ready to roost in the coppice below was a peaceful pleasure.

After the hustle and bustle of the day at the Oak Fare, simply sitting and watching the day close out made for the perfect antidote. If I’ve seen one sunset I’ve seen a hundred yet they never fail to enthrall me, I never tire of the sight. Whether it’s the magnificence of a simple orange sphere dropping in a clear, deepening blue sky or , as in last night’s case, where the hidden sun played and flickered across the slowly moving clouds, lighting them with yellows, oranges and golds each one is unique and one we’ll never get to see again.

‘ I sat on the roof and kicked off the moss’ is a phrase from a song implanted in my conscious, a song from my youth which I will carry all my days together with the delight in sitting and watching a spectacular sunset, enjoying the sight, savouring the sounds, the smells, the serenity of it all.There’s a particular beauty in the spectacle of the end of the day.

We’re well into the season…the Country Fair season that is. It seems that wherever you go at the moment there is a show or fair somewhere within the county. Today’s been no exception and we’ve been out locally to The Oak Fair at Stock Gaylard here in gloriously sunny North Dorset.

The Oak fair celebrates all there is to celebrate in ‘ the wood’, held in the wonderful setting of the parkland at Stock Gaylard it draws country folk from far and wide, craftsmen and customers alike. The common bond is as the name suggests Oak, and Ash, and Beech and a myriad of woods you only get to read about in the normal course of events. There is no evidence of chipboard, plywood or MDF here, only the real m’coy here.

Craftsmen and artisans display their skills in creating pieces from the most incredibly beautiful examples of wood, there are furniture makers, there are sculptors, artists who create wonderful carvings and fretwork, all bound by the common thread of their love and appreciation of wood. It makes for a wonderful day out.

A refuge from the strong, hot sunshine, the gardeners shed looks out through Gothic, lead framed windows across the lake, the sunlight filtering through the leaves of the spreading trees. It’s a very grand affair this shed, it’s been home to numerous head gardeners, each have left their mark both on the landscape and on the shed.

I recall a summer long ago, far longer than I care to remember, when as a teenager in my first employment I spent an idyllic season in similar surroundings. Not as a gardener, I have never been a green fingered soul, but on a country estate that , like so many, had a walled garden, a head gardener and a team of workers.

I remember long, hot sunny days spent working on the estate buildings, watching the gardeners tilling the walled garden, growing produce for the kitchen and flowers for the house, the air filled with scents and the buzzing of insects and bees, all intent on feasting on the flowering heads in their loam filled beds.

I remember the cooler mornings and then the hot afternoons where the heat generated by the morning sun had soaked into the high brick walls and then radiated back into the garden. Sometimes too hot to work in, it would fall silent save for the birdsong and the swooping swifts and swallows searching for their meals on the wing, diving and wheeling at breakneck speed. Afternoons like those seemed to last an eternity.

I’m grateful for a country upbringing, simple pleasures from long ago can still be appreciated in an ever more confused and changing world.

This morning we’ve visited Stourhead, a jewel in the Wiltshire landscape, the view above is one that begs to be photographed, whether or not you want to, it’s the ‘done thing’. A visit to Stourhead without a photograph of this scene is almost unimaginable I would imagine, it’s the vista that greets you and sets the scene for the rest of your visit.

Built on the back of banking, where else would one find the funds necessary to create such a setting, it’s origins began with the Stourton family who held the estate for over 500years before being sold to the Meres family and then the Hoare family, deposit bankers in London since 1672 and owners of the property here since 1717 until it was gifted to The National Trust in 1946. It has a certain pedigree.

Whatever it’s history and former owners a walk in the grounds, let alone a wander in the great house, is always a pleasure, I shall look forward to returning as the year progresses and the leaves turn, there are already some signs of colour forming in the acers and the beeches around the lake and in the parkland which will become a glorious riot of reds and yellows as time proceeds.

There was a change in the air this morning, there was very definitely the distinct feel of Autumn. The dew seemed heavier, the air cleaner and crisper, the season’s changing perceptibly, Autumn is on it’s way.

Much as I love the summer I won’t mourn it’s loss because it’ll be replaced by the mellowness of Autumn, far less intense but still as beautiful, muted colours replacing the vibrance of the last few months, faded glories still able to command our attention, a softness and gentleness in the landscape as the year rolls on.

I shall look forward to the changing colours of the leaves on the trees , the seed heads revealed on plants now that their blooms have finally faded and died away, the way the earth smells in the morning and evenings after ploughing, the mists across the vale here. All signs that the bounty of harvest has come to an end and the land is beginning to prepare itself for the colder, wetter months ahead.

I shall look forward to the early mornings, the silence of the countryside as it wakes and then later in the day the returning silence as dusk brings the calling of pheasants in the fields on the edges of the woods as they make they way to roost, the whisps of smoke from chimneys rising on still air, the hoot of the owl beginning an early evening hunt and , perhaps, the sight of a deer in the fields as light fades.

There are sights to see, scents to savour, delights to be had in the changing of the season. I shall not mourn the passing of summer, it will be replaced by a season rich in it’s own splendour.

I have used this scrubby tree, it’s more ‘bush’ than tree in reality, as both shade and shelter on my wanderings across Hambledon Hill’s exposed expanse. It’s shade on a hot afternoon is most welcome, as a shelter from the wind it’s moderately successful but against a squall or shower it’s worse than useless but better than nothing…of which there is a great abundance on Hambledon. The moral of the story is not to get caught out on the hill when the weather is at it’s worst.

The hill itself is a prehistoric hill fort, occupied firstly in Neolithic times, it’s not hard to understand why given it’s incredible views, fat chance of any neighbouring tribes sneaking up on you without being seen. That said, it’s seen it’s fair share of violence throughout history, from the earliest times through to the Civil War when the well documented Battle of Hambledon Hill was fought between Cromwells men and The Clubmen, the third force in the violent equation. Neither aligned to the Parlaimentarians or the Monarchy the Clubmen banded together to try and stop the ravaging hordes of both other protagonists from stealing and plundering crops and cattle, spectacularly unsuccessfully here, by Cromwells men.

Nowadays the silence is only broken by the sound of the birdlife, the grazing cattle or sheep and the breeze, I say breeze, in reality it’s usually a wind of varying degrees, there is nothing to stop it and what seems gentle on the lower reaches becomes a pulling, pushing, tugging beast the higher you go up the hill towards the summit. At times it seems hell bent on trying to blow you over as it rushes on headlong across Dorset and onto Wiltshire, Hampshire or Somerset depending on it’s prevailing direction of the moment. It has a presence demanding to be felt it seems.

I’ve no doubt that with the changing season this tree will once again be called into action to afford a brief respite against the elements while taking in the glorious views over the western slopes.

I have spent my life walking the countryside without really walking the countryside, I enjoy it without feeling the need to kit up for an outward bound expedition. I have no great desire to immerse myself deeply in it, to sleep underneath the stars, to understand all it’s many and varied ways, I just enjoy a reasonably good walk.

As a child a walk was a diversionary tactic employed by my mother when visiting my maternal grandmother’s home, a walk got us children out of her hair while she prepared food for the family.

As a teenager and young adolescent walking the countryside was a pursuit enjoyed with others of ‘ a certain age’, it got us out and about, away from parental controls, and often parental discipline. It allowed us time to grow and develop the social mores and niceties that society expects and demands of us in adulthood, it allowed us to discover ourselves, to let off steam without annoying others, the countryside was a godsend.

Parenthood came relatively late to me, compared to some of my peers, and I found life turning full circle in as much as I was now the parent taking my own child out walking, still as a diversionary tactic sometimes, a pleasurable diversion I might add , the feeling that you were passing something of your own childhood on being a comfort somehow.

Now, in maturity, well, as mature as I’m ever likely to be, I still enjoy walking the countryside. As a species we seem to be drawn to the high places or to water, rivers, lakes,the coast. There is a pleasure to looking out over the landscape unfolding below or to wander the beach or riverbank. I am particularly luck to reside in a particularly beautiful county, I don’t need a reason to be out and about, it’s always a pleasure when the views are often so spectacular.

There is much to be enjoyed in the pleasure of a simple walk.

We seem to be in a cycle where the weather is concerned at the moment. One day wet and miserable, the next is clear and sunny, the one unmistakable factor is that the weather is much fresher, come rain or shine Autumn is beginning to make itself felt.

This week we’ve had highs and lows, Wednesday being particularly damp and dreary while just 24 hours later, Thursday, gave us a beautiful day out at the coast in nearby Swanage, as the photograph today so ably testifies to. Blue skies, cotton wool clouds and a wonderful turquoise sea, all the ingredients of a British seaside at it’s best.

I tend to shy away from the coast, despite the fact that we have it almost on our doorstep, especially in ‘the season’ ( in fact I tend to shy away from most attractions ‘in the season’ ), I can always find a reason not to bother. I cannot bear the intolerable queue’s for everything from a car parking space to an ice cream, I’m not averse to queuing, I’ve done my share, but I find nowadays that I seem to be in a minority. We seem to have adopted the ‘European’ way, as soon as a queue forms it becomes the sole object of one’s mission in life to get to the front of it at all costs, regardless of age, race or gender. Queuing brings out the worst in people it seems, I’m far happier well away from it.

I’m far happier ‘out of season’ where everything is relatively accessible, granted not everything may be available but there is usually coffee and cake to be found somewhere and that’s often enough for a location the be classed as ‘civilised’ in my humble opinion. The bonus being that the hordes of trippers and holiday makers have usually left, it’s not only the weather that’s cyclical. The beautiful countryside and coastline reverts to peace and quiet, it’s majesty and spectacle uninterrupted by the hordes.

Whilst things are still working and I have the opportunity I might as well do a little catching up here, I’m a few days behind, not drastically so but a second effort today won’t do the daily tally any harm.

This afternoon Helen and I visited the local lavender farm, The Dorset Lavender Farm Project, set out at Fiddleford, just a few miles from home. The prospect of a quiet afternoon in the countryside amongst the lavender and other flowers was very appealing, throw in the prospect of coffee and cake and it became little short of irresistible.

Coupled with the rows of lavender on site are the blooms of another local florist, Eva, whose cut flowers and cut flower arrangements are a work of art and always appreciated wherever she takes them. There is nothing like a bouquet of cut flowers, grand or humble, to brighten any location. Today was no exception. The beautiful blooms arranged in the rustic setting of the farm project were a spectacular sight.