The old straight track

We walked through those Chilham Downs again. Dark skies threatened and the wind though SW turned bitter once the sun had gone. The bluebells start to fade. The whitebeam's are coming out. The Stour runs clear and goslings run about eager in their regimented desire to survive. Oast houses speak of a time when the coppiced woods and hop fields ran in harmony, the one supplying the other and the beer to the workers in both. All in the extras.