Trees Along the Great Stour

From Chartham to Canterbury, Kent

When I was travelling recently, I was hit by a longing for the river path that runs between Chartham and Canterbury. Call it a spiritual home. I even shed a little tear in the back of a taxi thinking about it. I imagined falling on my knees and giving the good soil a kiss, trailing my fingers along the cold lengths of the branches, and slapping my favourite walnut on the tummy (you’ll know which one when you get to the pictures). I was pretty homesick.

I’ve been home a few weeks now and, while I didn’t actually kiss the soil, I have been truly in element walking down the dirt track and noticing all that February has to offer along this well-trodden passage. The rosehips are shrivelling, the sweet violets are already peppering the perimeter, and there’a woodpecker somewhere hammering a tree in short, sharp staccato. In fact, as it’s rather mild right now, the birds have returned reminding me of how funny they are with their song. I can’t capture it in words, even when an acquaintance suggested that I write how they sound rather than actual descriptions. Impossible, though I promise you that they are HILARIOUS right now. All chirps, chirrups, purrs and mocking. I’ll record it at some point so you can hear if you like?

Anyhow, I decided to comb through years of photographs to curate the very best of the trees that run from Chartham to Canterbury. For some it’s just a single shot, while for others you’ll see how they change with the season. Some are accompanied by my hasty, short prose, with an extract from Larkin who nailed something I’ve been trying to say about the feeling of new leaf growth for years.

For as long as I live where I do, I will collect these pictures and words and update year by year. If you have any of your own, do send them my way and I’ll include them. This heavenly path deserves its own testament for all to enjoy, whether near or far.

How the River Path Begins

Take yourself back to this morning
You’re walking
Hear the sound of your feet on the earth
And imagine
That they have roots
Boring down into the ground
Tangling with everything
You become the very scene before you
The soil, the light, the trees
The fluttering blossom
The scent of warm honey
And willow’s dripping chandelier

Not Far From Horton Manor

That’s a very slappable tummy, missy.

The elderflower bows her lacy bough to the waters edge, gazing at her lovely self in the river’s mirrored looking glass.

Along the Lakes

My Great Holm

Willow Oh Willow

Scarce raindrops clung to the honeysuckle the morning the third willow fell. Her outstretched limbs thrown down, her golden locks caressing scorched grasses, her scant, slow tears dripping to the ground.

The trees are coming into leaf / Like something almost being said; / The recent buds relax and spread, / Their greenness is a kind of grief. Phillip Larkin

Come May, leaves so new they’re acid green thrust forth from willows ribcage.
Come September, marbled drapes flutter softly in swathes of low light.
Come November, damp, tangled braids of bronze hang limply over the river, announcing a glow of lamplight in the morning grey.

When You Get to the Westgate Gardens

Knows not that light will come to reign

So brave, so bold his piercing shriek

The edge of night this sweet proclaim

Echoes down the choral chain

Thrush that breaks the morning bleak

Nature tells me who I am

The hypnotising reeds

Remind me how gentle power can be

As they trace the river’s flow

With their dancing, emerald fingers

Before They Shut the Greyfriars

By the Marlowe & Mill

FIN

(but never really fin for as long as I live with camera in hand and words in head)