Saxon Shore 1

 

Ham Wharf, on a clear November morning.  

Surrounded by a sea of sibilant, wind rustled, reeds and tall grasses. Scented by damp loamy earth, leavened with brine.

Abandoned by the tide. Leaving the Thames Sailing Barges Greta and Lady Daphne, along with a multitude of maritime companions, high and dry. Until the afternoon's flood.

Crouched among the sedge, a fox eyes a small bush. Hungrily. Does a meal lie within?

The starve-acre months of winter are fast approaching; unseasonably mild weather, notwithstanding. Its ears are pricked, listening intently. 

My approach disturbs the patient waiting game. The fox rises to its feet. Stares me in the eye and lopes away. Flowing through the scrub, on liquid limbs.

I am on the Saxon Shore Way: Kent's Coast Path. Walking along the banks of Oare Creek, heading inland, from Hollowshore; where Oare Creek unites with Faversham Creek, before venturing out into the open waters of the Swale, at Harty Ferry. 

The creek chuckles merrily, as it meander downstream. Swaying, from bank to bank, like a rum soaked sailor reeling seaward.

In the still water, on the inside of a bend, an egret studies its reflection.

Before stalking off, with a high stepping, reverse knee'd gait.

Woodland envelopes the path. The midday sun filtering through a canopy of leaves, which is poised between the green of summer and the fiery hues of autumn.

I am nearing the ancient hamlet of Oare. Stone built farmhouses, and the church, perch high above the riverine marshes, beyond the reach of a North Sea storm surge. 

Bemused by a year of topsy turvy weather, winter-bare trees stand beside their summer-clad cousins, on the levee.

More recent housing dares to tiptoe down toward, and even onto, the flood plain.

At the head of the creek, the Three Mariners hostelry turns its weather-worn, ruddy complexioned, brick face to the sun. Basking in its warming glow.