Surrey

"There's a green woodpecker" I said. It seemed like an omen to see something I rarely get to see. The weather was already perfect. The drive down was easy. One of the best perfomances ever, Miles Davis reprised Kind of Blue for me as I'd driven down to meet my walking colleague in Ryka's car park in Box Hil, Surrey. I'd forgotten that John Logie Baird lived on Box Hill; designated an area of outstanding beauty, if he'd looked out the windows from his perch high above the River Mole, maybe he wouldn't have needed to invent television. Then again, Major Peter Labelliere had himself buried head down on Box Hill in 1800 - maybe the views weren't always so beautiful. Indeed, some extreme long term parking reminded us that natural beauty is fragile.

I've mentioned wild garlic elsewhere in this blog. Lot's of it on Box Hill but people here call them ramsons. I should have had some to flavour the sausage bap I had for lunch, half way and some four hours into our walk. And the bluebells have just passed their best yet still add wonderful depth to the woodlands.

We passed the King William IV pub a couple of times. Very abstemious, we did not enter. Had we done so, we might have learned they get bread from the Chalk Hills Bakery, the proprietors of the bakery known to me, and who fed me a big dinner after the walk. I must be fair: we did go to The Running Horses in Mickleham for a deserved swift one after 8 hours walking. We covered 31 km and ascended a total of 1100 m. You should do it sometime: do like us, follow the Box Hill Hike twice, once in each direction and add a few bits for grimaces. Mind your knees. Knees. Human knees don't enjoy the cherty cobbles.

We were looking at concrete cylinders topped with cones, remnants of WW2 anti-tank defences from when this area was a military zone and the Dorking Gap was considered a liability in need of serious defence. I'm not sure there was a connection other than manic tiredness and perhaps the apparent futility of these defences, but I was reminded of something Tim Flannery wrote in 'Here on Earth': "... the Bishop of London said in 1917, an average of nine British soldiers died every hour during 1915, while twelve British babies died every hour through that same year." Things have improved by those measures.

To the folk who help organise the Duke of Edinburgh award: please, please advise the participants that bluetooth speakers blasting anthemic rock music and especially "ffing niggaz" rap (my companion can certify) is utterly inappropriate in areas of outstanding natural beauty. Yes, curmudgeon. But you know I'm right.

We wondered what the Belted Galloway cattle were called. And I remembered to look them up because they looked like works of art, standing in the lush fields under blue skies. As is attributed to Picasso: "Art is the lie that enables us to realise the truth." Beef as art. Art as beef.

Louis Stewart died last year, another jazz hero to me. And 'Out on His Own' played me home, a thought to play it coming after I'd seen someone else playing a new Fender before dinner. And that after I discovered that prescription diclofenac is much better for knees than OTC Voltarol. A great day. And you've read this and maybe you'll want to help Care at the top of the page. Thank you for reading and in advance, for your support.