Someone's Got a Lot of Energy

Early Autumn, Kent. From up ahead, Sid’s jet-black head turns back momentarily towards us; a shock flash of scarlet red frames his eye. Panicking, I call him back - for once not in vain - and when he skids enthusiastically to my feet, I see it is just a scratch. Relieved blindness has not made it on to his list of walking injuries, I release him back into his woodland reverie. Off he goes again leaping away from the path, headlong into the bracken. We continue down the path to Sissinghurst Castle.

We had set off from Sissinghurst village with the intention of entering the Castle estate; whilst the famed gardens would remain an inner sanctum that young Sidney would not be allowed to penetrate, the estate was free for us to walk together in, as far as the National Trust website implied. The castle was once home to writer Vita Sackville-West, as well as once being a prison and a residence of Land Army girls. It seemed the perfect site for two literary types and their enthusiastic companion to end up - indeed it was hailed as “a refuge dedicated to beauty” by the NT.

The walk had for some time crossed orchards and fields, etchings of choleric yellow in the fading acid greens of lime and ash. Apples spewed onto the orchard floor, the engorged Orange Pippin trees bending under the weight of their own seed. Flashes of a black and white demon disrupted the heady autumnal view occasionally; fruit pickers moved steadily down rows, soundtracked by The Bug coming from a portable speaker.

As we grew closer to the estate we picked up a footpath leading past a large farmhouse and through a small woods. It was here that Sid cut his head; it was only when I recalled him that I had noticed the signs in the woods:

PRIVATE - NO TRESPASSING

The trees themselves had been tattooed with this warning, broadcasting from trunks and throwing the hostile poses of tree-limbs into sharp relief. Signs like these are not an uncommon site in UK woodland - 73% of UK woodland is privately owned (PEFC) - and they are often accompanied by CCTV cameras checking on dirty walkers with their bastard dogs and incriminating flasks. We walked on self-consciously, with Sid temporarily restrained and a new atmosphere of hostility joining us on our walk.

Happily, we passed the severe-looking farmhouse and were spat out the other side of the lairy woods. Up ahead in its classical-Elizabethan splendour, was the castle.

But whilst it was Vita’s gardening vision that made Sissinghurst famous, today it seemed that it was her confidante and lover, Virginia Woolf, whose spirit stalked the paths leading to it. Or if not hers, then certainly that of the hero of her novel about a spaniel, Flush - for the hunting horn sounded particularly bright and heraldic in Sid’s ear, and his paws beat the rhythm of “Span! Span!” as he shocked a salubriously portly Labrador enjoying a sniff around an orchard at the edge of the estate.

As he crashed about the undergrowth, other walkers heading to and leaving from the wider Sissinghurst estate looked on with a mixture of horror and wonderment. Retired men visibly perspired beneath quilted jackets; lips tightened and eyes narrowed as immaculately clean Wellies became splattered with Kentish mud. The coded and oft-uttered greeting told us all we needed to know. “Someone’s got a lot of energy!”. The cut on his head was now scabbed, russet and rust framing the vermillion shock.

Spaniels are prone to such injuries - rarely a walk goes by without tongue, side or paw punctured by the armaments of the hedgerow. They chart their own paths, penetrate deep into brier and bracken, duck, dive, heave, thrashing endlessly after the flush of pheasant and rabbit.

We were within the estate now - the tasteful wooden sign emblazoned with the NT’s famous oak leaf insignia demarcated the edge of the land. It was past this boundary that Sid’s instinctively rambunctious nature made even starker contrast to our fellow walkers. A few leashed dogs looked with envy at him as he scurried by.

The paths here were cleaner, more robust, than they had been outside the estate. Each piece of grey-white stone that compiled it seemed to have been scrubbed and polished. The same stood for the walkers- quilted jacketeers were joined by Barbors; couples in matching waterproofs used poles to navigate the treacherous NT paths. It was then that M.C put her finger on it. “Sid’s offending the members - he won’t stick to their paths”. She was joking but it felt too true to ignore. We turned back and left the estate.

Nobody wants their walk in the woods or countryside ruined by an unruly dog, and boringly it is our legal responsibility to keep dogs under control; however, I couldn’t help but feel envy towards Sid. He lives free from the boundaries that run, overtly and covertly, through our land, the codes and barriers like invisible No Tresspass signs that permeate the countryside.

We left Vita Sackville-West’s estate more quickly than we had planned. Back in the cottage I picked up Orlando - “Nature, who delights in muddle and mystery” felt a little further away.