Of a weekend afternoon at this time of year it is pleasant and civilized to head for some part of Kent not covered in fuck-ugly Barratt Homes for a walk in the woods. It's especially soothing to find one of the redwood trees in Bysing Wood, for example, and to caress it's dry leathery hairy bark.
As we forage for blackberries and wild fennel on the edge of the woods, wondering whether that yellow flower over there might be St John's Wort, old railway tickets have somehow found their way in among the wild poppies; the remains of a fire with beer cans strewn all over, a ziplock bag with crumbs of hashish, and several Mr Kipling boxes. Do people seriously go walking miles out of their way simply so that they can smoke a spliff then stuff their puffy faces with French Fancies? (This is a vile tiny sponge cake covered in sickly sweet icing and doused with preservatives, if you're not familiar with the brand.)
A few minutes walk away the old gunpowder works is a rich habitat for plants, insects, and birds particularly, but here too there's always dogshit, the wrappers of loafs chucked in the water, cola cans... a skip's worth of crap scattered about.
Wake up people, because if it isn't already too late it soon will be.
