By: everylittlething

…who can tell him what is to come?
(Ecclesiastes 8:7)

None of us could have foretold accurately the severity of the winter which is now ebbing away.  Similarly I could not have prevented the earthquakes which rock the Southern Hemisphere as I write.  The power that drives the natural forces in our fragile world is, thankfully, beyond our knowledge.  Respect is an old-fashioned word but it is key to our existence here on Earth.  I have, on my desk in front of me, an excellent volume describing walks in the most northerly counties of Mainland Britain.  There is a thread running through the book which makes sense to all walkers.  It can be summarized in one word.  Respect.  Respect for the weather; respect for the terrain; respect for the people who may live on or work the land and respect for the flora and the fauna.  If you are able to connect with the history of a place then a different kind of respect comes into play.  Your walk becomes a silent worship.  You don’t have to be religious; you don’t need to be a regular attender at church, mosque or synagogue.  Your soul will be one with the very country you are walking because you don’t believe it was put there for your selfish pleasure.  Many myths abound regarding strange formations in the landscape but, regardless of their accuracy, you are not the first person to recognise this special place.  Jules Verne, in his “Journey to the Centre of the Earth”, written in 1864, tells an amazing tale and is able to draw on his own knowledge of matters geological.

Up here in the North, whether you climb Ben Loyal which rises to the south of Tongue, or conical Morven, you cannot help but feel the power of the elements still in the very rock beneath your feet.  Whether you walk the beach in Sinclair Bay or you stand close by a cliff edge in a winter storm, you are part of the Sphere – our ever-rolling Earth.

Winter has laid bare Earth’s secrets and more will be discovered as we access places left untrod in the cruel months.  There will be evidence of the harshness of the weather and we will weep.  This is Nature’s way, however, of keeping a balance and it is man who is capable of uptipping the balance.  Robert Burns had a dismal view of the devil’s role in the thaw:

“When thowes dissolves the snawy hoord,
An’ float the jinglin icy boord,
Then, Water-kelpies haunt the foord,
By your direction,
An’ nighted Trav’llers are allur’d
To their destruction.”
(FROM “ADDRESS TO THE DE’IL”)

So February is not a good time to go out at night then.  It is a funny thing because, on a number of occasions, I have set off for an afternoon walk at this time of year, and taken a torch with me because I couldn’t see why I should have minded getting back after dark.  However, as soon as the sky begins to darken, the hairs begin to prickle on the back of my neck and I start to walk faster and don’t slow down until I am near to habitation.  Why is that?  Foul February?

February certainly brings uncertainties.  On the eighteenth of this month was the storm moon which heralds potentially bad weather.  And it was.  We watched the harbour wall battered by south-easterlies and great walls of spray around the lifeboat shed.  Yet on the same day we admired the snowdrops and noticed that the celandines are thick underfoot, but they have not yet opened their buds.  Wordsworth wrote a sweet poem about the celandine which for him was

“Telling tales about the sun,
When we’ve little warmth or none.”

February has her advantages.  What better time to see clearly the tracks which animals make?  When they walk across soft mud or snow they are quite easy to track.  Soft mud around streams and ponds are great places to spot footprints, and rocks, logs and the bottom of tree trunks are all good places to spot animal droppings.  No, that isn’t animals dropping.  Your dog will let you know if another animal has left a message on a lamp post.

“Ah, sweet mystery of life!”

In medieval Britain, February was known as “The Hunger Gap” because much of the stored food had gone and it would be some time before the fresh food would be ready to harvest.  We have no conception of that of course.
But February is a time of hope,

“Hope, like a gleaming taper’s light,
Adorns and cheers our way;
And still, as darker grows the night,
Emits a brighter ray”.
(OLIVER GOLDSMITH)

Winter will leave us soon and is struggling to keep its hold on the earth.  Listen to “The Bard” by Sibelius.  It is a tone poem and is his opus 64.  It was written in 1913 and it is the harp which gives the piece its breath. This seems to me to be the dying breath of Winter.  I read in “Crossing the Threshold of Hope” by His Holiness John Paul II that “death…becomes subject to the power of life.”  Pope John Paul points out that, through Christ, death ceases to be an ultimate evil.  Winter dies and becomes Spring which dies and becomes Summer which dies and becomes Autumn which dies and becomes Winter which…  We have watched the ivy berries ripen between November and January; we have welcomed robins, blue tits and friends to the bird table in the terrible cold; we picked holly for Christmas and now we are enjoying the snowdrops,

“Thou first-born of the year’s delight”.
(KEBLE)

Our lives are equally continuous, indirect and with undying effect.  Circular.  We go through our seasons, but do not reach an end:  it is Winter which readies Earth for the jewels of Spring and similarly our own seasons prepare those, whose lives we touch, for what is to come.

Summertime is a good time to walk along the sands but wintertime delivers a freshness to the beach which is a cleansing, a thrill of cutting cold never forgotten for its forthrightness.  The birds along the shore don’t seem to mind as we turn over the stones and search the kelp.

Spring is the best of times for wild flowers along the river bank but the river in winter opens its heart so wide that you become a part of “Tales of the Riverbank”.  The hunting there is good for the day-flying short-eared owl while the wigeon share one’s belonging. Mallard, teal and wigeon often make their nests on the moorland but they move to coasts and lowland lakes in winter.  It was not far from where the River Wick goes out into the North Sea that we spotted them last weekend.  They wisely huddled in groups while we strode out bravely in a strong cold wind.

In autumn the trees release their leaves in warm colours along the way but, in winter, the accumulations of leaves in corners give shelter to tiny things and later decompose to become a crucial part of the coming rebirth.  The Circle of Life.  Kathleen Ferrier died in 1953, the year of my birth.  I love her.  Never, never, never could I hope to make a sound like Kathleen did.  I have recordings of her voice and they are wonderful.  A favourite is “Che Puro Ciel” from “Orfeo” by Gluck.  A heavenly voice from Blackburn, Lancashire, an accomplished pianist, a gift to us.  Sadly she died of cancer at the age of forty one.  Many do.  But they are not lost.  They have touched our lives as the clusters of autumn leaves feed the soil for the shoots of gentle Spring and the blooms of beautiful Summer.  The intricate food webs which link all living things are in our circle.  This means we need to take the utmost care not to upset the balance.  The destruction of one link can mean disaster for many creatures.  I quote again William Wordsworth:

“Sweet is the lore which Nature brings;
Our meddling intellect
Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things
We murder to dissect.
Enough of Science and of Art
Close up these barren leaves,
Come forth, and bring with you a heart
That watches and receives.”

Receive with respect all that is gifted to us, whatever we believe gave it to us, wherever we think it may have come from; watch it and enjoy it.  Every little thing is magic of the highest station.  Amazing grace.

By: everylittlething

“The Christmas Feast is already a fading memory” (W. H. Auden) but it will remain somewhere in the alcoves of the mind and sometime in the future I will say “Do you remember when we…?  Was it 2010 or was it another Christmas?”  Perhaps this post-Christmas period is a good time to make plans.  Not particularly earth-shattering plans.  Not even life-changing plans – but more life-enhancing really.  When the smell of the Christmas tree, the sight of black trees framing a red sunset on a frosty evening and the sound of voices lifted in familiar carols are up there with the winning Christmas memories, then the ladder is in place for enrichment in 2011.  We notice these things and so we are naturalists.  We see relationships between them and we are ecologists.  When we are interested in how best to protect and preserve them, then we become conservationists.  With this in mind, 2011 needs us as we need hope.  I am still looking for my snowdrops but here, in the far north, they are reluctant to bloom.  It seems that, by the time they do, they will be a part of the early spring pageant.  Though maybe I won’t have to wait that long.  Winter aconite is called “New Year’s Gift” but the harsh weather has postponed delivery a while.  When it comes it will be welcomed as a belated birthday present is welcomed – with a mixture of surprise and delight.

No surprise when you read that Antonio Vivaldi’s “Winter” from “The Four Seasons” is recommended listening for January.  It really does make me think of the frost doing its worst.  The music grips me as though in a metal frame, unable to help all the small things for whom this season is so treacherous.  Yet there is a purity about it all, almost a cleansing, a decluttering.  Music for thought, especially at the start of the year.

Winter isn’t always John Clare’s “snowy paths and rimy stiles” though.  There have been days of solid rain at the beginning of some years, years which have become olden days.  In 1746 the Battle of Falkirk was fought in torrential rain.  Mud was blood but this was the last victory for the Jacobites.  January 1746 was not the only time in our British history that men suffocated in the winter mud as they lay wounded.  Our engagement in Europe in the Great War of 1914-1918 was matchless for the horror of the trenches.  Winter at its worst.

“The lost leaves measure our years; they are gone as the days are gone, and the bare branches silently speak of a new year, slowly advancing its buds, its foliage, and fruit.  Deciduous trees associate with human life as this yew never can.  Clothed in its yellowish-green needles, its tarnished green, it knows no hope or sorrow; it is indifferent to winter, and does not look forward to summer.  With their annual loss of leaves, and renewal, oak and elm and ash and beech seem to stand by us and share our thoughts.” (Richard Jefferies)  For me, Richard Jefferies is able to grasp that link between man and the rest of nature and to convey in words the meaning it gives to the ongoing understanding between all creatures.  Such as the seven seals see-sawing on the banks of the River Thurso as it makes its way to the Pentland Firth.  I watched this lunchtime as people crisscrossed the river by way of the foot bridge.  Gulls and estuary birds lined the same bank and a solitary cormorant hung out its wings to dry nearby, looking as though its brief was to guard the lives of the seven seals at all costs.  I half expected Noggin the Nog to sail in from the sea at any moment.

Pure magic surely dusts the dawn at the wood’s edge when that corner of the world moves towards the sun and all creatures come or go depending on their habits.  Some wake up and sing, others disappear until evening.  In winter, when food is scarce, the internal clocks of hungry creatures can be ignored.  A fox, for example, may well hunt in daylight and I have seen owls do the same.  The need to survive can be likened to the view in some religions that pork is not for human consumption unless there is no other food available.  Their doctrines dictate that man must live.  Foxes and owls shun the daylight and are better equipped for hunting by night but they are driven by their hunger and will not simply give in and die for want of food in the night-time.  In the north a number of animals and birds change the colour of their coats in the winter months so that they are less conspicuous in the winter landscape, some even become white – like the Ptarmigan.

Winter white.  Snow has dominated our winter this year as it did last year so the coats and feathers of our wild brothers do well to lighten their darkness.  Virgin snow is capable of carrying my soul away from all complications and complexities.  Sir John Lister-Kaye of Aigas fame tells it as it is for me:

“The land is purged as though the glacier has come again in the night, wiping it clean.  One embarks upon a new journey, an expedition into a purer nature where man is not acknowledged, has not visibly interfered… Behind us our footprints lead back to the imperfections of knowledge and the frailties of our human world.  Ahead lies an Edenesque freshness of dazzling beauty and pure adventure.” (from “Song of the Rolling Earth, a Highland Odyssey”)

Skiing is always popular in the Highlands but one day recently we were having our morning coffee at the front of the house when we saw skis going past the window, clearly they were supported on ample shoulders but it was unusual to see them in our township.  The most popular area is Cairngorm with Aviemore as a gathering point for winter sports enthusiasts.  Ideally for skiing the snow should be light, dry and uncompacted, sometimes called “powder snow”.  When this thaws, however, and freezes quickly again, it forms heavy snow, known as “granular snow”.  In our maritime area the snow was particularly heavy this season because of the great quantity of water carried inland by the warm oceanic air mass.

The second movement of Rimsky-Korsakov’s “Scheherazade” has all the drama of winter and conjures up, for me at any rate, the fight for survival which continues throughout the winter for all but the coddled creatures on earth – just as Scheherazade fought for her own survival by telling fascinating stories to her husband in order to stay his hand, as he wished to murder her.

On a forest walk last Saturday I noticed a number of molehills.  In winter several moles may huddle together for warmth in a larger than average molehill.  At the entrance will be a stock of insects and worms to keep the little colony fed when tunnelling becomes impossible because of severe frost.  On the edge of the forest the deciduous trees have stunningly beautiful silhouettes against the winter skies and the evergreens within show tangible life although all trees are coming to life now.  We can’t always see it but it is there as Charles Causley writes

“But still within the elder tree
The strong sap rose though none could see.”

Sometimes daytime temperatures will warm the tree and at night the temperature may drop below freezing, then the tree bark will expand, then contract.  It is sometimes possible to hear it swell and tear.

I’m going to look for bits of trees.  I intend to use them in my tiny area of wild garden.  I have, over the year past, added seeds, plants, grass sods and a few tiny bulbs with some larger bulbs to edge the plot.  I want to allow all of these to develop so my intention is to keep the wood above them, letting it add to the overall environmental health of the garden.  Over time, of course, the wood will rot further and crumble.  I’ve watched this happen before but, throughout the process, rotting trees help provide a balance in the larger garden.  I am still wondering how I shall achieve my aim of an overhead supply of old wood but I have two ideas germinating already.  I haven’t found my tree bits yet.  Mental note to self – tree bits which will be missed by none.

In a few weeks the farmers further south will be pruning again in the orchards.  At present they are harvesting cabbages and cauliflowers and there is some early lambing going on.  Lambs were spotted on the way home today between Thurso and Wick.  There is still much to do on the farm with regard to maintenance of buildings, machines, hedges, fences and ditches.  Sadly the hedgers are now mainly machines and it must be altogether more comfortable for the farmer but what about the gaps at the bottom of the hedges through which the stock may pass?  The other sheep’s grass is always greener.  How green will be my valley if the New Year brings new litter?  When the snow retreats the dross remains.  After Christmas there seems to be more of it about.  So that is that – out with the old, in with the new – but where goes the old?  Gavin A. MacLaren’s poem, “Traces”, is a thought provoking look at our land of paradox with its natural rhythms broken by man’s ability to corrupt:

Here beneath the hazel boughs
Lie broken scraps of shell,
To mark where, in October days,
The squirrel feasted well.

A five-toed track across the shore,
A scale upon the sand;
Here the otter swam last night
And brought his kill to land.

Errant feathers on the grass
Like opals thrown away;
The sparrowhawk was hunting here
And feathers decked his prey.

Ice-cream cups and paper bags,
The signs are plain to read.
No woodcraft needed here to say
What creature paused to feed.

I suppose that, if we cannot bear to look at the badly treated earth, then we are able to look up at the sky.  On the nineteenth of this month the wolf moon rose as high as the full moon will rise this year.  Something to look up to.  The Native Americans saw the same moon rise in winter when the wolves were so famished that they sat along the perimeter of the camp howling out their hunger pangs.

The perfect moon, the unblemished snow tell us what we need to know.  Our feast days come and go but hope constantly inspires the aegis of this good earth.

By: everylittlething

A solitary rook rasps out its request for nourishment. It sits alone in the sycamore at the boundary of the garden. There are smaller birds in the tree next to it but not one ventures to join the rook. I don’t know why. He seems harmless enough. He is just hungry – as they all are. In the bitter weather we have taken to feeding the birds twice daily. Normally once in the morning is sufficient but, in the biting cold, they have been asking for food before they go to roost. Their cries should not become their death rattle. Water has been a problem – not so bad when we had intermittent thawing but, when the earth was covered in packed snow, unyielding and dense, the birds needed a water source. The bird bath wouldn’t budge so we took out a plastic container of fresh water. The next day it wouldn’t budge either so another was sought and filled with water. The following day that too was solid. Efforts were made to release the cuboid of water but they failed and little pieces of bright pink plastic needed picking up from the snow. The edge of the container was now jagged and unsatisfactory.  Not an inviting water trough.

Where are the wrens? I haven’t seen a single wren in the garden since our Arctic winter began. They were there before but they are not there now. I know that the small birds suffer terribly in these conditions as they have a limited surface area for enabling them to trap air and warm themselves with it. It is sad to think that all our wrens may have gone. I was surprised to hear on Radio Scotland that the woodcock, which have left our snow wasted Highlands, have gone to Glasgow and people are reporting sitings in parks there. One visited our garden just before Christmas. I missed it but it was positively identified by an expert. Out and about in our area we have witnessed winter’s way with her winged creatures. Dead birds are very much in evidence on a walk through winter’s wonderland. A little owl, once rare in Scotland, perched on a fence post waiting for us to weave our way through the farmyard on our return from the frozen beach. Ice glued together the cobbles underneath sand dunes still sprinkled with frozen snow. Another December walk, this time along the cliff, yielded a moving tapestry of thousands of wheeling starlings gathering to roost. An impressive spectacle, it seemed never-ending as group after group joined the black mass of circling bodies to eventually settle at the chosen resting place. These flocks, grouping and regrouping at the cliff’s edge, will remain with me as I contemplate the delights of December.

I am lucky enough to have an old recording of the great John McCormack singing the Boulton-Bantock “Song To The Seals” from “Songs Of The Western Isles”. It is a timeless piece which conjures up the fusing of sea with land at any point in the year. I was surprised by the presence of so many thousands of starlings along the cliff edge as I thought of them as being birds associated with the domestic scene inland but they merged as the land and the sea merged on that late afternoon in December. John McCormack, incidentally, became a member of the Papal Peerage and so was known as Count John McCormack. It is well worth seeking out a recording of him as rarely will you hear so pure a tenor voice.

The bulbs are sleepy but are slowly developing beneath the snow. Every day a newborn will poke through the smothered earth. By the springtime there will be only faint memories of mounds in the hillocked snow where bumpy white cairns denote herbaceous plants waiting for winter to melt into spring. “Seven Brides For Seven Brothers” is a favourite musical in our family and the wintry scenes from the wide open spaces of America are wonderfully accompanied by the lament, “Lonesome Polecat”. The use of onomatopoeia is put to good effect in conveying the biting cold of a December day when the air stings and caresses unto death the external cells of a person. At best though, the winter freshens and awakens. Laurie Lee, in his “Christmas Landscape” recreates the given grief of a winter’s wind,

“Tonight the wind gnaws
with teeth of glass,
the jackdaw shivers
in caged branches of iron,
the stars have talons.”

The wind can take the breath with it. It fills loose clothing and presents Michelin men in the cleansed streets. Or it catches the flaps and long tails of coats, slapping the wearer in the face or around the legs.

Pavements change character daily. Once they are impressionable with new snow, then they become slush and dirty. Another frosty night and they greet the day as crisp and hard and definitely not nice to stumble on. You may look up at the trees and wonder at their shimmering beauty as stiff snow shrouds them. But don’t look away from the path for too long or you’re likely to be caught out on a sheet of ice.

A redwing visits us in the garden and I am reminded that the song thrushes are singing again. They will face the sun as days are lengthening. I am put in mind of Thomas Hardy’s “The Darkling Thrush”,

“…I could think there trembled through
His happy good-night air
Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew
And I was unaware.”

For the farmer the Christmas season may have been busy with gathering holly and harvesting Christmas trees or mating dairy cows for autumn calving, but now he is able to work on farm maintenance and management. For example, buildings, machines, hedges and ditches may require attention. Fallen and damaged trees will need felling and removing. One can imagine the relief when the farmer enters his home at the end of the day, removes his boots and looks through the window at the moon which gives focus to all beliefs, gently bathing us in milky mystery. In the black of the evening the stars will prod the sky with their spits of silver until morning when pinks and pale blues are born of the night and linger until the brownish violet of the snow clouds replace them. One night the smoker in our family went out, comme d’habitude, to smoke in the shelter of the pend, when a ball of light bounced across the exit in front of him. Almost immediately drums rolled in the heavens and we looked out on the green to see if there was a tree “where no tree should be”, recollecting as we did a favourite Christmas text, “The Children Of Green Knowe” by Lucy Boston. Thunder and lightning at Christmas.

Daylight…..and all that remains of the night’s pantomime is a frost coating the stone walls of house and garden while more snow has settled on all surfaces facing skyward. The shops on Dempster Street, unheated through the night, have displays of amazing beauty. Frost ferns and fans of feathers create a frame for all the flowers and Christmas wreaths in the florist’s shop. Winter is full of unexpected beauty. Some people dread winter and, for some it is indeed the most dismal of times, but observe winter as she plays her tricks and be delighted. Perhaps listen to Haydn’s “Surprise Symphony”, then in the quiet house, as a Christmastime reflection, read “The Mother’s Song” which is translated from the Inuit by Peter Freuchen:

“It is so still in the house.
There is a calm in the house;
The snowstorm wails out there,
And the dogs are rolled up with snouts under the tail.
My little boy is sleeping on the ledge,
On his back he lies, breathing through his open mouth.
His little stomach is bulging round -
Is it strange if I start to cry with joy?”

For those of us who find ourselves lost in an existence which is not controlled by man and have no inclination to be rescued, “The Huron Carol”, which is Canadian and was originally written in French, acknowledges Gitchi Manitou, the supreme God, as the Father of all and gives thanks for the little Jesus who, for over two thousand years, has marked out the path for us with positive footprints. As December 2010 turns to January 2011, this poor wandering one needs to tread boldly in said footsteps. Not unlike struggling through deep snow to Helmsdale Station to catch the last train home. And how good home is.

By: everylittlething

Sunday, 14th November, was Remembrance Sunday this year.  Thursday, 11th November, was Armistice Day.  It doesn’t really matter how they fall.  We walked to the War Memorial, we stood for the Service of Remembrance and we walked back.  The sky was blue with grumbling grey-pink clouds and birds, so many birds.  There were birds there from the beginning but, after the first gun salute, hundreds rose up high into the heavens from their secret perches.  They must be roosting in the skeletons of trees; there are so few leaves left now.  They, the leaves, are all underfoot in their various shades of death.  The occasion was a solemn one and gave an opportunity to identify with the bereaved and damaged of so many conflicts since 1914.  And yet there was, penetrating the gloom and sadness, seeping into the souls of all who stood still and quiet there, an uninterrupted light.  It was something outside my understanding but something which assured me that, although the Great War was NOT the war to end all wars, it started a quest, at a human level, for world peace which, until then had been almost non-existent.  Perhaps we continue to exist because of that quest and no matter how many die in conflict, there is a powerful feeling in our modern western society that peace is in ascendancy.

Just after Bonfire Night we were driving westwards and the conversation turned to the birds we had spotted in recent weeks.  I happened to mention Orkney’s influx of waxwings at about the same time last year.  I regretted that I had never seen one.  Jeeves, who had been concentrating on the driving rather than the conversation, said,

“Never seen what?”

“A waxwing,” I replied and then, at that precise moment, I looked up into a tree dancing past the car window and saw my first waxwing.  Well!  No, I don’t expect you to believe me but truth really can be stranger than fiction.

Earlier today however, looking out from the kitchen at a cotoneaster growing in the wall, I spotted not one, but two waxwings taking berries.  Rather like the proverbial London bus: wait for ages – nothing – and then there are several arriving at one time.  They are very exciting birds to spot with their tawny pink crests and black throats and eye stripes.  The waxwing is about the same size as a starling and I’m so pleased to have seen ours.  There are berries left so maybe they will come again.

The sea was very rough a few days ago and I was enjoying the powerful breakers at a safe distance when I saw, strutting just in front of me, what I thought was a pair of meadow pipits.  I am used to seeing meadow pipits – during our time in Orkney and now in Caithness – and soon realised these were larger than your average meadow pipit and the colouring was wrong – much greyer.  It was, in fact, a pair of rock pipits.  How I love this place: here we are delivered of riches after treasure.

As well as Bonfire Night and Armistice Day / Remembrance Sunday, November also has a number of saints days.  There is All Saints, All Souls, Saint Martin’s, Saint Cecilia’s, Saint Catherine’s and on the very last day, Saint Andrew’s .  In America, the fourth Thursday of November, the twenty fifth this year, is Thanksgiving Day – and has been since 1621 when the Pilgrim Fathers joined with the Native Americans to celebrate their first successful harvest.  The Native Americans had taught the settlers to rear wild turkeys and to grow pumpkins, cranberries and sweet potatoes.  These foods form the celebration menu even today.  The Qur’an reflects completely the goodness inherent in that part of America’s history:

“Those who believe and suffer exile and strive with might and main in God’s cause, with their goods and their persons, are the highest in the sight of God: they are the ones who will achieve salvation.”

November brings in all the animals which need housing over the winter.  Some hardy beasts may remain out of doors but generally the fields are emptying for the wind to dance through the dying herbs and grasses.  Winter vegetables such as cauliflowers and Brussels sprouts are ready for harvesting, as are the trees grown especially to grace our homes over the Christmas period.  Trees feature significantly in the farming calendar for November.  Fallen and damaged trees are dealt with and coppicing is carried out in hazel woodland.

Farmers are working hard to complete the autumn cultivations.  A raw November is not an easy time for farmers and is just the beginning of the late autumn / winter schedule.  Wordsworth included,  in “Lyrical Ballads”, a poem named “The Last of the Flock” which highlights the plight of a man who reared sheep – successfully at first – and then all went wrong for him.  Things have changed since 1798 but I am reminded of the precariousness of farming.  Out in the countryside we can enjoy a brisk walk and the pleasure of a warm home to return to when we are ready – perhaps with good food simmering a welcome, but the farmer knows that autumn is moving into winter and a harsh timetable for him.  He can’t return when he feels like it; he will be out in all weathers and at all hours.

Freshwater ponds can freeze as early as November and frogs and water lilies alike adapt to this by using the lower reaches of the pond to await the spring.  Fish also find the deeper water and they become less active during the colder months of the year.  The spotted trout comes to mind and, in turn, Schubert’s “Trout” Quintet in A major.  I’ve always had a soft spot for this piece and remember being disappointed when my lecturer criticised it as “tea-shop music” when, as a student teacher, I used it in class.  I still think it is a lovely composition and the double-bass works really well in place of a second violin.

The wind has made trees and shrubs more difficult to identify as many are now leafless. The dogwood comes into its own at this stage of the year.  Its dark red twigs are easily recognisable and a few should be spared for a simple indoor display before the house fills up with Christmas decorations.  Winter jasmine is an easy-to-grow shrub and brightens up a November garden.  Little yellow stars lighting the darkness.

Seamus Heaney, in his poem “The Haw Lantern”, has the very dark crimson hawthorn berries as little lanterns.  There are many still on the hedgerows.  From what I have seen lately the country larder is well equipped to satisfy the needs of many.  A few gleaming blackberries remain but unpicked fruit is generally mouldy by November.

Of garden birds just now, Redbreast sings sweetest and knows that  ”little bits of things always turn up”  ( Mrs. Gatty’s “Parables of Nature”).  Alfred Hayes wrote a lovely poem about this time of the year and one verse describes the robin’s song delightfully:

“And as a child’s light laugh beguiles
Sorrow to lose herself in smiles;
The red-breast’s lay
Maketh the woodland’s silent aisles
Seem almost gay.”

Dull November?  Not entirely.  It brings rapidly changing skies and, with them, such a mix of emotions.  From mourning, through hope, to preparation for that most wonderful celebration – Christmas.  Listen to Eric Bogle’s “The Green Fields of France”.  It is a sad song, so something like “It’s A Lovely Day Tomorrow” by Irving Berlin would weave hope through tragedy.  Move on to celebration with Richard Rodger’s symphonic suite, “Victory At Sea”.

Advent begins on the twenty eighth of this month and I must confess to having already sought out my fairly ancient tape of the Christmas Mass in Latin.  It may be a little early but it is so heartening.  Outside my window tonight the leaves really are “whirling fast” and yet tomorrow there may be a frost, maybe it will be foggy, perhaps there will be autumn rain.  The skies could be blue, pale grey, steel grey, purple with a hint of gold, even brown with snow clouds.  There is nothing certain about November except that it is the herald of Christmas.  Has been for two thousand years and people have been giving praises for the pregnant sleep of winter for much longer.  Time to light a candle.

By: everylittlething

Christmas begins in October.  Scrunch, swish through the autumn leaves but it IS true.  To many for whom Christmas is synonymous with joy, it does, in fact, begin here and now.  Out come the large pudding basin and the large cake tin.  Almonds, vine fruits, cherries and spirits are collected in readiness for the start of Christmas in the kitchen.  Time to steep fruits in brandy, rum or gin while the glorious October sunshine gives the impression

“…..warm days will never cease,” (Keats, “Ode to Autumn”).

But the dull days are here too.  And it is those which remind us of the coming winter and Christmas when we celebrate and enjoy the fruits of our present labours.  October is by no means a sober month.  If October were a fabric it would be a rich tapestry shot-through with gold thread.  In his “Rabbi Ben Ezra” Robert Browning illustrates that rich tapestry of life which can escape the notice of those who moan along with the autumn winds:

“Grow old along with me!
The best is yet to be,
The last of life, for which the first was made:
Our times are in His hand
Who saith “A whole I planned,
Youth shows but half; trust God: see all, nor be afraid!”

The stags on our Scottish hillsides will spend their winter putting on weight as, no doubt, some of us will too.  The autumn rut is a major marathon as mature stags defend their respective harems.  The males lose a great deal of weight in the process and, if they are lucky, they will replace the lost weight after siring many bambies.  Incidentally, the book by Felix Salten is, guess what, nothing like the film.  Worth a read actually.  The stags are unafraid of their adversaries and have no desire other than to pass on their genes to the offspring of the gathering hinds.  In fact they will often travel many miles to the rutting stand – usually where the hinds live – sometimes even swimming rivers to get there.  Puts the Milk Tray man into perspective.

The Highlands are frantic with such dedication to maintain the laws of Nature.  Red squirrels are profiting from the autumn food surplus.  Although they are now sadly rare in Britain generally, there are still colonies of them in the Highlands of Scotland.  The grey squirrels are the victors of the squirrel population, infecting the reds with diseases which the red squirrels cannot fight.  In autumn all squirrels will hoard nuts, like burying treasure.  In the natural world there is no law of treasure trove.  Finders keepers.

Johann Strauss Junior’s “Acceleration Waltz” conjures up a busy forest in October.  Little things dash about when it is safe to do so and then hide away when danger threatens.

The Anglo Saxons called October “Winter Fylleth”.  “Fylleth” means full moon and , at the full moon in October, it was held that winter would begin.  The nights in October are very busy.  The migration traffic is enormous and many species travel by night.  A visit to the coast at dusk or dawn is a great opportunity for some serious migrant spotting.  George Meredith’s poem, “Lucifer In Starlight”, is a many faceted piece and one aspect conjures up the magic of the night.  Hallowe’en, on 31st October, is thought to be the night when witches, fairies, devils and sundry mischief makers are stirring up trouble for the likes of you and me.  Leave out a pumpkin, turnip or mangold lantern to keep you safe from witches – and the dead.  There is no such deterrent available for May Day or Midsummer’s Eve – which are also times of great fairy power.  In Cornwall, Hallowe’en was known as “Allantide”.  Girls who hid a large pippin, or “Allan apple”, beneath their pillows would know from their dreams who their future husbands would be.  Magic indeed.  “The Ride of the Valkyries” by Wagner is good listening for Hallowe’en.

An early frost this month may blacken many flowers and then the year’s blooming will be over.  Not quite though - as after any good party there are always hangers-on, not least the piercing yellow of the evening primrose.

You won’t have to travel far at this time of the year to spot the fungi making the most of the autumn bounty.  Bracket fungi and the real baddy, honey fungus, are lethal for trees.  They are amazingly attractive to see but fierce in their intent.  The dryad’s saddle fungus attacks and kills the elm, a tree we all hope to reinstate in this country after the terrible Dutch Elm disease some years back.  Other fungi do not kill their host but merely live off the decaying debris in the woods and in the open countryside.  Autumn is a good time for them to reproduce because the weather tends to be humid but not too cold and the nights are getting longer so the fungi are less likely to dry out.  These are good fungi because they break down the natural litter in our countryside.

Pruning can be man’s way of helping Nature along.  Leaving a tree or shrub to struggle on into old age is rather like allowing a retired person to vegetate instead of encouraging him or her to do more.  With the trees and shrubs it seems negligent to dismiss them when a little cutting back can make them stronger and more fruitful.  George Herbert’s ingeniously constructed poem, “Paradise”, follows that theme and weaves in a message of hope.

There can be no other like Richard Jefferies when it comes to nature writing.  His style was his own and no one can adequately resemble it.  I remember reading his regret that,

“…..very few.. seem to appreciate the quiet beauty of this lovely country.”

Now there is hope that more holidays spent at home,  rather than abroad, may increase awareness of the beauty around us.  Very few now know the pleasantness of gathering nuts in October, but then very few have backs which feel as though they will break from potato harvesting by hand.  Jefferies, “the prose poet of England’s fields and hedgerows”, was writing in the late nineteenth century but his account of the countryside is so finely detailed that every little thing he noticed and described can be matched with October today:

“…..not a speck of yellow, red, or brown the yellow sunlight does not find out.  And these make autumn, with the caw of rooks, the peculiar autumn caw of laziness and full feeding, the sky blue as March between the great masses of dry cloud floating over, the mist in the distant valleys…”.

There have been terrible wars since Jefferies penned these words.  Beethoven’s Symphony No.9 in D minor is the well known “Choral”.  I think the 4th movement expresses both joy and love reflective of the mid-autumn days.  The whole symphony is a giant, so full of physical force and spiritual energy, truly symbolic of that October feeling, after summer and before the deeper, darker days of midwinter.

Time to squirrel away stores for Christmas; to string monkey nuts for the returning garden birds; to catch a falling leaf for luck; to watch the steam when you laugh on a cold morning; to revel in a month of amazing skyscapes and to

“…..see all, nor be afraid!” (Browning).

By: everylittlething

Written 24th September 2010

September, October, even November, make of the old year an illusionist. The abundance of autumn lifts the sombre mood as

“…when the silver habit of the clouds
Comes down upon the Autumn sun, and with
A sober gladness the old year takes up
His bright inheritance of golden fruits,
A pomp and pageant fill the splendid scene.”   (Longfellow)

Yesterday the true harvest moon coincided with the autumnal equinox and today September warns of winter. The outdoor thermometer reads seven degrees. Shaking the tablecloth is no longer an excuse to lazily wander along the garden path to see what’s what in the pots and borders. Time to hurry back indoors. A sharp north-easterly whisks the leaves into caramel sundaes in every corner of the garden.

“All is change in the world of the senses,
but changeless is the supreme Lord of Love.
Meditate on him, be absorbed in him,
wake up from this dream of separateness.”  (The Upanishads)

After planting dozens of spring bulbs last month, I found that one has dared to pierce the soil already. Brave fellow. Who knows what winter will have in store? But what an emblem of constancy as displayed in the natural world. In Egyptian mythology the god Osiris represents the power of the seed which has become buried in the soil but which is not yet ready to germinate. Such ancient stories mark the end of summer but are so intrinsically linked with the year that will come, one cannot be too melancholy. Harvest Festivals are a way of giving thanks at the same time as displaying faith and hope for the future.

Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur are important Jewish festivals in September. Rosh Hashanah marks the Jewish New Year and Yom Kippur is the Day of Atonement – a time for confessing and asking for God’s blessing during the coming year. This would seem remarkably sensible as potential life is everywhere within the bounty of the autumn. September is a good time to crave benediction on it.

The hop harvest is in full sway in the southern counties whilst cultivated sunflowers are filling the fields. These join forage maize and maincrop potatoes in creating an autumnal spread over the land. The sheep farmer is taking his rams to the ewes for spring lambing and the dairy farmer is kept busy with autumn calving. The swallows and martins have been availing themselves of the various wires and ledges around our house. They are gathering on the telephone wire just outside the back door. Pottering one day recently I heard such a lot of friendly chirping but couldn’t make out where it came from. Walking towards the back door I noticed a white line and realised it was a streak of bird droppings.  I looked up and there they were. They didn’t fly away from me. They just carried on with their organisational chatter. They reminded me of those groups of tourists one sees in Edinburgh and London. Jibber-jabber. Jabber-jibber. And then they’re gone.

I spotted another migrant earlier this month. It was a first for me. Initially it seemed to be a large decoration on top of a Christmas tree. I took out the binoculars to get a better look. I could see it but could not identify it. I knew what it wasn’t but didn’t know what it was. Back at home the bird books all came out. I was about to give up when, by chance, the book fell open on the osprey page. There it was. My find. I never expected to see one in Caithness, so never thought to check its details, but have since discovered that they do indeed come here and, in fact, someone is at present being sought for having killed one recently. Why couldn’t they have let it live?

The robin is back from his summer away in the fields and hedgerows. He is now a constant visitor and I don’t need to see his red breast to identify him. I can always recognise that lightness of flight into the holly, over the wall, to sit on top of Socrates, our ancient and venerable garden gnome who sees all and says nowt.

The bright clear autumn days are punctuated with hours, sometimes full days, of dark, lowering skies and the rain puckers the surface of the bird bath. Blackberries will rot in the rain if they are not harvested soon so, with care taken on roadsides, it is possible to gather fruit for dessert and, if you have the patience, for jelly.

John Clare’s poem, “Remembrances”, is perhaps as much for today as when he wrote it in the early nineteenth century. Some may say that his regret for the passing of a mode of existence is equalled today as more of the rural way of life disappears. It is a most beautifully written poem. When Clare wrote it, at the time of the Industrial Revolution, there was a major change in the landscape of Britain but now, almost two hundred years later, we do not have sufficient poetry regretting the loss of the countryside, in spite of the acceleration which has taken place in the recent past. I wonder if this is due to the fact that poets today feel impotent and unable to persuade as poets in the past have done. Clare likens the changes around him to “the cloudy days of autumn and of winter”, but in this poem he seems not to recognise that which lies dormant, waiting to live again. There is a new respect apparent now and it is heartening to observe the faith of the few in ploughing their furrows of preservation across Britain. A great deal is already lost – meadows, ancient woodland, hedgerows… but there is a wish to preserve for posterity that which remains. Efforts are being made to guarantee something of Clare’s countryside for future generations.

When the North Atlantic anticyclone holds temporary sway and spreads its influence north-eastwards we can bask in an Indian Summer. In September, should this happen, we may see a mist forming after sunset. Should the night be clear in September, there may be haloes forming around the moon when it is veiled by the ice-crystal cloud, cirrostratus:

“Last night the sun went pale to bed,
The moon in haloes hid her head.
T’will surely rain- I see with sorrow
Our jaunt must be put off tomorrow.”

This example of weather-lore has foundation as cirrostratus comes before a frontal depression – but not always – sometimes the front will give out before it rains on us. Listen to Chopin’s Nocturne No.2 in E flat and permit the moon her haloes.

So what is certain about September?For the hedgehog it is certainly the time to tank up. He, or she, must eat and eat and eat in the early autumn. His clocks tell him to lay down a thick layer of fat under his skin. This will act as a food supply through the winter months. Most of the fat a hedgehog makes in the summer is white fat which helps with insulation as well as being stored food, but the brown fat he deposits around his neck, shoulders and chest is very important in the biochemistry of hibernation. Brown fat is able to make heat twenty times faster than white fat. Go little hedgepig go.

The trees are releasing their dainty leaves. They drop, dance, dangle earthwards. The hedgehog doesn’t mind which trees they come from when he prepares his hibernaculum. The maples are shedding, and the chestnuts. The shiny brown seeds of the horse-chestnut provide ammunition for conker games. The horse-chestnut didn’t arrive in England until 1629 but the game seems as much a part of being English as cricket does. Time to listen to Josef Kosma’s “Les Feuilles Mortes”. The suitable English translation to “Autumn Leaves” sounds far more attractive than the actual translation. I must confess that my favourite recording is of Edith Piaf singing Mercer’s English lyrics. There is a brittle wistfulness which, I think, reflects the falling leaves.

Late September is lavish in its accoutrements. The elder bruises the hedgerows with a noble purple while the willows which edge the forests are tinged with yellow almost matching the cloth of gold draped over the silver birches. Rowan berries are stunning as the graceful tree goes into meltdown for the winter. The beech leaves have a powerful burnished patina brazenly boasting of high summer glories. Dvorak’s “Carnival Overture” has a rich mix of those glories and of the joy and excitement of an ongoing circle of life. Far too high-spirited to be mournful. Just so is September. The Native Americans believe that,

“We are part of the earth and it is part of us. The perfumed flowers are our sisters; the deer, the horse and the great eagle, these are our brothers. The rocky crests, the juices in the meadows, the body heat of the pony and man all belong to the same family.”

So, while the rose-hips and hawthorn berries produce excellent food for thrushes and their incoming relatives, the redwings and the fieldfares, we have our human calendar to remind us to expect less sunshine, more cold and damp as well as the opportunity to spot the signs of next year’s rebirth already on the hazel and spearing the soil where bulbs have revived. This is Nature showing her true September colours beneath the silver habit of the clouds.

By: everylittlething

Any journey I make just now is speckled with heather.  I can enjoy it from a railway carriage, from the car, and wandering along clifftops and moors; it even grows wild where you least expect it: at the edges of car parks and paths.  Neil Munro, in his poem to heather, clearly states that he would rather be homeless in the heather than be a king with no heather at his door:

“The stars might see me, homeless one and weary,
Without a roof to fend me from the dew,
And still content, I’d find a bedding cheery
Where’er the heather grew.”

The ling has tiny pink or white flowers the length of the stem.  The heather which prefers the damp is the cross-leaved and has larger and paler pink bells than the bell heather with its grouping of little globe flowers at the top of the stalk.

There is something ethereal about a landscape shimmering purple in the summer heat.  It seems that the Blessed Virgin, when she was taken up to heaven at The Assumption, her earthly life over, left behind her cloak to screen the land from blistering summer sun.

August air is frequently humid and so still that it feels there is something out there waiting to boom its threatening menace with an ear-splitting salutation.  Soon, however, there will be an autumn freshness in the air and the birds will respond to it with their music, sweeter for its recent absence.

The first half of August is sometimes known as the dog days.  People think of this period as being hot and dry and sometimes sultry.  The dog days are so called because they cover the time when Sirius, the Dog Star, rises and sets with the sun.

As the month progresses and high summer is over, each wonderfully golden day is rich as if it were jewelled – because there will be few now until the season comes again.  Last night, as the light had almost settled out at sea, it seemed that there never would be a cold winter evening ever again.  It seemed that the tiny bats tumbling around and over the stone walls would never have to go to sleep for the winter months.  The summer seemed permanent. Yet the mornings are already draped in tinselled spider webs and lawns enmeshed in silver gauze.

“Discovery” apples are appearing in the shops so it must be late August.
These little apples are delicious but are only available for a short time.  I bought four bags for £1 each yesterday.  Money well-spent if I store them carefully.

As well as early apples, plums are being harvested too.  Around us in Northern Scotland the grass silage has recently been cut again.  Across Britain arable crops are being harvested and, in some places, ploughing and seedbed cultivations are starting.  Soon the sowing of the next year’s arable crops will start.

The sheep farmer is busy with summer lamb sales and only the gardener may take a break.  After all the hard work through spring and into August, we can rest a while and enjoy the colour all around us.  The sedum will let us know when summer is over.  When the flowers turn to richest pink, then it is time to count the good days and hold them in our own time.  Dahlias are a late summer favourite and they are often big and bold, prolonging the thrill of colourful summer well into the autumn.

Earlier this week, a warm August evening called us to scramble around cairns and we were seriously bitten by insects.  Driving back through forest, over moorland and along the North Sea coast we flitted in and out of Scotch mist – heartstoppingly beautiful as it wreathed the dips and hollows in an eerie light.  Cows with no legs took it in their invisible stride and little black bunnies stood out far better than their grey relatives.

We were less successful two weeks ago when we ventured out in the dark to view the Northern Lights.  No matter where we drove, the clouds rolled across the skies so that the display promised by that great fabricator, The Media, was always hidden; but I was put in mind of the opening verse of Wordsworth’s “The Complaint”:

“In sleep I heard the northern gleams;
The stars they were among my dreams;
In sleep did I behold the skies,
I saw the crackling flashes drive;”.

The diurnal skies are full of movement: no longer parent birds frantically trying to assuage their little ones but now the little ones, full grown, particularly the swallows and martins, are feeding fast to tank up for their southward journey in the early autumn.  The swifts, those mighty hunters who scored the summer skies, have gone.  Play Elgar’s “Enigma” variations on an original theme, opus 36, number 9.  It is a good time to listen to “Nimrod” whilst you watch the Clan Hirundine clear the heather-scented August air of those horrible little biting insects.  Heroes!

Lucky white heather was once the thing to fasten to the front of your motor car.  It wouldn’t turn it into Chitty Chitty Bang Bang but lucky white heather means happiness and good fortune.  Queen Elizabeth the Queen Mother had white heather planted around her apple trees hoping for good harvests.  A bride may choose white heather to wear in her hair or to have in her bouquet.  White heather is less common in southern Scotland than in the north and the local people there believe that it marks the places where fairies gather.

One of the saddest things about August is The Glorious Twelfth when grouse-shooting begins.  As the grouse families feed on the heather shoots and the bees hum around them, taking nectar from the flowers, the cacophony begins.  An ugly sound.  It is said that the pink and purple heather is always in mourning, not for the grouse, but for the Picts slaughtered in battle.  Their blood, it is said, stains the heather.  It will not grow on the graves of those killed at Culloden in 1746.  I wonder if it grows on the graves of those slaughtered AFTER Culloden as Cumberland indiscriminately wiped out old men, women, children and livestock.

One does not forget those who have lived and died nor should one forget the cruelty of one’s fellows.  It is not healthy to pretend these things never occurred.  We will stagnate as a species should we not learn from such pogroms.  After about fifteen years the heather moors begin to reach stagnant maturity; it is then that they are burned, allowing fresh herbs to come through and new growth of the heather.  Overburning is as bad as not burning at all.  So it is with man: a zealot can tip the scales the wrong way for mankind.  There is a positive lesson for the learning from crushing cruelty.

Summer marches to rendezvous with autumn.  August carries her banner into September and does not

“….go gentle into that good night.”   (Dylan Thomas)

The glory of summer will close ranks with splendid autumn at the time of the equinox and then is seen to

“….rage against the dying of the light.”   (Thomas)

Time for Elgar yet again.  What could be more fitting, at this stage of the year, than his “Pomp and Circumstance Military March” number 1 in D major.

Do not mourn the passing of summer.  She has gone away for a while and will visit again.  The lessons she has taught will serve man well.

By: everylittlething

You showed me pansies, poppies in cornfields and perky petunias parading in ordered borders.  You showed me lambs of an April evening and ladybirds homeward bound to rescue Ann from underneath the frying pan.  And now I know there is a mystery to it all.

“But now ‘tis little joy
To know I’m farther off from Heaven
Than when I was a boy.”  (Thomas Hood)

June bestowed a complete cleansing, freshness, purity, newness.  July uses all of these to her advantage and, rather like an impetuous teenager, burns out copious benisons.  Naivety kept pure those early gifts but the heat and dust of summers make of us artful adults – for now we learn to survive.

Juvenile birds and mammals are playing the survival game all around us in July.  Some fail.  In July young toads are leaving ditches in large numbers.  Not all will arrive safely at their destination.  Frog tadpoles are getting their back legs.  They have no parental support.  The lessons of nature seem cruel.

Temperatures can reach the high twenties in July but they can be dismally low too.  These islands are at the crossway of three atmospheric pressure systems.  The major influence in July is the area of high- pressure to the south-west of Britain called the “Azores centre”.  As the hot July sun heats the land, the air above rises in thermals.  The developing clouds then let go often violent thunderstorms.  Gusty winds can be a problem too.  On arriving home, not a week ago, after our summer holiday, I found myself sweeping up leaves, which had been whipped from the trees.  There were plant-pots to be rectified and not just a little staking to do.

As I moved the herbs in their pots, I found a young frog, maybe last year’s, not very big, and I started scheming.  He must have come through a hole in the wall but I could give him joy here.  I was reminded of John Woolridge, writing in the seventeenth century,

“…a fair stream or current flowing through or near your garden adds much to the glory of it.”

But then the bomb dropped – well it was what I expected really:

“You do realise that frogs make an excellent meal for gulls, don’t you?”

Of course they do.  It’s a food chain thing.  I said that I did and that was that.  I gave up – or so they think.  Have spade, will dig.  I’ve read Stefan Buczacki.  Together he and I can come up with something.  Maybe a water lily (nymphaea) so that my froglet can grow to full size on a lily pad.  I picture groups of whirligig beetles circling each other and pond skaters and water boatmen.

But today, with a rapid increase in shop prices for vegetables, perhaps I should be planning to grow tomatoes, French beans, courgettes and new potatoes next year.  I could grow all of these in pots with little effort really.  In July it seems that nature can perform any miracle I ask of it.  The farmer is harvesting – not just barley and wheat, but also salad vegetables and soft fruit as well as peas.  He is baling straw for winter.  In the hot July sun he is glad of the help he obtains from modern technology.  He cannot take his holiday now – if at all – but many who are not involved in agriculture do.  The countryside seems drowsy:

“Summertime and the living is eeeeazzzzy”

Farming fraternity excluded.

The tree canopies in our square are gloriously developed.  Throughout Britain, children are building dens or erecting wigwams as a place of their own for the holidays.  Trees are already a hive of activity without the children, buzzing things such as wasps, bees and hoverflies are everywhere.  So turf out the insect repellent from the back of the medicine cupboard.

Poppies pepper the cornfields and the sides of newly opened roads, in the freshly turned earth.  When the field of Waterloo was ploughed, million of poppies sprang up very quickly.  This happened in the last century too:

“In Flanders fields where poppies grow
Between the crosses, row on row.”

Poppies are now considered to be the flower of remembrance although rosemary also claims the title.  Poppies are a source of opium and Somnus, the mythological god of sleep, created them for Ceres.  Her cornfields were neglected as she searched for her daughter.  After an opium-induced sleep, Ceres resumed her duties and the crop revived.

Although much significance is attached to the cheerful summer poppy, the rose is also synonymous with summer.  Red roses and white roses are the best remembered but there are many shades of other beautiful colours besides: oranges, yellows, pinks, mauves.  I have never been able to grow a sturdy blue rose and, even when a bush I had flowered for several summers, it was not truly blue but pale purple.

Shakespeare knew of the short lease of summer:

“Sometimes too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimmed:
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature’s changing course, untrimmed . . .”

Bizet’s “La fleur que tu m’avais jetee” (The Flower Song from Carmen) ties in nicely with the point Shakespeare makes here.  July, personified, may be as a loud, provocative gypsy with flashing smile and enticing mannerisms but it cannot be relied upon to be consistently good and certainly not to remain. The thistledown disappearing through a summer’s day symbolises many holiday romances.

Head for the coast, as one does when school has ended, through the moorland, and search out the heather just coming into blossom.  You will be followed by the curlews and lapwings which nested on the moors and will be joined by them at the seaside.  Waiting for you there, unmistakably pied, will be the oyster- catchers.  Their other name is “sea magpies” which I think reflects, not only their markings, but also their interest in absolutely anything left on the beach.  The seashore offers such variety.  The creatures which live there divide into three groups.  There are those which hunt other creatures in order to survive, those which scavenge and those which live on plant- growth from the shore.

A rich island, ours, with shore and moor and wood and field.  We have it all in July.  We had it all in infancy, perhaps we missed some as we grew, but now, as formed and failing full-growns, we imbibe the spirit of July, quaffing, ingesting until sleep reminds us of past persons in our dreams:

“All stars stand close in summer air,
And tremble, and look mild as amber;
When wicks are lighted in the chamber
You might say stars were settling there.”  (Leonie Adams)

Summer is a state of mind.  Listen to Ketelbey’s “Bells across the meadow” and all your summers will settle softly on you now.

By: everylittlething

Perhaps we all are.  Cairns are connectors of people, of times, of landscapes.  How connected we would wish to be may well denote how cuckoo we are.  Moving relentlessly forward can deny the senses and yet it appears to be the way.  Exit for a while, indulge in a little time travel and connect with the cuckoos amongst the cairns.

One day this June an expedition set out to walk the Yarrows archaeological trail.  We didn’t all complete the full circuit but we all heard the cuckoo.  We left behind roadworks, ringing tills and televised football and we connected with the cuckoos.  People seldom get a glimpse of this crafty parasite but its call is unmistakable.

Earlier this month happy times were spent on the still-chilly beaches around home.  The dunes support an amazing variety of late spring flowers and make good hunting ground for the hen harrier.  Beach excursions tempt me to create my own aquarium, beginning with a collection of lovely stones and green seaweeds – but it would be rather cruel to add living creatures as they could not exist there for any length of time.  Imprisonment, no matter what provisions are made for comfort, can be a life-draining experience for any vital organism.
June on the water gave us a chance to identify a pod of dolphins, seals and seabirds by the score.  Various skuas, terns and gulls as well as kittiwakes, fulmars, guillemots and the funny little puffins, were all showing off for the camera.

Every little thing that breathes, moves or photosynthesises pays homage to June, the “queen of months”, named after Juno, the roman goddess.  June is the month of butterflies, it is the rose month.  June offers to us the longest day, a garland of wildflowers, a profusion of baby birds begging beleaguered parents for titbits.

The recent damp weather in this corner of the country has increased the insect activity which in turn has spurred on the swallows and martins.  They cut through the square, so low, so lovely, so much a symbol of the new-born summer.  In and out of the trees they flit, bat-like, scything the sweet good air.

As we top our weekly grocery trolley with fresh strawberries and gooseberries as well as lettuce which is not limp but, owing to the season, has taste, the farmer is out hay-making and taking another cut of silage for winter feeding.  This opens up the fields for the curlews, oyster-catchers and lapwings as well as for the black headed gulls with their lipstick bills.

In June, until now, the New Agricultural Wages Order has fixed minimum wages for farm workers.  With a new government this may have changed.  Tory-led government traditionally favours the farming fraternity so watch that space.

Farmers are looking towards next year already, in the middle of this year, as they put the bull amongst the cows.  Both dairy and beef cows are mated in June for spring calving.

The hedgerows foam with elderflowers which I once heard described as “creamy curds”.  I have never come across a better description for this delicate bloom, frothy emblem of summer.  There are many superstitions and sayings which are linked with the elder.  It is said, for example, that summer begins with elderflowers and ends with elderberries.  I have also heard that elderflowers are a sign that there will be eight weeks before the farmer brings in the harvest.  Elder, although much maligned, has some wonderful uses – not least in homemade wines – and one such use I have recently seen in the gardens at the Castle of Mey.  Here it is used as part of a sheltering system to allow the more delicate plants to develop and thrive on the northern coast of Scotland.

Richard Jefferies, with whom everyone in tune with the natural world will find a link, once wrote:

“If we had never before looked upon the earth, but suddenly came to it man or woman grown, set down in the midst of a summer mead, would it not seem to us a radiant vision?”

He goes on to describe the meadow in his wonderful poetic prose with such grace and gratitude.

Some people – famous people included – believe that talking to plants helps them to flourish.  I’m not sure whether that is the case but, in the same way one would not pass by a chance to give life-supporting help to a fellow human being, one would want to try every possible thing to encourage a plant to grow.  As we have a responsibility towards those whose lives touch our own, we are also obliged to do all we can to keep alive hope for our countryside.  It has changed over millennia, it is changing now and it will continue to change but what is most important is that it remains.  Vita Sackville-West said,

” . . . no gardener would be a gardener if he did not live in hope.”

This is also true of our relationship with the natural world.  We love the countryside.  We live in hope for the countryside.  We live in hope for the world.  Respect is crucial.

Matthew Arnold in “Thyrsis” writes,

“. . . . . . . . . . ‘Destiny,
Prolong the present!
Time, stand still here!’ ”

A day in June is crying out to be preserved but we cannot preserve it.  We can only respect it and may commit it to memory.  The world changes but it will remain while we live in hope and respect.  In pre-Christian times June was a time for praising and beseeching. Today we call it prayer.  There are numerous saints’ days in June, including Saint John the Baptist on Midsummer’s Day, 24th, so this is a significant month for spiritually connecting with those who have bravely walked this earth before us.  The Qur’an tells us to,

“Adore your guardian lord who created you,
and those who came before you,
that you may have the chance
to learn righteousness.”

June invites us along that path.  Get out and love your world as it is now.  There’s no need to improve on nature.  It simply demands respect.  On the Yarrows archaeological trail, the walker is asked to:

“PLEASE respect the farmer’s privacy and work by not taking photographs or drawing pictures of him, his family or his buildings, leaving gates and fences as you found them, and taking care not to disturb the animals.”

Nature demands a greater respect from us.  Sometimes we call it “seeing the bigger picture”.  Seeing, hearing, smelling, touching and relating – relating to, and relating our experience of, the natural world is going to secure a marvellous cathedral in which all generations will be free to worship in the future – to shout appreciation from the hilltops.  Autumn arias, winter canons, spring songs and summer music.
Summer music can be such fun.  I remember Mungo Jerry’s “In the Summertime” with a smile as it brings to mind summers when rain was absolutely forbidden.  It wasn’t really quite like that of course.  Crucial summer listening includes Mendelssohn’s “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” as well as the first movement of Beethoven’s Pastoral Symphony.  Music for June evenings without a doubt.  Music by which to watch the daisies close their petals – the common daisy whose petals were tinged with pink after the Virgin Mary pricked her fingers whilst gathering flowers for the little Jesus.  The ox-eye daisy is sacred to Saint John the Baptist so the daisy family is well represented in the Christian appreciation of June.

Last week I bowed to a rose – it was growing in the garden of a dear departed centenarian.  The fragrance was out of this world – in her world – but the rose was here.  Baboushka knows, in her seeking, that time means nothing in the search for things that are real.  Who amongst us is cuckoo enough to indulge in a little time travel – to exit for a while and connect?  As Francis Kilvert said,

“It is a fine thing to be out on the hills alone.  A person can hardly be a beast or a fool alone on a great mountain.”

By: everylittlething

A man on a mission once told a young girl that she was like a May morning.  And so the Robin Hood legend was rekindled through television.

What girl wouldn’t want to be told that she is like a May morning?  A May morning conjures up filigree leaves casting hints of lime over patient trees.  It brings to mind Queen Anne’s Lace tinselling the hedgerows which have waited so long for royalty to parade.  A morning in May flutters with sunbeams and throws them back at clouds which dare to splatter the blue.  And what a May morning must have been like in the vast medieval Sherwood Forest, I can only imagine.

A deciduous woodland is full of birdsong in May.  So much food is available at this time of the year so birds are pelting through perfect May mornings in the go forth and prosper stakes.  May days are rich in offering.  For us, as observers, a sprinkling of sparrows on the lawn may turn out to be a family with triplets on their maiden flight, having stopped off at the fast food outlet under the bird table where scraps have been flicked down by a family of starlings – perhaps also out for the first jaunt of spring.  Life and new life.

Where the leaves are still scant, there are buds waiting to make their May debut.  At the top of the sycamores, all maples in fact, the twigs which seemed dead are now offering to the heavens their newest buds and we share the joy which rises up from the tree’s roots, through the trunk, grey with age, and along the branch system to the very tip.  It brings to mind those photographs in the local newspapers of several generations of one family.  Continuity.  Perpetuity.

Until recently I believed, as I was told, that a pine forest is quite a sterile environment.  It isn’t.  Perhaps it is not so brash in delivery as deciduous woodland but there is a delicacy of wealth instead.  I was told to expect little in the way of birdsong.  That wasn’t what I experienced.  The little birds such as goldcrests, wrens, coal tits and siskins pepper the spring with sound.  Their larger neighbours, the robin, song thrush, jay and woodpigeon join the oratorio.

In clearings deciduous trees have been given space and, at their feet, a carpet of spring flowers.  There are geraniums, campion and ivy-leaved toadflax, all cheerful dainty ladies of the spring court.

In May, the month of Mary, many of our garden birds have left for the broadleaved woodlands and the hedgerows.  In winter there, food is scarce, but by late spring it becomes plentiful again.  If ever there was a month which sent out positive signals to a sceptical world, it is May.  Again and again.  The birds nest again.  The trees bud again.  The flowers bloom again.  The days lengthen again.  Again and again. Continuity.  Perpetuity.

As Roethke said, “Deep in their roots, All flowers keep the light.”  American, Australian or Austrian; poet, ploughman or printer: the seasons circle all our lives with constancy.  Maybe one year spring will come earlier, maybe late – but spring will come.

May was seen in the past as a time of judgement.  Until the late nineteenth century, groups of people would creep around their settlements early on a May morning with the sole purpose of honouring “good masters, good neighbours and pretty maids”.  They would leave sprigs of plants on the doors of people they knew.  If you received a nettle or blackthorn, you knew that you were unpopular – you probably had a good idea already, mind you.  If you were approved of, it would be hawthorn.  If you found a piece of briar, it was known that you were a liar.  Holly, rhyming with folly, meant just that.  If you were left gorse, then your reputation was in tatters.  I would be one step ahead of them, I’m sure, as I would have fixed a huge branch of hawthorn to my door before retiring on the previous evening.

Years ago, May was a month of magic.  The tradition of dancing around a maypole is linked with tree worship.  The ribbons which are taken around the pole are meant to represent energy from the sun.  As they become wound round, they are then representative of the unending cycle of growth.

Poets have, for centuries, recorded their gratitude for the fecundity of the earth at this stage of the year.  Tennyson clearly loved the trill of the lark in his Lincolnshire fields.  The lark, laverock in Scotland, has such a liquid warble of a song that it can make you quiver with joy – especially if you see the bird’s vertical ascent at the same time as hearing its music.  This is reflected in Vaughan Williams’ “Lark Ascending”.  Tennyson however, compares the lark’s lonely solo with the ringing of woodland:

“Now rings the woodland loud and long
The distance takes a lovelier hue
And drowned in yonder living blue
The lark becomes a sightless song.”

Ivor Novello wrote some memorable songs in the first half of the twentieth century.  “Music in May”, sung by Penelope Lee during a singing lesson in Act 1 of “Careless Rapture” is one such.  I think Novello enjoyed May particularly as another famous song is “We’ll Gather Lilacs” which was sung by Veronica in “Perchance to Dream”.  The concept of different generations seeking enduring love, which Novello uses in “Perchance to Dream”, is also the concept in “Maytime” by Romberg.  The link is in the three words, seeking, enduring and love. Birds are seeking nourishment for their young and plants are seeking the sun which, with the moon and tides, endures and demonstrates endurance with such rounded generosity.  And Love labours for us so that we are not lost, as the doom and gloom merchants would have you believe.  Notice the effect of light racing to the woodland floor from the heavens or a single ray from the sun as it points to the earth and you have identified the connection which empowers earthlings, expecting nothing.  Weeds grow in wheat fields but wheat is still produced.  Nature remains positive.

May is the month when prolificacy knows no bounds. There may be rain but that only encourages the productive earth, fairly bursting with riches.  Earth enduringly spins on its own axis, giving us, in a day, the brightness sought by the life around us and, by night, the dark and moist times needed by so many creatures and growing things.  At night the water vapour, produced in the daytime by warmed air, will fall as dew when the air temperature has dropped.  John Clare gave us the line, “the insect world amid the suns and dew”.  He gives us a true image of a place for everything and, with this line, tempts me to write a fantasy about what goes on down there in the undergrowth.  If I were really clever I would include shades of Kafka just to heighten awareness – or terrify.  The other night I switched on the light outside the back door to look for the cat.  There were innumerable insects and slugs mostly at ground level, just moving around in circles.  I remembered that, until that morning, I had some fruit and vegetable peelings in a covered plantpot there – waiting to go underneath some small curcumis plants when I potted them on.  There must have been some leakage on the path as the invaders kept returning to the place where the pot had been.  There is no waste in the world of nature.  But many dark secrets.

That is how it has always been and we have always played our part.  In Sherwood Forest now, as long ago, the hawthorn slips in amongst the taller trees, delighting country folk and all who give Nature its rightful place.  Hawthorn’s May blossom evokes the first days of summer.  Shakespeare held the hawthorn in high regard:

“Gives not the hawthorn bush a sweeter shade
To shepherds, looking on their silly sheep,
Than doth a rich embroider’d canopy
To kings that fear their subjects’ treachery?”

The woodlands join the hedgerows, the fields, the ditches, the moorland, our gardens, the cliffs and seashore in eagerness to crowd our world with life.  Life stirs everywhere.  The Green Man is on a mission, lifting the hearts of girls, whether two or one hundred and two.  Marion is waiting for all her heroes, legendary or otherwise, “with a glory in her eyes”.