In Drowsy Wakefulness
As I arrive at this special place I reflect back to when the magic of nature breathed heavy on my mind, when it first felt the fall of my feet and where daisies and buttercups gladdened my sight.
As I begin my journey, I can see the golden husks containing the swelling grain of the upright wheat as it waves, nods, and trembles in the breeze where butterflies flit from stem-to-stem opening and closing their wings to soak up the summer sun. Where the bees and the birds give forth a mesmerising tune along with the buzzing murmurous haunt of the flies. By the edge land where the countryside meets the sea runs the brook where I take a moment to watch the little fish feeding in the weeds in flumes by the waterfall looking like tresses of flowing blond hair.
Ambling along the winding path I came across a man aged and forlorn sitting on a bench in drowsy wakefulness. Perhaps the advance of his years had marked the beginning of a mellower phase of his life, I stop to chat. He has freckles and a bristling beard but his pale blue eyes captivate me like nothing ever has, they appear to have a story all of their own and I find myself wondering if I could be a part of the story too. He tells of a hectic lifestyle in London and how he and his wife retired to this quiet Devon haven to be by the sea. “One day here in Lympstone is worth a month in town” he says.
My rapt silence indicates my lust to learn more from him as I listen to his reservoir of knowledge. This kind and gentle man had both humility and grace. As the hour slides softly away, our minds begin to intertwine like a Venn diagram, as it seems we both share a common interest, a kindred spirit. He then speaks about his disability and how at times it would begin to over master him. When the tides of life run against him with his spirit downcast and low, he would frequent this wonderful place. However, he believes that some pain and discomfort through life is necessary as it affirms one’s worthiness in their chosen art. But in this thoughtful moment I held back for I too share this belief. Our conversation draws to a timely end and he asks my name, “Bob” I reply, “and I am Matteo.” We shake hands and go our different ways. As time moves gently on, I hear the sonic connoisseur sound of the woodpecker which brings me back to where I’m meant to be.
But now the day must have her night and as sundown begins, a muted orange ball beneath a bronze fringe of clouds sets out before me in the hollow of the night. Nothing matches the sublime ephemeral beauty of the celestial mist across the estuary. Suddenly a young fox appears and checks his watch by the stars. He surveys the area with his curious busy eyes then disappears into the night without a trace.
The rabbits on the outward fringes of the woods will now be left alone to nibble the tender salad tips of the brambles thus preventing them travelling too far and taking over many acres of precious farmland. The bramble bushes will grow thicker and more productive because of their intervention thus ensuring a better crop of fruits which are enjoyed by many of the forest inhabitants. It was the Normans that first brought them here for food unaware that their presence in the future would be of great value helping to keep a balance in the conservation of the countryside. The blackberries are now ripe and drooping, their scent lingering heavy on the air. In late August after heavy rain and much sun the fruits will become sweet like thickened wine.
Where the grassy meadows run in waves, here be-spangled amidst the grassy stalks is the amorous green light of the wingless female glow worm. They are like earthly stars but as I gently touch her soft body her light is omitted but the impatient damsel’s light quickly returns just as the winged male known as the fire fly sees her amorous fire, and true to her signal he is led. Once mated she extinguishes her lamp, but later after laying her eggs like the briefest flicker of a candle in an eternal darkness she fades and dies. Only the young feed in their larval state, feasting on slugs as they paralyse them with their venomous bite sucking them dry.
The bats are now hunting softly over the fields as noiseless as a snowflake as they leave their lair to hunt for food. However, the male firefly being faintly luminous is recognised as being distasteful to the bats and profits from their luminosity. This place is like a magnet drawing you in, a soothing ointment healing the many scars of life. I believe the solitude in this wonderful place is more powerful than you can ever imagine and I will return sometime soon to discover more of its magical delights.
This southern gem is all gifted, a pandora’s box. The rarer the pleasure, the sweeter it becomes, for all natures ways are mysteries, it is natures wonder and her makers will.
