By the Streamside
As I walk the hills and follow a little path that recedes to the point where two paths blur and join, I hear the sound of a man’s voice. His voice is urgent as he calls his dog but yet he is trying not to be seen. He has white bushy eyebrows which give him a severe owlish gaze. I say hello as we pass but his voice is tainted with suspicion, he then lapses into protracted silence. His head bowed low, he misses the moods, sounds and beauty of his surroundings and I wonder why he frequents this beautiful place. However, his Jack Russell dog ‘Rippit’ is excited to be here as he runs back and forth and is far more approachable than his master.
As I look down at the village below, I can see the meadow rich in wild flowers, a remnant of English flora on a scale that is now so rare. I make my way down towards a row of stone cottages which have a kind of hollyhock sweetness about them. The stonework has mellowed over time and looks as much a part of the landscape as the partridge that rustles in the hedgerows close by. I am drawn to the sound of water flowing nearby, for where water flows there is ever life.
It is now early June and where the stream ripples merrily along its rocky bed, the streamside is wild and lovely. However, having stonework on either side of the bank tells me of a dam that once barred its current, but amidst the stonework growing out of the small cracks and holes in the wall, white and red valerian, yellow fumitory, and pennyroyal soften the scene of this wild and endearing place. In the waters below the stately butterbur, wild parsley and the beautiful tall mare’s tails create a wonderful scene, a place where the dipper, the water ouzel along with the grey wagtail hunt under the gnarled lichened apple trees. I watch the dipper as he bows and curtsies whilst hunting for the mayflies that dance on gauzy wings. But the may fly’s life is short and sweet, and the carnival will soon be over.
In the shelter of a large rock is a yearling brown trout who may have endured more dangers in his short life than any person in a lifetime. In autumn he will seek out a female to become his wife, however, if another male makes advances to her, a battle Royale will commence. I become filled with an ecstatic sense of being exactly where I want to be. Whether sauntering the country lanes, ambling along the edge lands or watching the flow of a little stream I would yearn for my footsteps on the path into the same ‘plashy mire’ of wisdom.
But now as the country side becomes veiled in darkness the clove-like scent of the white campion and the heady perfume from the twining canopies of wild honeysuckle (woodbine) lingers heavily in the air attracting many male moths that begin to lek, a dance to attract a secretive female, but I also watch in wonder the bats that are attracted by the moth’s moon dancing but later retreat in a mysterious and wonderful way and elude my guesses.
In the dim starlit distance, the fox’s cries were borne and repeated, in the sky above three gulls sailed over, one above the other like stars in Orion’s belt.
These charms of nature enable me to see through the mist with inexpressible completeness and beauty, for Mother Nature makes all things new, highlighting the need to keep our hearts and minds responsive to her whispers and pearls of wisdom.
