a winter’s tale
On a late winter’s morning as the mist laden air softens the sound of the traffic, the wailing of the lapwings banishes the gloom. I am haunted by the ghosts of the reed buntings which no longer frequent the hedgerows, for the hedgerows have been mercilessly punished year upon year by mechanical hedge cutting, which exposes their nesting sites to predation. With a little more thoughtfulness of their basic needs I feel they may return in years to come. However, the grace and beauty of the lapwings with their balletic beauty will lift anyone’s spirit. Amidst the flailed clippings of the hawthorn is the home of the field mouse, the red mouse of the meadow. I read the promise of their appearance and silently wait. Suddenly a little wren appears and I am spellbound by its insistent loud song far beyond its size, as this beautiful bird follows me still singing blissfully I become entranced by its sweetness.
As I walked along the lane I could hear the sound of the brook, with each flood its turbid waters gorge the earthy bank and puts out the roots of the old trees, and it flows along with a fresh cargo of silt carrying with it a fern frond looking like a little green dragon. This stream is like the act of living, the act of flowing, if it is dammed it will sadly die. Like water people need to flow freely for the flow of water has much to teach us.
I paused for a moment and breathed out slowly and allowed my thoughts to drift away back to Rocky but I will continue my small discretion here to talk about him. Rocky was a gigantic beauty, head high and wide between his finely flexible ears, with eyes well apart and full of sparkling wickedness, for he loved to play like a young colt, his well-built limbs would tremble with pleasure and his tail dusting the ground as we walked these lanes together over many years. Sadly Rocky passed away on the 29th October this year, he was in his twenty eighth year and the pain was immense. I was suddenly snapped out of my daydream when a young mother approached with a baby crying; she softly cushions him and rocks him into a billowy drowse. Not a word passed between us, just a gentle smile.
By the streamside where the water flows there is ever life, a world of adventure just waiting to be explored. A large rock overhangs the water where a great clump of grass and moss lies, this being the home of the dipper, the water ouzel, its roof overhanging the entrance to keep out the rain.
As I made my way to the lakeside pleasure spot where families enjoyed the late winter sun I watched the waterfowl with their many wing-whipped splashes trade their beauty for food. The squirrels came from all sides and rippled across the grass. Below the surface of the lake a movement breaks the stillness and a water vole appears swimming many meters before it puts up its nose to breathe, for my eyes have been trained like a Kestrel since early childhood to seek out and notice wildlife.
Here is where I witness the intimate portraits of common creatures, the ongoing dramas of the natural world. What a thrill discovering a secret magical world, just me the mammals and the birds in the twilight, but as I pause to look back over the fields, dusk was sneaking overhead. I started to make my way back home as the fields would soon be cloaked in a velvety darkness. In the skies above the voice of the goose could be heard, its voice is trumpet-like and clanking, the very same sound that was responsible for awakening the citizens and saving the capital of Rome.
As I walked along through the twilight with my breath condensing into clouds in the wintery air, the ground glistening beneath my feet and the trees coated with frost, the transparent icicles of winter hanging from their boughs and softly crackling in the breeze, my thoughts once again turned to my beloved Rocky.
One wintery afternoon as we walked along these lanes accompanied by another horse and rider, the wintery sun low in the sky, the loud chatter of the birdsong ceased and everywhere fell ghostly silent. Rocky suddenly stopped, his ears twitching back and forth. I tried to kick him on but he stood fast. I knew something was amiss. After a moment or two he turned, his pace was fast and constant. He whinnied to the other horse and we swiftly made for home. There was a snow storm brewing and he knew it was on its way. Only a few minutes later the snow began to fall, it was thick and heavy, and within a short while we couldn’t see the ground. Rocky bowed his head against the downpour and dug in, making his way back home as fast as he could. Flint tucked in behind him and kept pace with Rocky. His constant huffing all the way back to his stable reassured me that we would be alright. When we arrived back at the farm we were cloaked in snow and there as a deep covering all around, a Laplandian scene lay across the undulating countryside. I keep these wonderful memories locked firmly in my heart and I am reminded of him every step I take.
In these wonderful snatches of time, slowly but surely you would find a measure of peace inside yourself of which would spread a passion for the greater understanding and appreciation for the natural world. I shall here take a respectful leave of you and wish you all a safe and happy Christmas.
Image credit: Joanna Kosinska on Unsplash
