Category: Nature Writing

Close encounters of the winged kind

This week I have been getting entirely too close to nature, or rather, it has been entering my personal space to different degrees of acceptance from me. But before all that, I have just trodden on a slug – with bare feet! That would be me with the bare feet, of course, not the slug although I guess their one foot is always bare. Anyway, that is how my week ended with regard to wildlife interaction. Squishy.

Earlier in the week I was undertaking the all-too-regular event of trying to get one, the other or both of the cats in for the evening. We keep them in overnight these days which is much better all round: better for us having less vets bills to pay from all the night time scrapping, better for the cats as they have less injuries from all the night time scrapping and better for all the other wildlife as there is less night time killing.

On this night, small cat had evaded our early calls and had taken himself off on a long hike. Either that or he was deploying the tactic big cat uses which is to sit a mere few feet away, hidden and absolutely ignoring our calling and cat treat rattling. But it was a warm night and had become that wonderful time when all the crepuscular creatures head out for foraging, courting and the ever popular night time scrapping. As I stood calling to the small beast I was given a close fly-by by a bat. We get at least one on most nights at this time of year and its lovely to see them lapping the garden. I think I must have been in its flight path though, and I’m sure I could feel it touch lightly as it flew by. I love bats, so this was not a problem.

The next morning, I was sitting outside with a hot water and lemon for a bit of fresh air before starting work for the day. Tucked away with jasmine and honeysuckle behind me, buddleia and a eucalyptus to the left and a plum tree to the right I was nestled neatly among flora. Which is perhaps why a beetle was unable to navigate around me in time and came and gave me a bumbling headbutt before making its awkward flight away. This encounter was fine also. In the same place and only a few moments later a female blackbird skimmed my head having taken off from the fence behind the jasmine. I think she was more startled than I was. (I could not help but think of Carl Bovis, a nature photographer I follow on Twitter who posts amazing pictures of birds in flight with wings and legs tucked in and looking as if they had been pointedly thrown at him by his enemies.) But, a low-flying bird is also quite alright with me.

What was not alright was my next encounter of the week. After a spot of gardening I put my jogging bottoms back on and was having a nice chat with MOTH in the kitchen when all of a sudden I felt a rather painful stab on my bottom (left cheek, if you needed to know). Discarding the joggers to investigate it became clear that there was a wasp in there and the little git had just stung me. This was not alright. I was not best pleased in the least. MOTH was very good and managed to stop from outright laughing for some time, including when I lay down and asked him to put an apple cider vinegar soaked cotton pad on the, ahem, area. (By the way, this absolutely works for wasp stings to bring down the redness and itching.) Three days on and I can still feel it, but its ok, you can all laugh, even I find it funny – until I sit down.

Hips, Haws and Fairy Wings

Red and green should never be seen, says…well, it seems perhaps no-one. It is one of those phrases that many of us have heard and yet the origins seem to be somewhat muddy. It might be purely about fashion; that it was considered the two colours just didn’t complement each other. But, it seems as many people know the phrase as blue and green, so down that road we can insert any colour as the one not to be seen with green. There is also a view that it refers to the lights on a ship, green on the starboard side and red on the port meaning that, if you can see these colours when out in your own boat, you may well be headed on a collision course.

But, as it always does, nature defies the rules (whatever they may be) and red and green are often seen – and very pleasingly so. I took a five-minute sit outside after work today. The weather wasn’t particularly pleasant but I find I desperately need at least a few minutes outside a day to feel (vaguely) human. Armed with a warm drink* I sat out by our small pond and noticed that the seasons were showing their turning. Tangled waterfalls of red berries and green leaves are draping from the hawthorn trees. Towering
over my head and reaching almost down to the floor, they are like a vertical carpet of nature having a go at pointillism.

Behind me, a rose has gone to hip. I play the game, each year, of trying to balance the dead-heading of flowers to prolong the blooms coming out, but also leaving enough to turn to hips, because the birds love them so. I have made rosehip tea in the past, collecting, cutting, scraping out the insides and drying the hips and it was tasty – but, a lot of not very pleasant work. The inside of a rosehip is filled with prickly, sticky hairs and they all have to be removed or will be an irritant when drinking. It takes a long time to prepare so many fiddly little hips and I know from experience that I don’t really have the patience.

The honeysuckle flowers are all pretty much all gone now but the tiny, shiny red berries punctuate the long meandering tendrils. It doesn’t seem to matter how much or when I cut this particular honeysuckle back, it soon
swamps everything around it. The weeping crab apple tree is also in fruit now -and occasionally cat. (Big cat is a climber and it is not unusual to look out of the window and see his head peeping out from the top of the tree.)

And there is more to come, the pyracantha (the spiny, spikey, flesh-ripping beast that it is) will keep the blackbirds in snacks all winter and of course, the holly will be ready to decorate the house at Christmas time.

But we also have a scattering of fairy wings in what I (optimistically) call our woodland area (the shady bit under mystery tree**). White and pink cyclamen gather in groups, standing small but proud from their round tubers. Cyclamen have their seed heads on tight coils which when ripe project the seed head and seeds onto the ground – the sticky seeds are then sometimes moved about by ants. Just imagine if you could capture the pinging and flinging of seeds by the release of tensed coils on film – I can’t help but visualise it in some sort of Acme cartoon cannon style with some dramatic full-orchestra music going on behind the whizzing and whirring.

But this week hasn’t been just about flowers; pond life has had its show too. Poking about my mum’s garden, having a catch up on what has and hasn’t survived the ridiculous heat followed by winds and torrents of rain, we spotted a frog making use of the plant pot tray on her patio. It seemed quite happy and we think perhaps waiting for some of the dropped insect-based bird food from the feeders nearby. And we have a new resident, Gary. Gary is a snail who was doing the sterling job of keeping my niece’s fish tank clean. Alas, the fish are no more, which is timely actually, as niece is just about to head off to university. Needless to say, my sister was not about to keep a tank going in her daughter’s absence for just one snail, and so Gary was ferried over to our pond via a small tub with holes in and a fruit basket in the footwell of my car.

*If you’re interested; a mix of cacao powder, turmeric, ginger, cinnamon and star anise with hot water and unsweetened almond milk. Yes, yes I am ‘that’ person.

**We know it is a cotoneaster, but it was unidentified for so long, it will never be called anything but mystery tree in our house. *Whispers* it also has its own theme tune.

The admiral, the teasel and the goldfinch

Recently, an admiral sat on my knee. I was in my back garden, sitting in the sunshine of early (ish) morning and felt a tickle on my skin. I think I had been mistaken for part of the large buddleia I was sitting near and instead of joining all its butterfly friends on the purple blooms, the red admiral stopped off on my knee.

It seems to have been a bumper year for butterflies. I certainly feel I have seen more and I have heard lots of other people say the same. Like so many other nature spotted phenomena in this strange year, it does seem as if the natural world has been a bit more prevalent while we have had to become less so. I wonder, is this the case? Actually, MOTH and I pondered this on a short wheezy walk, edging our way round golden fields that were being   harvested. (This is the time of ridiculously bad hayfever for me and I will now spend the next few months breathing as if I had just run a marathon while playing the tuba). What is it that we normally do which we have not been doing that has allowed a boost in such nature as butterflies? Or, is it that we are just noticing them more because of our changed circumstances? I offer these questions with no answers, by the way, I am merely musing. If it is the former then it makes me feel quite sad because that would show the direct negative impact we humans have on the natural world – I can’t help but have the sneaky suspicion that this is probably true.

It has also been a great year for teasels. We have left several to grow, dotted around the garden and one has shot up to the heady heights of taller than me – yes, that is an enormous five-foot three and more! Particularly attracted to these spikey monsters have been bees, hoverflies, pollen beetles, spiders, and butterflies. I am looking forward to when it is the turn of the goldfinch, as they love the later stage of dried teasel where they can pluck out the seeds. I spent the first few years here wondering why we never had goldfinches on our bird feeder (despite the niger seed bought especially) until I realised we have hordes of them, but they prefer to bubble and chatter in the greengage trees at the bottom of our garden. And yes, looking forward to this moment does mean I am looking forward to more autumnal times, which by the already turning of the blackberries in the hedgerows is beginning to wave a distant hello.

Back to the teasels, did you know that it is thought that they might be carnivorous? The teasels’ leaves form a sort of cup in which rainwater collects – and also insects which drown in the pools… If I’m being perfectly honest with you, this is mostly hypothetical, there is some small evidence that the plant gains some benefit from the extra protein of dead bugs, but it is certainly not a proven fact that this is what they are doing – creating their own traps and feeding bowls. But, it’s an interesting idea, isn’t it?

We’ve had grass snakes in the garden this year – I have been most excited about this, although less so because our small, shouty and sweary cat with a gimpy leg did catch one and leave it on our kitchen floor. We have a thrush with only one foot. It seems to be doing well despite this set back, it sings most beautifully-madly, as they do, but I worry for it still. I am enjoying the lavender that is coming into itself now. I have picked some for drying (last year I made lots of lavender bags for Christmas presents, something that I will always remember doing with my grandma, and have lately been enjoying popping a stalk of flower heads into a pot with camomile tea. I’m not sure MOTH has seen yet, but this morning I tied a posy of lavender to hang under the shower head. Giving the buds a gentle squeeze as the water is running makes it smell a little like you are in a spa – go on – try it (in your own shower though, not mine, of course).

It has been a strange, awful privilege to have been forced to stay at home for the last few months. I miss hugging people an awful lot (not random people, my family and close friends, of course) but as a natural introvert, for me, I can’t honestly say it was all bad. Recently, I  have stepped back into my physical work, leaving behind the digital content creating I have been doing in lieu. I have been both excited and apprehensive about this. What I love about my job as a librarian is (yes, yes, it’s the books) but also helping people, quietly building real relationships with regulars and knowing you have truly given and made a difference to someone. Things will not be as they were for a while but we adapt. Change can be hard, it can be wonderful, it can be a learning experience, but one thing is for sure, nothing ever truly stays the same.

The simple pleasure of a pine cone

This week the weather quite clearly has no idea what it is doing. Or, if it does, it is working to some indecipherable plan that we are not privy to. I had to put a jumper and socks on today, for which I was actually more than happy. The few days we had midweek week where the temperatures tipped into the thirties, were far too much for me; I barely functioned. Perhaps it’s because I spend a good ninety-five percent of my life feeling cold and wearing at least three more layers than everyone else (I have been known to wear seven layers in winter) that when I finally get warm, my body has no clue what to do. After the scorching heat and dragging the electric fans out of the cupboard and discarding the duvet, the last two days have been more bearable, even if a little confusing.

We were promised thunderstorms this week; they did not come – which I was annoyed about. We have had some rain, intermittent sun and
cloud but goodness, a lot of blustery wind. But that didn’t stop me taking a post work stroll on which I experienced hot sun, high winds and rain in regular revolutions.

On my walk I had two incidences where I was very aware of how I am becoming more and more accustomed to simplicity and the pleasure and freedom it brings. The first was when on leaving the house I pocketed only my keys and my phone (and a tissue, but there is always at least one of those resident in any of my pockets). A while back, when we were in much stricter lockdown and supposedly not leaving the house but for the essential shop,  I tweeted about noticing that bags seemed such redundant irrelevances. They sit there waiting to be filled and carted about and for some reason they struck me as rather absurd at that point. And I am someone who has far too many bags of all shapes and sizes – just in case! But today there was a feeling of lightness and liberty in the grab-and-go of so few items. (I wonder if this is how men have always felt. Perhaps if decent pockets in women’s clothing had been de rigour from the start we wouldn’t have become so accustomed to dragging bags around with us at all times.)

The second moment was as I neared home. I was mildly grumping at this point as the last public footpath, that takes me across a field to my home, has once more not been looked after by the land owner and is again impassable; so I had to take the road route. But, by doing so I passed some large pine trees under which many cones had been scattered on the ground, most crushed by passing cars but one excellent, fat specimen called to me. As I picked it up to bring home I realised I experienced the same feeling as I have done in the past when buying a new item of clothing or the such. I read a book recently which talked about how we get used to new things so quickly that they lose their ‘spark’ in very little time which is what compels us to then buy again and again and again. It’s why some very rich people have multiple cars of huge value and still never feel satisfied. They are merely looking for the next hit of new. That being the case, perhaps a pine cone really can have the same excitement-producing reception in the brain that a new pair of boots can.

In some ways we have all had to live a little more simply recently and at the beginning I had hopes that this would have a positive impact. But, like so many people, I have been appalled and quite upset at the sheer magnitude of people and the destruction and littering they have left behind at some of our destination spots. I dared to dream that out of this strange time we are living through, there might have risen a more compassionate, thoughtful and caring collective consciousness. But it would seem that now, perhaps more than ever, we appear to be a species divided between those that think beyond their immediate bubble and those that don’t. I find it hard to not fall into the thinking that, I am right and they are wrong, nothing is that clear-cut of course, but I simply can’t understand the continued devastation on large and small scales across the globe of the beautiful world we are lucky to inhabit. Nor the drive some seem to possess to split us into divided groups of people based solely on geography, aesthetic, lifestyle choices and all the things that make us so wonderfully rich and diverse and of these differences that we should be celebrating and sharing.

It doesn’t help that there are so many ways now to see so much of this negative behaviour. Sometimes I have to go on a news and social media break just to give my (admittedly very sensitive) heart and brain a break from it all. I want to believe there is more good than bad. It is always worth seeking out happiness and care and opening our eyes to the little things that can bring comfort and hope, and to find the joy in the simple things.

To this end, my pine cone and I will be quite happy at home. It will sit in my bowl of found natural treasures, all of which make me smile – yes, even the skulls. And if you need a break from the treadmill of bad news, you can join me on a very blustery walk in the video below. The wind shaking the trees and rustling the long grasses speaks louder than I can, but I don’t mind being drowned out by nature.

Grazing Bales

Sunday, late afternoon; I’ve just been out for a short post-work walk and am wondering why I don’t do so more often. I always feel at my best mentally and emotionally when I am outside and in nature.

Today, the weather and scenery were stunning. Having just had several days of rain, (which I was most happy to see arrive after the driest May on record had the land scorched to dust) the sun has returned. Yesterday was all big blue expansive skies that seem to be bigger than they ought to, today the blue has been punctuated with white cloud and a slight breeze.

The route I took is quite short and one I have done many times before. If I don’t dawdle (which of course, I always do, stopping to look, smell, feel and listen to all the wonders around me) I can leave the house and be back again in half an hour – if I rush. But why rush? I’ll never understand people who charge their way through a walk. Why aren’t they stopping to trail their hands in the long grass, to peek into ditches, do they not close their eyes and breathe the fresh air pretending for a brief moment that nothing else exists? I can’t imagine going for a walk and not holding stones or picking up feathers or peering as close as I can at insects and lamenting, as ever, my lack of bird call knowledge when I hear the twittering around me. Although, today, I was quite happy that I was able to identify a chiff chaff.

Not all land owners and farmers are great at encouraging people to walk the public footpaths by keeping them clear and easily identifiable – there are a few round here like that. But, others are very good at it, and my walk begins around fields on a path that is kept mown; wide enough for one, or two if you are very close. I was led initially by several tiny brown flittering butterflies who appeared to skip about only a few inches ahead of my toes. One finally settled long enough on a butter cup for me to take a quick (terrible) picture and I think they were small heaths. The area I was currently walking round has been left to go to wild land and long grasses and the beautiful feathery fronds jigged in the breeze with their soft green and purple hues. Beautiful. But, as with as many places there is talk of it being built on which saddens me greatly. I can see brambles beginning to flower in the hedgerows, bringing promises of delicious fruits to come. I will be out picking and eating later in the year.

A little further along my walk I spot a large black shape on a nettle leaf. Looking closer it is a caterpillar, dark and bristly; looking extremely gothic. As I peer further into the nettle patch, I see that there are in fact many of them, all on nettle leaves, and so once more I take to my books and the internet to find out what they are: the caterpillars of the Peacock butterfly.

The reason I had stopped and began perusing the nettles was because I was getting myself back together after being highly startled by a pair of pheasants. I think though that they may have been more startled by me. I gave my apologies, especially as it was a male and female I had rudely interrupted. They flew off in the clumsy, flapping barking that they do without giving me the courtesy of an apology for scaring the life out of me.

Against all the blue, green and yellow of this early summer day, large shining black plastic greeted me next – the covering for bales of straw. My best friend and I have long loved the sight of bales in fields, particularly as we feel they always seem as if they are grazing. Many a time we have sent each other pictures of such with the caption: grazing bales. I may have tweeted a video at her this time.

My head and heart by this point wanted to continue to walk for hours. Unfortunately my body, with its various ails, does not comply and so reluctantly I begin to head home. I can manage an hour of gentle walking but by the end will still be in pain, so I am learning to take things easier than I would like – learning but not liking – I get very grumpy about this.

But I am blessed, I know, to be able to go out at all and also to be close enough to be out in nature so quickly. I know not everyone can and so I recorded just a short part of my walk, which you can watch below. Watching nature and imagining yourself in it can be beneficial too. When I was going through cancer treatment, I would sometimes close my eyes and take myself off for a walk in my mind. I would imagine every detail from putting on my shoes and picking up my keys, to what I would see and feel out there; and I’m sure it helped me. Perhaps, if you can’t get out, for whatever reason, I can give you this little bit of nature.

All about the birds and a little undead rhubarb

Once again we have reached the point where the areas of our garden we leave wild at the start of the year need taming. I always leave a large patch of comfrey at the bottom of the garden as it is such a good source of early nectar for bees and pollinators, but this pretty, although prickly irritant of a plant, romps away and before you know it, everything has been swamped. Now that the bulk of flowering is over I have begun to reduce the area by at least half – and found a lovely surprise under it all – a patch of wild garlic which I had no idea was there. Next to the fenced grass pile (which has been phenomenal at giving us mulch at this time when garden centres have been closed) there peered up at me some rather light-deprived wild garlic; rather sorry leaves but lovely delicate white flowers. I am hoping it will recover now that it is not weighed down by comfrey and I might try transplanting some to a place a little easier to get to and keep clear.

At the same time, I had to re-find the access to the grass pile as the hedge next to it had bulked out somewhat. A lot of people will think I am mad, but I always cut my hedging back by hand with secateurs (although MOTH does do the hedge at the front but only after I’m convinced nesting season is over). Cutting by hand may take longer but to me it feels so much kinder and less intrusive and I am more convinced of that now as, once more, I was given a wonderful surprise. As I edged along gently taking pieces of hedging away, I came across a well-hidden nest with four beautiful small bright blue eggs – a dunnock’s nest. Naturally, I immediately backed off and I am happy to report that I have seen an adult on the nest since, so I am no longer worried about having disturbed it.

The line between gardening for us and for nature is weighted heavily in favour of nature at the front of our house too (much to the neighbours’ horror I’m sure; those that allow nothing for wildlife save an extremely mowed lawn).
We always get a bit of a meadow of dandelions and do you know what – I leave them. The bright yellow is simply gorgeous to see and they are great for pollinators. When their heads turn to clocks, I still can’t get rid of them because when I look out I can see many goldfinches perched on the stems pecking away at the seeds that are attached to the iconic, delicate parachutes. I was watching a line of goldfinches on the telephone wire connected to our house the other day and they were themselves acting like parachutists. All in a row, one by one they dropped off, straight down to the awaiting dandelions below.

As an aside, did you know that the name dandelion comes from the French, ‘dent- de lion’ – lion’s tooth, although, apparently this is not what the French call it, their name for dandelion is pissenlit. The attached name ‘clock’ which appears when the head dries and turns to delicate seeds, has its root in an old bit of folklore when to divine how long you had left to live, you would blow upon the clock and count how many seeds still remained attached.

The song thrush is in full evidence – but this time, not only in its absolutely bonkers song; the garden is littered with smashed empty snail shells, the remains of the mollusc homes left in pieces on paving stones and large rocks. And it is no surprise there are so many takeaway shells about, because we now have two thrushes, the juvenile of which is often hopping about the pots on the patio looking exceedingly pretty and plump.

More elusive birds this week have been the stunning kite that occasionally does a fly-by over the house but which never hangs around long enough to be captured on camera other than as a tiny speck in the blue and also the unseen cuckoo whose call I heard this week for the first time of the year. 

The enormous and increasing number of wood pigeons however, I shall not be waxing so lyrical about, although one did entertain me the other day be seeming to get stuck on the second part of its infamous call: whoo whoooo hoooo hoo-hoo, hoo-hoo, hoo-hoo hoo-hoo, hoo-hoo…

The house martins are about more, flashing their white stomachs as they zip about aerial feeding, I saw a swallow sat on a telephone wire over a field, the great tits with their Pulp Fiction ties are feeding heavily again, the male blackbirds are scrapping at every opportunity and we have two plump juvenile blackbirds always bobbing about the garden together, rotund and with thin little legs, they remind me of Tweedle-dee and Tweedle-dum; the garden is busy!

But I promised you rhubarb, and if only I could actually give it to you. There was a rhubarb patch here when we moved in. Not being the biggest fans of the vegetable, I have tried to remove it several times; believing last year that I had finally succeeded – but no; it lives again, rising from the earth with triumphant red arms, defiantly waving enormous leaves at me. And so, as I write this, I have a huge amount of rhubarb chutney simmering away as well as three crumbles ready for the freezer. It is the spider plant of the garden – un-killable!

 

 

In comes I, in search of a surprise angry panther

This week has included  St George’s day, a day for which I have no particular affiliation, but I do have fond memories. Anyone who has read past blogs will know that I grew up in the folk world with all its wonderful, and yes, quite frankly odd, traditions and practices. One of which is the performing of mummurs plays: folk plays by amateur ‘actors’ (see, more often beer happy folkies) that usually contain within them, a sword dual, a dragon slaying and a quack doctor who would bring the slain hero back to life. (Although there are many, many regional variations.) As ever, they were often an allegory for the fight between good and evil as well as for the seasons and crops returning to life after winter.

When a character enters the scene in a mummers play, he (and traditionally it was always men) would announce themselves beginning with, “In comes I,…” and the discourse would often be held, in a strutting and goading manner and usually in rhyming couplets:

“In comes I, Saint George! An heroic man,

With steely sword, my shield in hand.

I fought the fiery dragon

And sent him to the slaughter,

And for this deed I won the hand

Of the King’s beautiful daughter.”

The reason I have fond memories, is not just of watching many of these plays at street fayres between bouts of morris and clog dancing, but of being in one during a solar eclipse – many years ago. We were in Devon, or Cornwall, or thereabouts (I think) so many folk camps blur into one homogenous folk life. On this day most of the campers made their way to the top of a hill to witness the mystical event and as the time drew nearer, a group of us set about a mummers play.

As strong as my memory of the beauty and awe of the eclipse and how everything fell silent as the shadow descended, and as much as I remember the strangeness of the feeling of such a magical moment; I just as much remember that the huge men’s trousers I had borrowed for the play, that were held up only with string, kept threatening to fall down as I proudly introduced myself: “In comes I…”   and then very nearly, out went dignity.

In the current situation, I have structured my time so that I work at my desk every morning, garden usually in the afternoon and if I have any energy left after cooking tea, set about my personal work later. As such, the garden is getting more attention than usual. This week, I have been on the hunt for a surprise angry panther. Let me explain. Last year, a flower emerged from amongst an area of, well, chaos, in one of my borders, that I couldn’t quite place. Popping it on twitter and asking for identification help, a gardener friend of mine replied that it was an agapanthus, but an unusual looking one. The best thing though, was that they told me that they called them angry panthers, and to this day, that is what I call them too. I know roughly where it is located but the ground covering mat of ajuga, pulmonaria and creeping cinquefoil, has hindered any precise pinpointing – hence the search.  So far, the angry panther remains elusive, but I live in hope.

Talking of elusive nature, the orange tip butterflies are a cheeky bunch fluttering about but never landing long enough to take a picture. And, I am pretty convinced I found badger poo in the garden. When I told MOTH to come and see something interesting, he was not at all convinced when I said it was poo, until he saw it and reluctantly had to agree that it was, actually, interesting. I have seen a badger in the garden before, so it is quite possible.

Other garden activities have been checking each morning whether any new veg have begun to poke above ground – potatoes, onions, climbing beans, courgettes and garlic are romping ahead leaving the peas and spinach wheezing and panting at the back of the pack. The weather is proving glorious for us humans, but as a gardener I am feeling the pain of nature trying to compete with increasingly parched earth. We have four water sources available in a variety of locations for wildlife, but it is the plants I feel for, trying to push through baked clay – and we are only in April! Perhaps I should write and perform a one-woman mummers play to the rain gods to see if we can entice them to show our land some mercy. Six weeks into isolation – this doesn’t sound quite so mad an idea.

 

 

Rooks, kites and curious bees

Last week I had a conversation about the plague doctor before eight a.m. Oddly enough, it wasn’t brought about directly by the current situation, rather in a more circumvent way. With both the lack of being able to physically meet and the want to find things that can be done ‘together,’ especially if they are a way to boost morale a little, it was suggested in one of our family chats that on national bird day we all draw a bird to then share with each other. Which we did. I put my hand in the air though to admit that I forgot to do it on the day in question and so on the morning of sharing I hastily and with many smudges, scribbled a terrible rendition of a rook. (It may also have suffered the addition of some spilt almond milk.) This was in fact what started the plague doctor discussion as I have always been reminded of such by rooks, because of their lighter coloured beaks. They remind me of the masks worn by the doctors treating sick people during the bubonic plague. These masks included a long hollow beak stuffed with highly scented herbs with the thought that this would purify the air. The rest of their costume was often made up of a long heavy coat and gloves and a stick to keep the sick at bay. There was mention that many or all of these things could be useful when doing the weekly shop at the moment.

I am sure I am not the only one who has found that the first few weeks of lockdown was followed by an almost panicked rush of on-line chats and video calls as well as an inordinate amount of chat groups on various platforms, both work and social. Whilst this has been amazingly lovely and I am entirely grateful that we are able to do so, I have to admit I have found it a bit exhausting, as I know many others have too. It was almost as if, for two weeks I did nothing but chat in various forms.

I read an interesting article on this subject and apparently one of the reasons we find these video calls difficult, is seeing ourselves as we talk. We never normally have this phenomenon, unless we only ever talk to someone with a mirror placed behind them and we are constantly looking over their shoulder.

Another reason is that our brains and bodies are getting mixed messages: the brain says that we are in the company of another person but the body knows that it physically isn’t; this dissonance causes a friction that can make us feel at odds. It has been recommended that when on these talks there are things we can do to minimise the strangeness; we can not look directly at the camera and screen the whole time, allow yourself to look around you, gesticulate – like you would in a normal situation; you wouldn’t usually spend an entire conversation staring directly into someone’s face (weird). The other is to not show yourself on the screen. This is also an advantage when you are ignoring the fact that you haven’t brushed your hair for three days. I wonder if, when all this is over, we’ll only recognise people by their under-chins and will have to ask them to look upwards for confirmation of who they are – having got so used to the dreaded video call angle.

This week has also brought out the curious bees. MOTH and I were digging a new vegetable patch (we may never stop, one day we won’t have a garden, just an allotment – suits me) and all around us we could see bees hovering in the air at about head height. They seemed to be assessing, looking, taking the lie of the land, which in fact is probably what they were doing. Bees do send out scouts either to gather foraging directions or they go out on mass to find a new home when they leave their old hive. Being so many, I wonder if we witnessed the latter. Other curious bees this week include the ones that are impatient to get to any freshly dug earth; perhaps they are also looking for a new nesting site.

In other exciting nature news, we have robins nesting and I am fiercely protective over them. I can see their nest from my study and I have, on more than one occasion, been known to abandon my laptop mid-sentence and bolt downstairs to shoo a cat away if they were getting too close. I also had a lovely few seconds of pure joy when I saw a kite lazily flying overhead in perfect blue sky. We regularly have buzzards circling about nearby, but this was my first kite spot.

With the current imposed lockdown, there has been much talk of nature having a bit of time without our constant interference and there appears to be an upswell of interest in the natural world. I hope this continues when we are all set loose again. It seems to be giving so much to us in terms of comfort, pleasure, interest and lifting spirits; I hope in turn, we will give more back to it.

A Dog with Three Tales

 

 

No, this isn’t some kind of story about an inverted universe Cerberus, but actually a tree or shrub.

At this time of year we can be lacking in colour; from the interminable grey of these  early months to the not yet burgeoning flora. But, there are a few exceptional bits of winter colour to find, including that of the dogwood. We have a dogwood shrub; Cornus alba, and the bright red stems are always a welcome sight throughout winter. But despite always admiring its striking scarlet limbs I’ve never really thought about its name before. And so, I did a little rummaging around.

The dogwood comes as either tree or shrub and there are quite a few myths around them – and wide-ranging at that. But three stood out as the most often recited and each has its own message to us.

One tale about the dogwood tree is that it provided the wood for the crucifix on which Jesus died. The story goes that, at that time, the dogwood was the tallest and strongest tree by far and having the sturdiest timber it was chosen to be made into the cross. The dogwood felt such sorrow and anguish at the task to which it had been made to perform that Jesus, dying upon it, felt the pain it experienced and as a kindness changed its kin so that all dogwoods would forever grow small and twisted and never be made to carry such a burden again. When Jesus was resurrected, the dogwood bloomed and blossomed in celebration. At the centre of the flower, there is a cluster of green which is seen as representation of the crown of thorns that Jesus wore upon the crucifix. Many people acknowledge the dogwood as a reminder of Jesus’ love and sacrifice.

Another tale regards Hectate, the goddess of protection and hidden knowledge. She was said to bring daily blessings and prosperity to family life and was herself a lover of solitude, never wanting to be centre of attention. Her symbols were dogs, torches and the new moon. But, that old rogue, Shakespeare was to be her undoing for he mentioned her name in connection with ‘dagger,’ most well-associated with MacBeth. At the time, daggers were often made of dagwood tree; the name, later changing to dogwood. The association of dogs, daggers and the dogwood tree and therefore with the goddess Hectate, meant that the damage was done and her mythology forever influenced. She became thereon to be perceived as the goddess of witchcraft and her name even became the root for the word, ‘hag’ meaning witch. This story of misrepresentation is used to warn us of how easily our characters can be destroyed through distortion. The dogwood here, is used to serve as a reminder to be alert so we are not taken advantage of by those who seek to betray or deceive us. But also to encourage us to view and experience our surroundings in quiet observation and that we can learn much about ourselves and others, by watching.

A third tale is one which came from among the Cherokee who told the story of a race of little people who lived in the forest and protected the tribe; they were the Dogwood people. These beings kept the children and elders safe, always with benevolence, not asking for anything in return and they were there to teach about being in harmony with the earth. Here, the dogwood spirit is associated with random acts of kindness.

The origin of the name, however most likely came about from the smooth, straight and incredibly strong limbs which were used to make skewers, daggers, arrows and the such. Skewers used to be called ‘dags’ or ‘dogs.’ The word ‘dog tree’ can be traced back to 1548 and later, in 1614 it was changed to dogwood, when it also acquired a secondary name of Hound’s Tree, the fruits of which were known as dogberries or houndberries.

Whatever your beliefs, I can’t see anything wrong in all of us taking heed of the stories and messages above: that there can be such empathy between humans and nature that it can be felt and acted upon and that great love will make sacrifices; that we should be alert to those who wish to harm us, but also to observe quietly to better learn about the world around us; and there is importance to being in harmony with nature, that we can act with benevolence and that random acts of kindness go a long way.

Taking five and not looking back

Despite the fact that I know it does me so much good, I find that I very rarely get down to any craft of my own – especially drawing and painting. The reason being, is that I don’t have time or rather, this is the narrative I have given myself and therefore have come to believe.

When I sit down to draw, I like to have hours free ahead of me so I can get lost in this hobby. Time passes without me noticing as I end up in a kind of hypnotic state, zoned out and oblivious to the world – which is lovely. But, the opportunities to allow this extended period of time are infrequent and as a consequence I can go weeks or months without doing anything.

Recently I have seen my best friend and others posting quick sketches they have done allowing themselves only five minutes and it has been incredibly motivating. No, they are not perfect but they evoke a certain feeling of vivacity, of energy; perhaps because of their speed in being brought about. The other thing I find inspiring is that they are shared – flaws and all. I am a terrible one for self-doubt and I write and create far more content than ever gets seen purely because I over-think it all to the point of not believing any of it worth sharing and therefore, I don’t.

So, would it be possible for me to follow the suit of these inspiring people and have a go at daily five-minute sketches, no going back, no time to doubt and posting them to be seen?

The first problem I encountered is one faced by many – the blank page. Just what does one choose? I found myself heading online and looking at vast selections of ‘daily prompts’ and spending too much time reading them and wondering if they would be something I’d like to have a go at, whether I’d be able to etcetera and therefore – once again – stalling.

With my interests very much lying in nature, I thought perhaps this would be the best way for me to encourage myself to start. So I nipped outside and got a small sprig of wild marjoram from the garden.

Sat at my desk, sketch book out and pencils sharpened, I set a timer for five minutes – and off I went. Never has five minutes gone so quickly!

And here it is:

How was it? Well, firstly I have to say – I produced something on a day when perhaps I would not have otherwise. Am I happy with it? Not really, I had to work very hard not to tinker with it after the alarm went off. Perhaps more importantly, what was the process like? Rushed, I felt under pressure; almost panicky; about as far removed from the normal slow, meditative zoning out I normally feel when drawing. But, I produced something.

Will I do it again? I am tempted to say yes but that I will extend the time to ten minutes but, as an experiment, I will continue to attempt some more five minute sketches; maybe one a day. Perhaps it could be a kind of therapy for me as someone who overthinks things to the point of fearful withdrawal. As mentioned above, I have so many blogs, drawings and photographs that I have created and never let seen the light of day due to self-doubt; maybe a little bit of instant public imperfection will allow me a little freedom of expression. But, if I ever get the chance to give myself those hours blissfully away from the world, I will treasure that time; whether I show you what I produce or not.