A Live(ly) Winter
01st January 2017
1st Jan 2017
A live(ly) winter
Even though it is winter and world has all the appearance of being lifeless and still, there is actually lots of life in the cold, grey landscape, and increasingly so now the winter solstice has passed.
If more attention is give to the landscape and if I skew my normal view of the world by allowing my mind to ignore the din of human activity, and pay attention to subtle hints in the landscape, a tumultuous world of wildlife starts to come into focus.
This means attention has to be given to the wet bog, or the crisp snow as the footprints of passing deer, badger or fox are revealed. An alertness to almost imperceptible activity heard from the bare, leafless trees, or scanning the the distant horizon reveals the self focused activities of wildlife searching for food in amongst the branches of trees or at edges of fields. Increasingly, as each winter day passes, you become aware of the 'frenzy' of wildlife all around.
In the last few days I have experienced the spirit lifting joy of buzzards floating above the cold, stark mountains of the Lake District. Their outstretched wings form an iconic cross-shaped pose against the metalled sky. Their adornment of warm brown feathers and white markings stand out in contrast against the drab, winter setting, that provides a warmth to the soul at the very least.
From my cold, rocky stance, watching the ariel display of these great birds, I feel an overwhelming sense of harmony with all things. The Buzzards appear like ancient elders, overseeing the landscape and its occupants. With each rise and fall of the mountain breeze, they perform a series of beautiful and graceful moves they demonstrate their affinity with their environment and pass judgement on you with their lamenting cry.
The Buzzards are dancers on a stage, who's a scenic backdrop is the stark hills and frozen streams. In this wild, winter landscape the buzzards perform a choreographed dance that (in its perfection) tells the story of the universe through the grace of their movements and the realisation that this is all acting in the right place, at the right time. There is a sense of grace and perfection mapped out in their balletic flight.
If you are heading into hinterland of the mountains then tread carefully when acrossi g the boggy, desolate moorland as you will very likely disturb Snipe. These timid, ever alert birds have moved inland for winter and hide in the waterlogged bog and moss of the high ground. Get too close and they are off, faster than the Tornado jets that still fly across our national parks on clear days. The Snipe's flight more exciting and less incongruous.
Then there is the pair of herons, fools in a winter play, staring foolishly at a pool in a flooded field. Their wait will be long and fruitless, whilst the fish in the nearby stream enjoy the schadenfreude.
Though hidden, it is wonderful to consider the many insects that are now underground in larvae or egg form, waiting for spring. They may not be obvious, as they have buried themselves away to avoid the worst of the winter conditions but their activity is energetic.
Then there are the new buds on many a tree, but especially the hazel, ash and beach. Every year I remark that 'they' (the buds) are early. Perhaps they are, but they do appear in winter. These are emissaries of the warmer times to come and remind us of the thick leafy canopies of summer.
In amongst the trees is a raiding party of Long Tail Tits and Gold Crests scrumping berries and insects from hoary, hawthorn. They are busy, too busy to pay any heed to me as they move from branch to branch, tree to tree. There is a sense of excitement and urgency in their actions as they need to feed to stay warm and they also need to beat their rivals for each berry. This is bird Olympics.
The winter days are short, so as the skies darken the owls hoot and screech, filling the winter landscape with the eerie backdrop that is reminiscent of the opening scenes of a Hammer House horror fiilm. In this setting Fox skulk at the edges of the wood, causing alarm amongst the pheasants who scrub around the edges of woodlands. As the fox (or myself) comes too close these beautiful, but ungainly birds launch inelegantly, clattering and croaking, just about lifting above their skyline of branch and rock. Ultimately they crash land into some far off scrub, expressing, with garbled calls, their disgruntled irritation.
Squirrels, like someone who has lost their keys, pick and scrape through the undergrowth. This time of year they seem less wary and more focused on finding their treasure. However, get too close, or stare too long and they are gone, up the nearest tree.
The winter landscape is pulsating with life, but it is all much more focused on surviving and perhaps this is why winter is such a beautiful and powerful season, inspiring many a writer and artist, it is a season when we can actually touch our own existence, the thin membrane between what it means to be alive and not. We see the other side, be it subconsciously, but as the cold pinches our noes and stings our toes, winter remind us to push back the inevitable and delight in the now.
A live(ly) winter
Even though it is winter and world has all the appearance of being lifeless and still, there is actually lots of life in the cold, grey landscape, and increasingly so now the winter solstice has passed.
If more attention is give to the landscape and if I skew my normal view of the world by allowing my mind to ignore the din of human activity, and pay attention to subtle hints in the landscape, a tumultuous world of wildlife starts to come into focus.
This means attention has to be given to the wet bog, or the crisp snow as the footprints of passing deer, badger or fox are revealed. An alertness to almost imperceptible activity heard from the bare, leafless trees, or scanning the the distant horizon reveals the self focused activities of wildlife searching for food in amongst the branches of trees or at edges of fields. Increasingly, as each winter day passes, you become aware of the 'frenzy' of wildlife all around.
In the last few days I have experienced the spirit lifting joy of buzzards floating above the cold, stark mountains of the Lake District. Their outstretched wings form an iconic cross-shaped pose against the metalled sky. Their adornment of warm brown feathers and white markings stand out in contrast against the drab, winter setting, that provides a warmth to the soul at the very least.
From my cold, rocky stance, watching the ariel display of these great birds, I feel an overwhelming sense of harmony with all things. The Buzzards appear like ancient elders, overseeing the landscape and its occupants. With each rise and fall of the mountain breeze, they perform a series of beautiful and graceful moves they demonstrate their affinity with their environment and pass judgement on you with their lamenting cry.
The Buzzards are dancers on a stage, who's a scenic backdrop is the stark hills and frozen streams. In this wild, winter landscape the buzzards perform a choreographed dance that (in its perfection) tells the story of the universe through the grace of their movements and the realisation that this is all acting in the right place, at the right time. There is a sense of grace and perfection mapped out in their balletic flight.
If you are heading into hinterland of the mountains then tread carefully when acrossi g the boggy, desolate moorland as you will very likely disturb Snipe. These timid, ever alert birds have moved inland for winter and hide in the waterlogged bog and moss of the high ground. Get too close and they are off, faster than the Tornado jets that still fly across our national parks on clear days. The Snipe's flight more exciting and less incongruous.
Then there is the pair of herons, fools in a winter play, staring foolishly at a pool in a flooded field. Their wait will be long and fruitless, whilst the fish in the nearby stream enjoy the schadenfreude.
Though hidden, it is wonderful to consider the many insects that are now underground in larvae or egg form, waiting for spring. They may not be obvious, as they have buried themselves away to avoid the worst of the winter conditions but their activity is energetic.
Then there are the new buds on many a tree, but especially the hazel, ash and beach. Every year I remark that 'they' (the buds) are early. Perhaps they are, but they do appear in winter. These are emissaries of the warmer times to come and remind us of the thick leafy canopies of summer.
In amongst the trees is a raiding party of Long Tail Tits and Gold Crests scrumping berries and insects from hoary, hawthorn. They are busy, too busy to pay any heed to me as they move from branch to branch, tree to tree. There is a sense of excitement and urgency in their actions as they need to feed to stay warm and they also need to beat their rivals for each berry. This is bird Olympics.
The winter days are short, so as the skies darken the owls hoot and screech, filling the winter landscape with the eerie backdrop that is reminiscent of the opening scenes of a Hammer House horror fiilm. In this setting Fox skulk at the edges of the wood, causing alarm amongst the pheasants who scrub around the edges of woodlands. As the fox (or myself) comes too close these beautiful, but ungainly birds launch inelegantly, clattering and croaking, just about lifting above their skyline of branch and rock. Ultimately they crash land into some far off scrub, expressing, with garbled calls, their disgruntled irritation.
Squirrels, like someone who has lost their keys, pick and scrape through the undergrowth. This time of year they seem less wary and more focused on finding their treasure. However, get too close, or stare too long and they are gone, up the nearest tree.
The winter landscape is pulsating with life, but it is all much more focused on surviving and perhaps this is why winter is such a beautiful and powerful season, inspiring many a writer and artist, it is a season when we can actually touch our own existence, the thin membrane between what it means to be alive and not. We see the other side, be it subconsciously, but as the cold pinches our noes and stings our toes, winter remind us to push back the inevitable and delight in the now.