Rowan Berries and Crab Apples
09th August 2015
9th August
A Return to the New forest - Rowan Berries and Crab Apples
The very first entry on this blog, and the last before heading off to live in the Lakes, was about the New Forest. This little National Park (it is so small and its beauties so subtle that this designation feels excessive) is very important to me. I have gained a lot of strength from coming here, finding much peace and beauty in its landscape, whilst be given the space to reflect. I have visited in all weathers and seasons, and have I come to know this humble, shy little area extremely well.
Therefore my visit was preceded with great anticipation and, in preparation, I had been revisiting places and following paths in my mind. A process I find very enjoyable and much more effective than counting sheep when struggling to get to sleep. In fact, I often review, path by path, village, by village and mountain by mountain a 1600 mile journey I made around the UK in 1997. In my minds eye I follow tracks and streams and relive past experiences. It keeps the memories fresh and it is amazing how many things I remember anew.
My recent visit to the New Forest was all I expected and hoped for. My days were spent walking across a beautifully understated landscape, of heather filled plains and thick broad leafed woodland. It is also filled to the brim with differing varieties of wildlife, accompanied by a gentle, serene, peaceful atmosphere - devoid of the macho, go faster, longer, higher commodification that comes with other National Parks.
Many would criticise my descriptions of the 'Forest' as being effusive, and over sentimental and a view I might share if we're not for the depth and quality of my experiences. There are so many 'moments' where I am overwhelmed by what I might encounter as, tucked around every corner, there are wonderful examples of beauty and grace that nature provides.
I might break through a dense woodland, onto one of the many open spaces that are secretly cupped in the folds of the land. In these hidden landscapes, like a land time forgot, I encounter all sorts of wild life, and today it was immediately Deer. A huge herd, red, brown and orange, all the colours of the land, starring at me across the sea of purple heather. The herd is overseen by two stags, with horns that look like hurling sticks. They obviously view me with caution and eventually seem to slide off into the forest. However, as I know this area very well, I know we will meet again. Therefore further along, I come across the herd as they cross my path. Once again they stare and scrutinise me to ascertain what risk I might pose. Eventually their natural instinct takes hold and they trot away into the shelter of the wood, but not before pausing for a moment, to see if I follow. Was this an invite?
The New Forest is rightfully popular and, like the Peak District, also adjacent to densely populated towns and cities, therefore it can be very busy. However, regardless of the time of year the forest is remarkably quiet once you break into the forest hinterland. Strange as it might seem, most folk do not stray too far away from their cars, or the main tracks that link villages and car parks.
Once you do get off the main paths, which can take as little as a minutes walk, you are all alone, with only the ponies for company. You may at first still hear a road, but head a little further into the forest and all you hear is the trees and the birds. Once I have arrived into this space, I stop and breath. I breath deep, close my eyes and just listen. I gradually hear the layers of sound around me. Once I have identified one layer I move onto the next, building up a deeply varied and rich soundscape made up of the wind, trees, different bird song, the occasional human noise (maybe child's laughter) and even insects buzzing near and far. I go through this ritual all places I visit as, once I open my eyes, I see the place differently and I am now restful, whilst being more alert to my surroundings.
This visit the forest is characterised by the profusion of Crab apples, Rowan, Holly berries, and sloes. These trees are often found in amongst the many woodland islands, that are dotted around the forest. Set in a sea of purple heathland, the forest is adorned by these mini woodlands, each filled with a rich mixture of trees and shrubs. They are secretive places and easily overlooked, but peer into the shadowy realm you soon realise you are not alone. In the cool recesses of these arboreal archipelagos will be found beautiful New Forest Ponies, or maybe a herd of ear and tail twitching fallow deer.
These Woody enclaves are magical and mystical places, and like the Rowan that surround them, they feel like a Druidic temples amongst the trees. In the cool recesses there is a stillness and a strong sense of being in an older wilder environment; as if looking back to past times and across into other dimensions. As the Rowan was the wood of choice for Druids then perhaps these 'woodlets' are doorways into the faerie realm(?).
However, on a more 'earthly' perspective, these wooded areas provide a perfect habitat for a rich variety of song birds. On the branches and atop the surrounding shrubs of gorse, hawthorn and bramble can be seen Siskin, Linnets, Robins Stonechats and Wheatears. I have even seen Redstarts, flying, like island hoppers, from one wooded area to the next. Today the Rowan is thick with blood red berries, and a hint of autumn is witnessed in its leaves.
The weather has been warm and dry for quite a time, resulting in the many shallow streams and (the precarious) Dew Ponds becoming dry. It was these conditions that created the the American western scene I encountered on the broad plain of Latchmore Bottom. All around the dry stream t were large herds of ponies and cattle standing motionless. I assumed, due to the long period of dry weather, they have congregated here as they can smell the presence of water. Their numbers, their cumulative heat, meant they were producing a steam that drifted above them like a mystical cloud.
The drought has allowed the emergence of wild flowers in the beds of the dried streams. There was thick carpets of golden Spearworts and a number of plants I had never seen before. Perhaps they have lied dormant under these streams waiting for a brief time, like now, to have their day. I guess another part of the cycle that we humans miss as we operate within our own created perspective.
Regardless of the possible serendipity for these stream bed flowers, fortune was to fall favourably for those who were desperate for water, as during my visit there was a great storm. This resulted in very heavy rain for two days, which immediately refreshed pools and streams. As the New Forest is a low lying heathland, it soon regained its familiar spongy, boggy character. It is these conditions that give it a unique habitat and one of the reasons it attracts and sustains so much life.
As I head home, passing over the purple heather carpet of Longcross Plain, I encounter two brave Lapwings. I hear them before I see them, as their "peewit" call is uniquely distinctive. In a bid to protect what is their they fly close over me in hope to distract and sway me. I know it is late in the year for them to be demonstrating this behaviour, so I am guessing they still have a clutch of eggs they are protecting. It is very late in the year for young chicks to grow and be ready for the winter. My worries of the year slipping away is symbolised by the swallows i seek lining up on the telephone wires.
The Swallows queuing up in this manner is a tangible indication that summer is near its end, like my journey South. I imagine, seasonally, things up North will have naturally caught up with the changes I have seen down in the South, as the North has to squeeze its spring and summer seasons into shorter periods between the longer autumn and winter. .....we shall soon see. As to the New Forest I will see you again in Autumn, when you come into your own.
"You English Words?
I Know You: You Are Light As Dreams,
Tough As Oak, Precious As Gold,
As Poppies And Corn,
Or An Old Cloak:
Sweet As Our Birds To The Ear,
As The Burnet Rose
In The Heat Of Midsummer"
Edward Thomas.
A Return to the New forest - Rowan Berries and Crab Apples
The very first entry on this blog, and the last before heading off to live in the Lakes, was about the New Forest. This little National Park (it is so small and its beauties so subtle that this designation feels excessive) is very important to me. I have gained a lot of strength from coming here, finding much peace and beauty in its landscape, whilst be given the space to reflect. I have visited in all weathers and seasons, and have I come to know this humble, shy little area extremely well.
Therefore my visit was preceded with great anticipation and, in preparation, I had been revisiting places and following paths in my mind. A process I find very enjoyable and much more effective than counting sheep when struggling to get to sleep. In fact, I often review, path by path, village, by village and mountain by mountain a 1600 mile journey I made around the UK in 1997. In my minds eye I follow tracks and streams and relive past experiences. It keeps the memories fresh and it is amazing how many things I remember anew.
My recent visit to the New Forest was all I expected and hoped for. My days were spent walking across a beautifully understated landscape, of heather filled plains and thick broad leafed woodland. It is also filled to the brim with differing varieties of wildlife, accompanied by a gentle, serene, peaceful atmosphere - devoid of the macho, go faster, longer, higher commodification that comes with other National Parks.
Many would criticise my descriptions of the 'Forest' as being effusive, and over sentimental and a view I might share if we're not for the depth and quality of my experiences. There are so many 'moments' where I am overwhelmed by what I might encounter as, tucked around every corner, there are wonderful examples of beauty and grace that nature provides.
I might break through a dense woodland, onto one of the many open spaces that are secretly cupped in the folds of the land. In these hidden landscapes, like a land time forgot, I encounter all sorts of wild life, and today it was immediately Deer. A huge herd, red, brown and orange, all the colours of the land, starring at me across the sea of purple heather. The herd is overseen by two stags, with horns that look like hurling sticks. They obviously view me with caution and eventually seem to slide off into the forest. However, as I know this area very well, I know we will meet again. Therefore further along, I come across the herd as they cross my path. Once again they stare and scrutinise me to ascertain what risk I might pose. Eventually their natural instinct takes hold and they trot away into the shelter of the wood, but not before pausing for a moment, to see if I follow. Was this an invite?
The New Forest is rightfully popular and, like the Peak District, also adjacent to densely populated towns and cities, therefore it can be very busy. However, regardless of the time of year the forest is remarkably quiet once you break into the forest hinterland. Strange as it might seem, most folk do not stray too far away from their cars, or the main tracks that link villages and car parks.
Once you do get off the main paths, which can take as little as a minutes walk, you are all alone, with only the ponies for company. You may at first still hear a road, but head a little further into the forest and all you hear is the trees and the birds. Once I have arrived into this space, I stop and breath. I breath deep, close my eyes and just listen. I gradually hear the layers of sound around me. Once I have identified one layer I move onto the next, building up a deeply varied and rich soundscape made up of the wind, trees, different bird song, the occasional human noise (maybe child's laughter) and even insects buzzing near and far. I go through this ritual all places I visit as, once I open my eyes, I see the place differently and I am now restful, whilst being more alert to my surroundings.
This visit the forest is characterised by the profusion of Crab apples, Rowan, Holly berries, and sloes. These trees are often found in amongst the many woodland islands, that are dotted around the forest. Set in a sea of purple heathland, the forest is adorned by these mini woodlands, each filled with a rich mixture of trees and shrubs. They are secretive places and easily overlooked, but peer into the shadowy realm you soon realise you are not alone. In the cool recesses of these arboreal archipelagos will be found beautiful New Forest Ponies, or maybe a herd of ear and tail twitching fallow deer.
These Woody enclaves are magical and mystical places, and like the Rowan that surround them, they feel like a Druidic temples amongst the trees. In the cool recesses there is a stillness and a strong sense of being in an older wilder environment; as if looking back to past times and across into other dimensions. As the Rowan was the wood of choice for Druids then perhaps these 'woodlets' are doorways into the faerie realm(?).
However, on a more 'earthly' perspective, these wooded areas provide a perfect habitat for a rich variety of song birds. On the branches and atop the surrounding shrubs of gorse, hawthorn and bramble can be seen Siskin, Linnets, Robins Stonechats and Wheatears. I have even seen Redstarts, flying, like island hoppers, from one wooded area to the next. Today the Rowan is thick with blood red berries, and a hint of autumn is witnessed in its leaves.
The weather has been warm and dry for quite a time, resulting in the many shallow streams and (the precarious) Dew Ponds becoming dry. It was these conditions that created the the American western scene I encountered on the broad plain of Latchmore Bottom. All around the dry stream t were large herds of ponies and cattle standing motionless. I assumed, due to the long period of dry weather, they have congregated here as they can smell the presence of water. Their numbers, their cumulative heat, meant they were producing a steam that drifted above them like a mystical cloud.
The drought has allowed the emergence of wild flowers in the beds of the dried streams. There was thick carpets of golden Spearworts and a number of plants I had never seen before. Perhaps they have lied dormant under these streams waiting for a brief time, like now, to have their day. I guess another part of the cycle that we humans miss as we operate within our own created perspective.
Regardless of the possible serendipity for these stream bed flowers, fortune was to fall favourably for those who were desperate for water, as during my visit there was a great storm. This resulted in very heavy rain for two days, which immediately refreshed pools and streams. As the New Forest is a low lying heathland, it soon regained its familiar spongy, boggy character. It is these conditions that give it a unique habitat and one of the reasons it attracts and sustains so much life.
As I head home, passing over the purple heather carpet of Longcross Plain, I encounter two brave Lapwings. I hear them before I see them, as their "peewit" call is uniquely distinctive. In a bid to protect what is their they fly close over me in hope to distract and sway me. I know it is late in the year for them to be demonstrating this behaviour, so I am guessing they still have a clutch of eggs they are protecting. It is very late in the year for young chicks to grow and be ready for the winter. My worries of the year slipping away is symbolised by the swallows i seek lining up on the telephone wires.
The Swallows queuing up in this manner is a tangible indication that summer is near its end, like my journey South. I imagine, seasonally, things up North will have naturally caught up with the changes I have seen down in the South, as the North has to squeeze its spring and summer seasons into shorter periods between the longer autumn and winter. .....we shall soon see. As to the New Forest I will see you again in Autumn, when you come into your own.
"You English Words?
I Know You: You Are Light As Dreams,
Tough As Oak, Precious As Gold,
As Poppies And Corn,
Or An Old Cloak:
Sweet As Our Birds To The Ear,
As The Burnet Rose
In The Heat Of Midsummer"
Edward Thomas.