Summer's March
30th June 2014
Summer's march.
The year has suddenly accelerated. It seems that it was not so long ago that the first Swallows, after their long, arduous journey, were arriving to the Fells; the first notes of the Cuckoos could be heard echoing around the valleys; the earth was cold, hard and wet and the weather was wild and frequently stormy. One day the wind and rain would prevail, another (as a portent of things to come) would bring forth sun and a mild, comforting warmth. The seasons battled for dominance.
However, now the mountains have been tamed. The harsh, wet and slippery crag and the steep, fractured mountainside is now bordered by opaque, monochrome fern, that hides the rocky, fierce nature of the mountain. The birds are quiet. Their song now silenced by the exertions of feeding a number of broods. The spring flowers, such as Cow Parsley, Bluebell, Ransom and the delicate Dog Violet have long seeded and now faded back into the undergrowth. They have made way for the arrival of the pink and purple Foxgloves, golden Asphodel and Meadow Vetch. The fast flowing, steep falling streams have been muffled by the long, hot and dry summer days. Whilst insects, now in great hordes, hover over the drying pools and dance along the banks of the sluggish Becks.
Throughout the District farmers are busy hay making. They are rushing against the weather to cut the meadows before any rain. The air is filled with the sweet scent of cut grass, all manner of insects,swooping swallows and each bend in the road is accompanied by a large tractor pulling huge bails of mesh covered Hay. All the fields are now a dry patchwork of green, yellow and white. The air seems thicker, heavier and (in contradiction) everything seems slower.
Though it is only the end of June these are the markers heralding the end of summer, so I welcome them with some trepidation.
The year has suddenly accelerated. It seems that it was not so long ago that the first Swallows, after their long, arduous journey, were arriving to the Fells; the first notes of the Cuckoos could be heard echoing around the valleys; the earth was cold, hard and wet and the weather was wild and frequently stormy. One day the wind and rain would prevail, another (as a portent of things to come) would bring forth sun and a mild, comforting warmth. The seasons battled for dominance.
However, now the mountains have been tamed. The harsh, wet and slippery crag and the steep, fractured mountainside is now bordered by opaque, monochrome fern, that hides the rocky, fierce nature of the mountain. The birds are quiet. Their song now silenced by the exertions of feeding a number of broods. The spring flowers, such as Cow Parsley, Bluebell, Ransom and the delicate Dog Violet have long seeded and now faded back into the undergrowth. They have made way for the arrival of the pink and purple Foxgloves, golden Asphodel and Meadow Vetch. The fast flowing, steep falling streams have been muffled by the long, hot and dry summer days. Whilst insects, now in great hordes, hover over the drying pools and dance along the banks of the sluggish Becks.
Throughout the District farmers are busy hay making. They are rushing against the weather to cut the meadows before any rain. The air is filled with the sweet scent of cut grass, all manner of insects,swooping swallows and each bend in the road is accompanied by a large tractor pulling huge bails of mesh covered Hay. All the fields are now a dry patchwork of green, yellow and white. The air seems thicker, heavier and (in contradiction) everything seems slower.
Though it is only the end of June these are the markers heralding the end of summer, so I welcome them with some trepidation.