Birthplace

A few days ago I found myself driving along a Worcestershire hilltop and then turning into a small country lane that would take me down a steep road towards the farm where I was born.

I hadn't been back for a few years and it was a hugely emotional moment as memories of my childhood came flooding back. I had my daughter with me and it was the first time I had taken her there. After a good descent the road levels out at the farm to give superb views over towards Clee Hill that rises majestically from the distant Teme Valley and Tenbury Wells. The valley bottom is still much further on but here is a tiny hamlet here of one working farm, a chapel, a few houses and our 'farm'. The surrounding fields, mostly taken over by surrounding farms, now probably have little memory of the acres of apple trees that once stood on this quiet hillside. Although the house has been altered and the surrounding buildings are used for domestic/office uses or to stable horses, the essence of the place is still there. The first nine or so years of my life where spent in the great farmhouse and in the surrounding fields. Such freedom I then had to play and explore and to be part of the local farming community.

It is a life that seems so distant now. We all have to move on. Time does not hold us captive to anything but our thoughts and memories. We are transient in so many ways. I cannot relive my past. I can only experience the present in the context of past experiences. The farm was my birthplace, literally, and my formative childhood. It held me through those early experiences that made me who I am today. My journeying this year seems to be taking me to places that are emotionally thoughtful, longing for change/development and, hopefully, taking me to a more mature awareness of my path. Going back to my 'home' area is always a struggle emotionally as I seem to have a deep attachment to that part of the world. I probably have my father to blame for that! I feel as though I want to draw upon the energy it gives me, but I am not sure how to do that, or if it is right. It is a creative energy of poetry, art, growing/farming, landscape, growth, nature, and belonging. It can be easy to wish that some parts of life had been different and that we could choose an 'alternative universe', but we know we can't. I am here today, where I am, because that is how things are. How I face the future, that I can change or influence.

Visiting the farm was hard - perhaps I feel a deep sense of grief - but it was enlightening in a positive way. It gave me a sense of energy that if I want to change, I have to initiate it. I can't hang on to the past but I have to ensure that when all my 'presents' fade into the past, they enhance my memories and soul in a way that will make me feel that I have achieved something.

The Hovering Kestrel

I watched a Kestrel this morning. It was a warm and sunny morning and I had just entered a smallish field of rough meadow - full of tall grasses and flowers/plants. A kestrel hovered not far away. High above the field, at about tree top level, it was facing the oncoming warm breeze and making continual fine adjustments with the delicate fluttering of its wings. It would glide to a new location, hover, survey the ground below then move on a little. Then it would sweep back over the field to begin a new transect and begin its search from a new location. I watched it for around ten minutes before it moved away to perch in the nearby trees.

Is there a lesson an patience and perseverance here I wonder?

On reading a little on the web I discover that although hovering requires more energy than, say, gliding it can be more productive food wise. Apparently they can see into the ultra-violet which makes tracking the urine trails of their favourite food, the field vole, easier.

Song of a Robin

A robin sang beside me one recent evening, its song filling the cool, still and darkening air. Why, my friend, do you sing so close to me? Surely you can see me just a few feet away writing in my sketchbook, whilst you sing your presence from atop the trampoline safety net? You have chosen that spot from which to give the garden your song this evening. Your tuneful phrases weave through the other sounds that I notice: the sound of traffic, the rumble of aeroplanes at the airport, dogs barking, the songs of other birds in the neighbourhood, the subdued deep thump, thump of next door's party music and the chattering conversation of friends among friends.

I hardly noticed you at first, but now I am aware of you. Your song was almost too loud and sharp for me to focus upon, but now I welcome you as your presence seems almost incompatible with the man-made sounds of man in the landscape. But then you choose to depart, to leave your perch and head for the top of a nearby tree; and then you are gone. You gave me a moment of peace and otherness that only nature can bring. You leave me a memory that lingers on amongst the other discordent sounds of the evening.

Bracken

The woodland floor is damp from the morning rain. The soft mass of leaf litter and other decaying organic matter forms a cool carpet beneath the tall oaks. I sit facing a small clearing and look out over the tall bracken that arises from the earth and uncurls towards the sky. Its dark green stems rise straight up with large fronds branching out horizantally. The apex is formed by a tight mass of intricately curled up new growth that will rapidly unwrap into the woodland space. Now, at around 4ft tall, this mass of strong verticals contrasts with the diagonals and horizantals of nearby bramble plants which tangle through the field layer. These are perennial whereas the bracken will entirely die down to soil level at the end of each year.

I look more closely at the bracken stems. I did down into the deep leaf litter, and see where it arises from an bulbous part of the rhizome that reaches throughout, and deep into, the woodland floor. There can be a sizeable amount of the plant buried beneath the surface and we see only a superficial part of it. I break open one of the main stems. It is tough and can easily cut the skin. There It is made up of many large strong fibers which separate to reveal a thick syrupy sap that covers my fingers. There must be a large amount of moisture held within these young plants. Some of last years decaying stems are still standing and these are now dry and brittle and can easily be crushed in my fingers.

The large flat and spreading fronds begin to shade all the woodland floor - taking advantage of the available light before the leaf canopy fully forms above them. The fronds have a strong mid stem and then the soft and delicate parts of the leaf reach outwards. They are beautiful to touch. The outer edges of the fronds are a more yellowy green than the main parts of the frond. They are almost like huge feathers.

Bracken always feels cool and has a wonderful fragrance. I wonder what ecological value they have. I do some research on the internet at home and find out more details that I'm not going to repeat here.

They are plants of strength and beauty but, like the bramble, they persevere, they compete, they dominate and form an important part of the ecology where they are present by changing both micro and macro habitats in may ways. Here they will significantly add to the biomass of the woodland and through their decay will add to the organic matter in the ground layer. It has no predators and so is a great coloniser where conditions are right.

Hawthorns

We recently had a holiday in the small village of Farnborough just north of Banbury. It was mainly a time to be outdoors, going for walks and spend time with the family. I didn't find it easy to create space for anything really deep and meaningful. I had a few walks by myself, but these were mainly a time to just enjoy the exercise, to try and do some drawing and just to "be" away from the office. There was one moment on one of my walks when I really felt something tug at my deeper spiritual psyche and this is described here.

On a warm, sunny, still morning I find myself walking over a field of pasture with grazing cattle scattered around me. As I walk down off the top and over the crest of a small rise I come across a group of around fifty or so large hawthorn trees that seem to draw me into them. I wonder why these trees are still standing here? There is a patch of gorse not far away, but otherwise this is a large field of probably quite ancient pasture bounded by old and mature hedges. There is a farm just on one side of the field and I wonder if this patch of ground has a long history of settlement and a long disappeared more functional use. Did this patch of trees once cover the whole hill? Was there an old barn or house that once stood here? These trees feel like a site of antiquity and memory, but I seen not direct evidence of any building having been here.

Here is a place that draws me into its presence - to sit down at the base of a tree, to get out my sketchpad, to observe and to write.

The hawthorns stand amidst the new green spring grass, their heavy and fragrant blossom bright in the sunshine. Each tree has its own character and presence within the group. Their trunks are old and twisted - some single others an intertwining of multiple stems that form many variations in shape and form. It is like each tree has a different pattern to follow in its design. For some, the trunks rise straight up, others have gentle clockwise turns - some even seem to have knots with branches criss-crossing over and under each other. Some look like a thick rope of woven cords.

Hawthorns are often a symbol of dark and impenetrable hedges and thickets but here I can walk freely on the grassy openness between the trees. Here, cows will seek shelter from the sun or the rain and there may be rabbit holes here and there. The earth may be always damp and cool here. In winter, hawthorns can create an unwelcoming place with cold dark shapes, defensive thorns and bare soil beneath black rotting leaves.

Apart from a gentle breeze in the leaves and blossom this place makes little sound. In the distant hedges birds sing and the gentle murmur of the M40 a couple of miles away always intrudes on this landscape.

There is a solitary oak tree in from of my sitting place. Like the hawthorns it is misshapen and seems out of place here. Its main trunk lies at around 45 degrees and then divides into double trunks, one of which bend down to the ground. The churned up mud at its base shows that it is used as a scratching post by the cattle and, indeed, there are patches where the bark has been totally removed.

I touch the trunk of one tree, examining it more closely. Devoid of the sharp thorns that cover the branches and twigs the bark is soft and warm and strongly textured - home to spiders and other invertebrates.

A small group of buttercups add a touch of yellow to the ground which is strewn with cowpats, fallen blossom and hoof holes in the soft earth. Perhaps a small spring arises here, just enough to dampen the soil.

A few chaffinches dart amongst the branches around me, singing unseen.

I give thanks to the place and leave. I don't know why this place attracted me. Some places just seem to be a source of inspiration. For me, it isn't usually a beautiful view that inspires me or something else of wonder in the natural world. It is sensing something in what could be very ordinary and missed by many people. Perhaps it was just the shape and form of the trees that I perceived as something unusual; perhaps it was a sense of discovery; or perhaps a deep tuning in to a moment when the boundaries between spiritual worlds became thin.

* * * * *

Later on my walk I pass within about six feet of two young fox cubs staring a me from an earthen hole in a bank under a hedgerow.

As I stand in a wheat field, a hare appears and walks towards me, stopping every so often to eat a leaf of the growing wheat. Motionless I watch it. It almost seems oblivious to me and quietly passes by about ten feet away. Another close encounter with a hare.

Wheelbarrow Oven

Today I built a small oven in the garden. I had salvaged some bricks from a recent bit of wall demolition in the garden and I used these, plus some chicken wire and tiles, to build a small oven on my wheelbarrow. The wheelbarrow I obtained from a pile of fly-tipping on a local road last year and yesterday I had bought a bag of charcoal from Croft Castle in Herefordshire. I made some bread dough and was successful in baking four bread rolls and also cooking a barbeque for the family evening meal. Although only a small oven, it worked very well but I need to be more careful about stabilising the temperature. The first two rolls took an hour to cook whereas the second two burnt in under 20 minutes! The barbeque worked well: sausages, home-made burgers, warmed ciabatta rolls and a fresh salad.

I had been wanting to do something like this for a long time and, as I am currently thinking about the element 'Fire', this was an ideal project to attempt.

Drumming on Croft Ambrey

On Sunday 3rd May at about 8.30am I arrived at the car park at Croft Castle. It was empty which was a good sign as I thought I might then have the chance to be up on the hill by myself. It is the Bank Holiday weekend and there will soon be many people visiting the castle and the hill.

I walk up to the top of the woods and take off my walking boots and socks. The long dew-covered grass which I first walk though is freezing cold but on the main path the shorter grass and dry earth is much more comfortable. I have my drum with me and I begin a meditation walk that takes me up to the hillfort, around the main rampart and up onto the top of the hill. It is cool, but the sunshine is bright and clear between the clouds. It is an amazing morning. The light is so clear and the colours are beautiful. I look carefully at the views, trees and the landscape around me as I walk slowly and steadily, carried by the gentle beating of the drum. The drum performs superbly in the warming sunshine. Its sound seems to resonate with the wood of the trees. I watch a buzzard in the distance and try and work out how to mirror its flight with my drum. This is a wonderful place to be and, as I complete my playing and meditation, the first of other walkers start appearing on the footpaths around the hill. I set my camera up on a sock and walking boot and take some pictures of myself with my drum.

I wonder when the last time a drum was heard in this landscape. I am sure it would have been common in Iron Age times, but who else has drummed up here? It is a superb location to listen, to watch, to observe and to meditate. The views from the hill are magnificent and, on a bright spring morning like today when the leaves are coming out and the landscape is in full spring awakening, they are probably at their best.