Croft Castle

After a cold, wet and windy start to the weekend the weather improved enough to enjoy springtime for a day and a half at Croft Castle recently. I was probably a week or so too early to enjoy the full beauty of the bluebells and wild garlic. Bluebells were everywhere though and the gorse was in full bloom where it had colonised the areas of the woods cleared a few years ago. I wonder how the National Trust are going to keep the spread of brambles at bay? The walled garden looked beautiful with apple blossom, wisteria, clematis, tulips and lots of other flowers in bloom.

Flowers: opposite-leaved saxifrage, violet, wood anemone, gorse, bluebell, wild garlic, wood speedwell and others (I knew I should have made notes, I got distracted by the shear pleasure of being out on a walk).

Birds: coal tit, buzzard, nuthatch, robin, blackbird, wren, treecreeper, possible song thrush singing, greater spotted woodpecker, small tweety things, black cap, grey wagtail, chiffchaff, pigeon/crows and I am sure a few other things.

Hopton Castle

It is 7am on a Saturday morning in early September and I am parked at Hopton Castle in South Shropshire. According to the information board this is thought to have once been a high status tower house rather than an actual castle due to rather undefendable position in the bottom of a valley. It is cloudy wth a slight drizzle with mist on the hills. Pigeons coo around me. I hear the occasional tit, crow, wren, chiffchaff and cow. A stream gently murmers nearby.

I didn't enjoy the drive up yesterday afternoon as motorway congestion held me up for an hour but once I was near Tenbury Wells I was happier. The hop harvest seems well underway with tell-tale tractor tracks of the rich red soil mark roads leading from the roadside hop yards to the picking machines.

Up on black hill near Clun I stop at one of my favourite views for tea. After a glorious summer of warmth and sunshine I seem to have travelled up here to see the arrival of autumn. Here, the hills of the Welsh border stretch out westwards into mix of rain bearing cloud and mist. It is surprisingly windy up here and the car is buffeted by the gusts and my gas stove struggles to heat my beef casserole. On my way up here I didn't notice any uncombined fields. Here though, on a nearby hill about a mile away, a green combine slowly completes one final field under the threat of the looming dark clouds. Nearby the road is lined rowan trees laden with deep red berries and there is a beautiful mix of dead grasses, docks and other foliage along the roadside.

I spent the evening just listening to the wind around me in the trees where I had parked up for the night. Just for a few hours I can create a space where I can forget about time and the pressure it places on my daily life and work.

The rain arrived sometime in the middle of the night and once the dawn arrived I moved on to Hopton Castle from where I could begin my day.

Darkness

I find myself back on Hopton Titterhill in Shropshire on a late November night. It feels uncharacteristicly warm with a soft gentle breeze and there is no need for a coat. It is dry, but misty and overcast. I have been up here on moonlit nights and seen the landscape for miles around me but tonight it feels quite different. There is a heavy silence amongst the trees apart from a slight murmur of the conifers. I have to make a phone call and I almost feel ashamed to be speaking out loud. I am so conscious of every sound I make and so speak in a soft voice almost as if I don't want anyone to hear me and yet there are no people around to listen in. I go on a short walk and almost feel deafened by my munching on a chocolate digestive biscuit. It becomes all I can hear and I horridly finish my snack so that I can be aware of the subtleties of my surroundings. I venture along a track and out into a field. I had been planning to go for a longish night walk all week but, now I am here, the darkness forms an almost impenetrable blanket and I somehow don't feel confident to safely walk very far - and I haven't got a torch. Why? Well it feels wrong to use one when there is natural light at night; it pushes the night-time experience into the shadows and also immediately announces where I am to anyone for miles around.

I stand in the field and look around me. All the trees and hedgerow vegetation are just a solid, indefinable matt black. The sky, track and field are just a subtle shade lighter. It is almost impossible to make out and define any objects right in front of me and I have to feel my way over a gate and fence. We always seem to want to push darkness out of our lives and, when it is present, fill it with uncertainty, story, fantasy and fear. My mind is full of past images from films and tv and I have to try and reassign these thoughts to the back of my mind and readjust to being in a landscape that is exactly the same as it is during the light of day but just has the absence of light. We take night and day for granted but here I just want to experience and appreciate the difference that, out here, isn't defined by man-made time-keeping and calendars but is a natural phenomena that our planet experiences.

Owls hoot and screech in the woods. I always seem to hear them here. An occasional aeroplane rumbles far above me but otherwise it does feel awfully quiet.

"Look at Me".

The National Trust property, Croft Castle, is one of my favourite places to visit. Today found me sheltering in the cafe from a heavy rain shower and being inspired to draw the colourful drinks cabinet. The place was empty mid-morning, but at lunchtime it was packed out with visitors and I had to join a long queue to buy a BLT sandwich (which was worth the wait). I sat in the walled garden for a while and sketched the apple trees and then climbed up though Fishpool Valley up through the woods and onto the top of Croft Ambrey. The conifers have started to be felled here and a forestry machine was making short work of felling, cleaning and slicing the long tall trunks into shorter sections. The earlier mist of the morning had completely dissipated and there were magnificent views all over the Welsh borderland. As I walked back down to the castle the sunlight was spectacular. It was now late afternoon and the light was taking a golden turn beneath a clear sky. As the trees are well into turning colour, the scenery around me was spectacular. There was hardly any breeze and, with the sun low in the sky all colours, shapes and changes of light seemed to be accentuated to give a breathtaking beauty to everything.

If ever there could be a day in which Nature (God?) was saying "Look at Me" then today must be one of those days. It was day that brought a sea of mist, dramatic clouds and showers and a golden evening's sun. It showed me lots of wildlife from woodpeckers to deer. It showed me numerous different trees from the apple trees in the walled garden to the colourful hornbeams that I sketched. It showed me a landscape of hills and valleys. This was a reminder that we live on a planet where by the forces of nature will always continue to do their own thing. Mankind will, seemingly, never cease to evolve into a species that alienates itself from the natural world and seeks a selfish "I can do whatever I want" attitude with disregard for one another, other cultures and civilisations. We seem intent on destabilising communities and countries by greed, fundamentalism and selfish ideologies with no regard for a bigger Earthen picture or philosophy.

Sunrise, Hopton Titterhill, Shropshire.

The sheltered valley in the woods is surrounded by birdsong as I walk up Hopton Titterhill. It feels like a spring morning. As I climb higher through the trees their song gives way to the fine chirps of possibly tits and goldcrests that inhabit the conifers. I find a place to sit and I have only just got here in time.

The sky above is mainly a flat sheet of cloud with a few break here and there to the pale blueness above. This is reflected in the valley below me by a carpet of mist, an almost perfect blanket of white that fills the whole Vale of Wigmore and extends as far north as I can see up towards Church Stretton. It looks like a frozen lake before me, so distinct at its edges and so smooth. The sun, with a bright pale orange light, briefly emerges a little way above the horizon through a gap in the cloud layer lighting up the edges of the distant mist, before being shrouded in grey again.

The mist is moving slowly in the valley. All the hills above a certain hight have stood proud of the mist. Clunbury hill, that about ten minutes ago looked like a perfect island of green fields and topmost trees surrounded by water, has now almost vanished under a mist tsunami. The forecast had a been right to predict a mist and so I had anticipated a dull, damp morning with no promise of a sunset. This is magnificent. As I write, so Clunbury Hill has now reappeared again and the horizon is lit by golden rays of light emerging from the gently moving clouds. The light intensifies and I am now in morning sunshine. A the sunlight changes and evolves with the movement of the clouds so large areas of the sea of mist are lit up before me. These constantly move and change as it there is a giant spotlight that tracks over the landscape - randomly appearing in selected areas.

A greater spotted woodpecker taps away at on old tree stump about fifteen metres away. Small birds are chirping everywhere around me, unseen in the trees, and a blackbird sings out over the hillside. Later on I saw some deer on one of the forestry tracks.

During yesterday's long drive I was wondering whether I should make these trips in the future. When I spend my whole day glued to a computer screen it takes a while to adjust to this new perspective of being in the landscape. Sitting here, looking out over the mist and hills just forces me to stop and readjust to a different world.

Sunset on Black Hill, Clun.

It may have been a bit of a mistake to try and take a Friday afternoon off work today but I have been trying to get up to my homeland for a few weeks. I am, thankfully I suppose, incredibly busy at work and a major bit of work landed on my desk just a few hours before leaving which, because of the nature of it, ruffled a few of my feathers. Still, I sorted it all out by 2.15pm and then drove for just over three hours through showers and bright autumn sunshine up to Black Hill near Clun, Shropshire. A favourite parking place rewarded me with a place at which to cook tea and a have an extensive view over the Welsh hills to the sun on the horizon and the remainder of the storm clouds. I've watched several sunrises and sunsets here in the past and as I then walked up onto the hill I was rewarded with a gorgeous amber light, salmon clouds and a tranquil landscape. My focus for much of the past week has been intense concentration at my computer screen and now, here, I felt an openness and space that I have been longing several weeks for. After a short walk, the light seemed to be disappearing rapidly. It was a very still evening with just the gentlest of breezes beneath a clearing star-filled sky. It was cool but not at all cold. Where the sun had set some clouds had edges lined with deep pink and a little later there was a large block of deep grey shapes that lingered behind the distant hills. I wondered if they were rain clouds heading this way.

Saw a distant dear and a quick glimpse of what was possibly a woodcock silhouetted against the sky amidst some conifers. A tawny owl hoots and its call echoes throughout the woods. It is good to see the hills again; to smell the damp bracken; to see tall conifers; to hear the bleating of sheep in distant fields and to drive, twisting and turning along the step narrow lanes with revealing beautiful views. I see a shooting star in the sky and the gentle twinkling lights of very high aeroplanes. Condensation drips gently from trees around me. There is no total escape from noise of man though. I can hear the occasional car and the heavenly rumble of the aeroplanes.

I probably manage to get up here about once a year as it is on the distant edge of my homeland haunts. It is the conifers that seem to mark the passage of time more than most things for me. I notice their growth over the years and how felled areas are replanted and new trees fill the landscape. I look forward to the time when the trees around the car park at Hopton Hill are felled to reveal the views once again, but I think that may not be in my lifetime.

Womb of Rain

August Bank Holiday Monday and it poured with rain all day. A walk through a deserted local park found me walking under some large trees that provided some shelter and for an hour or so this evening I was in the shed listening to the rain drumming on the metal roof. Both of these events reminded me of some of my journal writing from a couple of weeks ago. The following is adapted from the pages I wrote that evening:

This [the shed] is a place of peace and the rain is pouring down outside quite heavily. I am sure it is not just a shower and a strong breeze flows through the garden. It all sounds beautiful [a word that I am dwelling on quite a bit in my thoughts] and the rain is getting heavier and the sound louder. My thoughts are almost becoming drowned out by the torrential downpour and the breeze blowing in through the open door carries smell of damp earth and vegetation. And I just want to write about this beautiful place as the rain thunders down. I remember being up on a hill near Leintwardine sheltering in some old isolated farm buildings during a rain storm. I was outside - but in a place of shelter. Somewhere where I could experience the elements of nature and have my senses awakened to the weather but yet be out of the wind and in the dry. There are many times when I have enjoyed sitting in the car either at lunchtime or when out and about and and it has rained. The sound of rain is all dimensional - all around me - almost comforting as if I am in a womb of safety. I have never thought back to how I might have felt in my mother’s womb before. Of course, I don’t consciously remember it but there must be some vestigial sub-conscious recollection of those formative first nine months of my life. It must have been an odd feeling to be surrounded by water, not breathing, but yet to be alive. It is amazing how we start off our lives surrounded by water yet as soon we are born that environment can be deadly to us as well as water being vital for the continuation of life.

My future lies in the outside rain, in the seasons, but at the moment I just listen to the rain - the sound of it on the roof, dripping off plants and flowing in the gutters. Here I am in the dry - sheltering from the outside elements - like a baby in a womb.

Snowdrops

To me, February has often felt to be a rather 'flat and black' month. If there has been snow then the ground level vegetation lies flattened against the wet earth and fallen leaves form carpets of black rotting matter. This year, a mild spell at the beginning of January gave way to a period of cold snowy weather which has now dramatically gone and given way, almost overnight, to much warmer conditions so the ice and snow has virtually disappeared.

I am sitting amongst a patch of creaking hawthorns on Pegsdon Hill sheltering from the blustery wind. There is almost a gale blowing up here on the hill with only a breeze further down. Looking out over the flatlands of southern Bedfordshire patches of sunlight are appearing in the haze and a blueness is clearing the clouds away above me.

New spring life is visible. I've passed clumps of snowdrops just begging to open along the roadsides. Wild arum leaves and dog's mercury are pushing their way up into the sunlight and elder leaves are appearing too. I passed a garden full of the yellow flowers of winter aconite and I wonder if this February will be more alive this year.

Later in the afternoon I sat in the summerhouse where it felt quite warm in the sunshine. The garden is quite sheltered from the wind and it felt very Spring-like as I sat there after pruning a few of the shrubs and clearing up a little. Daffodil bulbs are just beginning to break thought the surface of some tubs I have planted up.

Roses

Hedgerow full of wild roses near to where I work. Seem very prolific this year.

Landscape of Ice

North Herefordshire, 11 February 2012
Morning walk: Lyepole/Paradise Bridge - Sned Wood - Lower Lye - Barnett Wood - The Camp - Upper Lye. Afternoon walk: Shobdon Hill Wood.

Riverside Dawn
I arrive at Paradise bridge at around 5.30am on a cold, frosty morning. There is a small stream tumbling off the hillside and I park the car by this so that I can listen it as I doze in the car for an hour or so. The moon is bright and the landscape far from dark. It is bitterly cold and a hard frost has brought ice to everything. Apparently there was a slight dusting of snow yesterday and now, under the moonlight, the hills and fields reveal their silhouettes even though the sun will not rise for another hour or so.

The last couple of weeks have been very cold with snow and frost in many parts for the country. I left home in Bedfordshire yesterday with several inches of snow on the ground and had decided not to camp out in the car overnight this time just in case it was too cold. I actually felt cosy as I lay back in the car for I had piled on the layers and covered my legs and feet up well to keep warm.

A gentle breeze bites through me as I walk out into the brightening landscape. Some cloud obscured the moon a little while ago but the day is forecast to be clear and sunny. The blue-grey hazy hills around me look stunning against the grey sky and pale frosty fields. This is a landscape I feel at home in, and one that draws me back time and time again. The river gurgles gently under the old stone bridge. Blackbirds begin to chatter and an occasional dipper flies by with its distinctive 'cheep cheep'. I always seem them here. After the warmth of January this cold spell is a reminder of how winter can take hold any time. February often used to seem a dark and dead month in my younger days - the very end of the past year before nature springs to life. But now signs of spring can be found earlier each year. All is very still around me. It is almost as it the frost comes and asks all to "stand still". A leaf hanging above me on an oak tree just moves very slightly in the soft breeze. The river and stream move, but otherwise everything just seems to be as still as it can. I hear a few tits nearby.

The sky brightens and clouds in south east have pale pink bases but it will be a while yet before this place in the shadow of the hills will see the rays of the sun. I saw otters here a few years ago but I don't feel I will see any today. The river water looks cold and uninviting. The surrounding fields are empty of sheep; I hear a buzzard up above me over Sned Wood; I hear a woodpecker drumming in the distance; pigeons fly past very so often, always from east to west - presumably leaving their night's roost. All the conifers on Mere Hill and Shobdon Hill Wood are outlined in frost and look very decorative. This is a beautiful place and I always look forward to returning to this part of the country. It isn't a stunningly dramatic place but it was a subtle attraction that I never tire of. Later I watch a heron fly slowly over the riverbank keeping low to the ground and then heading downstream just a few feet above the water. Eventually the sun rises above Mere Hill Wood and the landscape is bathed in the pale golden light. Colours awake and the cold seems to become less intense. I think a kingfisher flies past, not that I see it but I'm sure I recognise its call. There are several blue tits in an ash tree by the bridge.

Hills of Ice
I climb up the 'scenic' route onto the forestry track along the edge of Sned Wood. This involves a rather steep, nearly impossible, informal climb straight up the side of the hill through the trees. I disturb a woodcock which takes off through the trees - I see one later in the day too. This is one of the few hills I have never walked over before even though it is mostly forestry land. The heavy frost covers the ground and everywhere is covered with beautifully big ice crystals. My footsteps crunch through the dead leaves with a seemingly deafening sound amidst the silence. I don't like making a noise in nature, it always seems un-natural and inappropriate.

At the top of the hill I stand in the more open space between the oaks and look around. The sunshine pours through the trees. Suddenly I become aware of the ice that surrounds me, not just the crystals of frost that cover the ground, but actual ice. Against the sun on the larches I notice how every twig is covered with a thin layer of ice - sparkling brightly in the sun like long necklaces of diamonds hanging from every branch. Yesterday's snow must have partly melted and then refrozen overnight. Grasses too are covered with icy jewels and even a cobweb looks like it is threaded with diamonds. I walk on and come to a silver birch - its deep red-brown branches and twigs are totally encased in brittle tubes of ice. On one branch, a patch of lichen inside a rounded blob of ice looks just like a round glass paper weight. Around me I can begin to hear the gentle drip of water as the ice begins to melt on the trees. (Later on in the day I walk up onto Shobdon Hill Wood which is a bit more wild and exposed. The scenery here was very dramatic with huge great swathes of the natural landscape covered with ice. Everything from grasses to each pine needle of entire conifer plantations were covered with a deep layer of ice. It was just like the whole landscape had been dipped into a pool of molten glass to create a brittle glass encapsulated sculpture.

Up on this hill today it is all about water and light. There is a sense of beauty and awe at the interplay between these two elements. There is the way that the frost lies on the landscape - what it touches and what it doesn't. Shapes and forms that may normally go unnoticed become highlighted. The shapes of twigs, the broad flat expanses of the fields in the valley, the outlines of leaves, the way the sunlight passes through the tall trees, the brightness of the sun on the frost, the darkness of damp tree trunks and the dazzling effect of the ice on natural surfaces.

Four Oak Trees
The trees stand in grazing pasture on the edge of a small hill in a quiet valley, surrounded by wooded hillsides. Icicles hang from the larger branches and I can hear the dripping melt-water in the warming sunshine. A robin hops from branch to branch near me as I sit on the grass and look at these silent friends. Its presence seems unusual in this setting and it the bears the only colour red in the landscape. Silently they stand, there is no wind today. I'm used to seeing and hearing trees when a wind makes their presence more noticeable, here we are both meditating upon each other in a landscape that breathes silence. The robin watches me and a blue tit flits among higher branches looking for things to eat. These are superb trees, probably once part of an old hedge that has long since gone as they stand out in the open but only a short distance on from, and in line with, a small trackway I have just walked down. Apart from the chirping of birds, the dripping of water, buzzard and a small stream down in the valley bottom there is no sound. The lichens on the branches are bright green in the strong sunlight and new buds are just waiting for the spring. In isolation, trees are so much more stunning and their shape, form and presence is so much more tangible. I just sit and look, being aware of their composition and presence in this landscape. I give thanks to whoever has left them here over the years to grow. Fortunately this is steep sheep pasture and unlikely to be ploughed or cleared. These trees have given to me today a gift of deep presence in a fairly hidden valley.

January Blooms

Today was warm. Warm for January anyway - probably about 10-12 degrees C. I had a little walk at lunchtime and was quite happy to be out without a coat, hat or cloves. The high winds of last week have given way to a relatively mild week. Over the past couple of weekends I've been out gardening - weeding the allotment; pruning and cutting back shrubs and plants in the garden and general tidying up and odd bits of landscaping. There seem to be ladybirds hiding everywhere.

In Devon over just before New Year saw the occasional daffodil, crocus, celandine, herb robert, red campion, dandelion, white deadnettle and blackberry in flower.

Walking through the garden at Castle Drogo on the north side of Dartmoor almost felt like being somewhere in early spring. There seemed to be so many bushes in bud - quite subtlety in most cases yet it felt significant and as if the plants were about to awaken from dormancy.

On the allotments yesterday saw marigolds and wallflowers in bloom. Felt like it was time to plant seeds and potatoes - but that should be another couple of months away!

Forsythia flowers, early cherry (?) blossom and wild arum leaves also seen.

Painting the Landscape

The landscape before me is like a thin covering of paint covering the surface of the earth. It is thin, fragile, possibly applied with care and thought and frequently admired by observers. Given the right tools, as with most paint coverings, it can easily be removed. Technology has enabled us to emulate nature's form and texture within 3D animation software and here a pixelated landscape can be manufactured to mimic and exaggerate natural processes and structures. Yet the one thing it does not able to have is an actual organic life to enable it to live and exist independently. The real landscape is set before me - the painted surface of nature and life that has been applied to an inorganic substrate. All this is life. The trees, the grasses, the soil - it all exists as a living ecological system. And we can sit and admire the painting and wonder at the mysteries of the painter.

As I sit against a tree sheltered from the cold wind, I am aware of the contact that I have with the ground, and this ground extends way from me connecting all places on the planet. I feel connectedness and grounded - part of the trees and all that surrounds me - and then when I am back on my bike and moving off into the winter sunshine I am free to go wherever I am able.

On a day like today, when the sunlight and clouds dance above the transparentness of the winter's day, the light create new visual textures and forms that are transient and beautiful. The painting is alive with imbued creativity.

How do we look beyond the painting? Is it just a thing of temporal beauty or is there more to it than that? How do we look to honouring, resoecting and working with this created form and not just use it in an act of consumerism?

Where are the true wisdom seekers and visionaries who can develop a sound framework of leadership, economic stability and spiritual depth that can be accepted by people in this post-modernist world. Is the fragmentation of culture, religion and society sustainable? How can we be brought together to form new ways of living that can become more honouring to the planet upon which we live. How can we protect ourselves from ourselves and the future? You can't just sit back, look at the painting and say "God will save me - I can't deal with all this big picture, long term or vaguely spiritual stuff". That is just ignoring the ability we have as humans to find within us the spiritual strength to take control of our personal development and any responsibility for our actions that may be affecting this earth. Denial of the intrinsic value of our fragile earth is self-indulgent escapism, sinful and ignores the possibility that Jesus could have a salvific effect on nature. His blood, after all, may have touched the wooden cross - a symbol of the natural world perhaps.

What does Christmas mean?

When you sit alone - amongst a landscape of trees that twist, cream and sway in the strong wind that is powering over the hillside - what does Christmas mean? It isn't quite a gale, but the warm buffeting wind has brought greyness and occasional spots of rain to an otherwise bright and sun-filled week. Here I am, sheltered from the turbulence that breathes restlessly around me, feeling the landscape beneath my feet stretch away down the hillside and out towards places where Christmas dwells in homes and towns. The landscape doesn't know Christmas. It gives us the essentials for our life and yet Christmas seems a self-centered indwelling of the human spirit that has no connection with what I am experiencing here. Yet the birth of Jesus, from a cosmological perspective, began the salvation of the earth from the sinfullness of consumerism that may ultimately destroy it. For us humans this highlight of the year is meaningless to the trees around me - they are oblivious to the Christcentric revolution that occured on earth in human culture two thousand years ago. Christmas fails to acknowledge the ecology of our fragile biosphere unlike the more pagan and celtic festivals that honour the rhythm of the seasons and the interdependence of man and nature.

I have, for a few hours, escaped the need to be part of Christmas. I am surrounded by it at work and at home but up here it has changed its meaning. Yet if the message of Christmas is the birth of love, then that is what it does mean to me - love for all those around me and the giving that I partake in signifies that. On days like this I can give myself to the landscape in an offering of presence and awareness that I would like to believe it appreciates. Its gift to me is one of beauty, peace, life, salvation and light. Light. For now, at this one moment in the whole day, the sun has just appeared through the greyness to touch the fields and trees around me with a faint wash of brightness and colour. But as soon as I see blueness between the clouds above it, it begins to fade and the heavy greyness recovers its ground.

* * *

I see two ladybirds on the ground beside me. There have been many this autumn. They look cold and tired.

A Warm Autumn

It is only in the last few days that there has been a more significant chill in the air and a touch of frost on the ground in the mornings. November has been relatively mild, especially when compared to the freezing conditions we had around this time last year. We've hardly needed to put the heating on at home yet.

The photo was taken a couple of days ago one lunchtime on a walk over fields near to where I work. It was a bright sunny day and it was a mistake to have taken a coat with me as it was milder than I was expecting. Exposed soil on the fields was totally dry in places though very moist in shaded parts by woodland. Last weekend I moved around some plants in the garden because the soil was so easily workable. We haven't had any significant rain here in the South East for many months and there are news reports of the drought continuing well into next year. We have had rain this year, but nothing like the quantity required to replenish ground water supplies.

Dreams in the Landscape

On autumnal earth, with leaves that have become a memory of summer, the trees reach for the cosmic light of creation, presently obscured by deep grey haze that softens the landscape around me. The shedding of leaves is like a bowing before the creative authority - a recognition that submission to the winter is a price to pay for the beauty and wonder of the life of the year past. A relaxation of energy, as if an exhalation of breath before the biting of the forthcoming winter.

Slowly, from the revealed branches, whispers of colour descend to the silent earth. The gentle chatter of leaves in the cool breeze is the only movement. Taller branches sway almost imperceptively.

Be still, like my companions.

A ladybird: the first of many that I'll see today enjoying the autumnal warmth and later sunshine. I hear a distant skylark, crows and nearby a wren, a flock of tits and pheasants.

Be still like my companions.

I sit and wait, how different to the intenseness of the digital world that shapes our lives. There, energy produces the light of display screens through which we interact. Here, light produces the embodied energy of the wood with whom I interact. In the ten or so minutes that I have sat here little has changed. A subtle change of light perhaps. A new fallen leaf on the ground before me perhaps. Yet the same time passing on a tv screen would have thrown a multitude of mesmerising images towards me. Here, the millions of leaves are my pixels.

Dreams in the landscapes - the words that came to me just as I approached this place to write - seem a little out of place. And yet here in this landscape I can have dreams. Dreams that are just as valid as those that technology presents to me. Perhaps it is to do with expectations - resolved and unresolved, surprises, discoveries - dreams can be formed in both worlds. You have to shift your perspectives and expectations. Dreams are about taking hold of the imagineable and creating reality. Perhaps the tress can do this as much as a computer screen can. I wonder if they know that?

Spring 2011

11 April 2011:

• Bees and Bumblebees
• Ladybirds
• Bluebells beginning to flower in woods
• Tulips in the garden, daffodils just past their best
• Parsnips, beetroot, carrots, leeks sown in allotment
• Spring cabbage and lettuce plants bought and planted
• Potatoes in ground a couple of weeks ago
• Tomato, courgette, squash, red cabbage, purple sprouting, lettuce and herb seeds sown under cover
• White blossom everywhere
• Occasional butterflies
• Sunburn and hot sunshine
• No rain for many weeks
• Watering wilting plants and germinating seeds
• Meals in garden
• Summerhouse too hot
• Nettle and bean soup last weekend
• Amelanchier in blossom
• Need rain to break up soil on allotment

Spring Equinox

Sage smoke, wafted from glowing embers invites and welcomes. Within the awaiting firelight, in silence we sit, the only voice comes from the pulse of a single drum beat. Beside me are vases of tulips. Although the flower heads have closed in the cold dark air, their presence is a symbol of the energy of spring that is now evident in nature outside. My attention is drawn to the altar beside me and the still sculptured forms of the wood branches with adorning objects that hold intentions and desires. Behind, a weaving of fine artificial blossoms reminds me of oriental art and carries my thoughts to the suffering in Japan.

We await, around fifteen of us, amongst the stones, cushions, flickering light of the burning logs and candles beneath a clear bright moonlit sky that opens out beyond the skylight.

We are a microcosm of hope, peace, community and belonging in a seemingly present troubled world. The energy of spring brings hope and release, but also despair at the news that bites into our lives with tragedy.

As we begin to drum the energy that is released is a sign of our frustration, a need for change and a desire to send intention and prayer.

***

Do I treasure the magic or do I let it go?

Spring Healing

It seems a little hard to believe that it feels like Spring already and it is only the beginning of March. The intense cold spell that bit hard in December seems a long time ago. Much of February seemed dull and grey but now the sun has brought clear and warmer days with signs of new life emerging everywhere. I went out for a bike ride a few days ago and saw purple violets, dog's mercury, elder leaves, lots of buds, young nettles...etc. Skylarks were singing too. I even saw a bumble bee last week. The crocuses are well out in the garden and daffodils are out in warmer places.

I've felt a bit out of sorts the past few months but now that I have been out on my new allotment and in the garden and, what with the daylight now significantly longer, I feel much more energised and brighter. I know I suffer from anxiety and this tends to tie my stomach up in knots. It feels pathetic really as I am sure it is just a pshychological reaction to life around me. I'm determined to break though it with personal development skills. I'm sure that much of it is due to the fact that I sit in front of a computer all day and it induces a sort of build up of energy in me that has no-where to go. I was also listening to a podcast the other day all about how unresolved emotional problems can leads to physical symptoms of illness. This feels somehow right to me but I have seen my Doctor about as a precaution (but the pills won't really solve the root cause). I know the body has a huge capacity to heal and restore and I need to work out how to tap into and encourage that process.

Spring is about new birth, energy, creation, light, production, growth, preparation and Cosmic love. I could do with some of that please...!

Must do some more writing - that is all about new birth, energy, creation, light, production, growth, preparation and Cosmic love too.

Up on Clun Forest

Last weekend I made a trip to Clun Forest right on the Welsh/Shropshire border. I had hoped to spend the time doing more writing than I did as I had planned it as a sort of retreat and a re-energising of my spirit. However, as usual, my precious time away whizzed by and it was easier just to enjoy the presence of being there rather than force anything that didn't want to flow. Here are some notes I made at the time with reflections added upon their write up. I wasn't going to write them up, but I am forcing myself to do so.

It is Friday evening, about 6.45pm and I am up in Clun Forest. I took the afternoon off work and about three and a half hours later I am overlooking the hills and valleys to the north west of Clun. It took me a while to decide where to park the car. It was a bit windy and the forestry tracks seemed to be well used by a variety of visitors and so finding a sheltered and 'safe' place was a priority. I found a place that felt right and cooked a small tin of stew and new potatoes on my gas stove.

Although breezy, it wasn't too cold. It was cloudy with patches of occasional sunshine. The views north were good with distant grey rain showers shrouding patches of the landscape. The last time I came up here was with my Father and that was the last time I would be with him. I remember the fine clear day gave us views right into the farthest distance and we were wondering if we could see Cadair Idris in North Wales.

As I write my notes the sky is clearing a little and the initial hazy moon is now bright in the clearing sky. It must be a full moon about now. The wind is still strong in the tall conifers beside me and I am sheltering in the car to preserve as much of my body warmth as possible. I can almost write by the moonlight, it seems so bright.

I haven't written much formally on this blog for many months though I have tried to get back into journalling. However, writing for 30 to 45 minutes a day is hard work and very time consuming. My mind seems to have wandered away from so much of my 'greenary'. Perhaps it is because work is so much more challenging and taking fulfilling many of my creative needs and energy. Also, I haven't been in places where I have been truly inspired. 'Nature time' seems more rushed and precious these days and the demands of everyday life seem to have taken over. Somehow I feel rather disconnected - and particularly after my permaculture course too, which is a bit odd. A reinforcement of green and ecological thoughts and values seems to have overloaded me and I've had to step back from it all. Bit bizarre and I'm not too sure where I am going... I hope that this weekend will be a turning point but I know I can't force anything - and I am on my own anyway.

I go for a walk. I forget how light it can be when the moon is out. I pass some trees and notice the different sounds that the wind makes in different trees. Conifers give a high pitched whooshing; beeches have a frenetic rustling of leaves; whilst some plain leafless trees in the hedgerow give an almost deep drumming sound.

A large aluminium foil baking tray makes an ideal small fireplace for me and I soon succeed in getting a small fire burning with some charcoal and a few small sticks. I am amazed at how much heat even a small fire gives out and I feel quiet cosy sitting beside it even though the wind is quite gusty. As the flames die to leave the constant changing patterns of the glowing embers in the breeze reflects the cloud moving in front of the moon. Always changing, always creating new patterns.

A group of people walk past - a couple of adults and a few children. Hmm, quite a busy yet isolated spot!

My bike had to sleep in the undergrowth whilst I lay in the car (I'd left the back seats at home). It rained quite heavily in the night and I did manage a few hours sleep. I awoke fully at around 5am with moonlight streaming in to the car. I got up shortly afterwards and went for a walk eastwards along the Kerry Ridgeway. It was wonderful to be out walking by moonlight and looking northwards in the valley towards Montgomery. I enjoyed just walking slowly, knowing that it wouldn't be getting light for a good hour and a half or so. I could thus just 'be', listen to the landscape around me and know there was no need to rush the walk for any reason. The shapes of the trees and the moon produced many wonderful silhouettes and long shadows. I did a good circular walk of perhaps three miles or so and arrived back at the car just as daylight was flooding the hill around me.

I moved the car round to the other side of the hill for breakfast. The wind had died down and I now overlooked the hills to the south west. The sun lit landscape was full of autumn colours and sparkling raindrops coated coated all the grasses after the night's rain. A flock of redshanks (or some other waders) shared a nearby bit of moorland with some sheep.

I went for a superb bike ride this morning. I followed the forest road westwards along the Kerry Ridgeway then dropped down to Anchor. then headed southwest along the ridge of Black Mountain towards Clun, but turned down to Newcastle before a very steep climb back up onto Clun Forest and the car. It was probably around 15 miles or so and actually felt quite an easy ride, but then I did get off and push the bike down or up the very steep hills. Views were superb in the clear autumn sunshine and the coolness of the morning did make it a very pleasant cycling experience.

In the afternoon I drove on to Black Hill just south east of Clun for a walk and then on the Sunday morning I climbed up onto Croft Ambrey. Again this was another warm and bright sunny day with excellent autumn colours and views. It was just good to be out o both days getting some long needed exercise and fresh air. I have felt a bit bogged down recently and here was a rare opportunity to just get out and cycle and walk.

A Skylark Sings...

Another fall of snow subtly covers the high ground of the Pegsdon hills. It isn't too cold and although the sky is overcast northwards, on the flatter plain, patches of sunlight brighten the cold winter landscape. A skylark sings unseen in the bleakness. In a vaguely sheltered spot, sitting on a log, I look out at the landscape below me - tired of the long cold winter and dormant nature.

The landscape and I, we both seem to be waiting. Darkness, cold and uncertainty keep close and energy seems hidden and tired. Yet, possibly, change is waiting to greet us when the time is right and the spirit awakes. There may be, yet, unwelcome moments of cold - like this snow - that brings fear, uncertainty and hardship for all. But something is waiting, gathering momentum, gathering energy and awaiting an outworking.

I seem to be following the season of winter closely. I has been a long, dark and cold. I haven't written for several months as somehow my thoughts have been focused elsewhere. But although I have not written, I know that I have been carrying the spirit that is contained within my writing. It feels as though the learning effort that has journeyed with me through my blog is now carrying me though my landscape and into a new place.

I pray for continued blessing and deep wisdom as I travel along my path. The spring landscape is there before me, waiting.

The skylark sings unseen in the bleakness.

* * * * *

This was written a few days ago. Today I handed in my notice to my employer and will start a new job in a few weeks time. It is a very anxious and emotionally challenging time for me. It is about taking risks. I am having to say goodbye to the familiar, to close work colleagues and to a job that I have enjoyed very much. I have decided to move on with the main aim of personal development. Moving on is a risk, but so is staying put. I decided that I could no longer be complacent about my work environment and need to be proactive to seek continued development.

I remember in the autumn of 2008 specifically praying around a campfire with my drum for change. I often feel that things move slowly for me - cycles of a year seem to crop up. Now just over a year and bit later, I am now seeing the fruits of that prayer - so I believe.