In this chamomile place
I'm in your fragrance.
In this chamomile place
I'm in your breeze.
In this chamomile place
I'm in your light.
In this chamomile place
I'm in your earth.
I am, in this chamomile place.
Sunday, 24 June 2007
Monday, 4 June 2007
Making Music
For a long time I have been wanting to do a bit of drumming, but have never searched out a way to realise this desire. I've often looked at small drum thingys in fairtrade/alternative shops or at festivals but have never played any. The lack of a private, soundproofed room has put me off. Anyway the following happened yesterday whilst on a walk to Hitchin...
The hedgerows are full of the scent of elderflowers honeysuckle, bracken and wild roses. After all the rain recently, the present warmth is a welcome relief. I am walkling along a bridleway and snap a couple of overhanging dead twigs from a branch. This to me was just an almost intuitive action to seeing a sharp branch that could hurt a passing horse rider or cyclist if they fail to spot it. I am now holding two sticks, the longest only being about 12 inches. The desire to see what sound they make when I hit them together is too great an opportunity to pass by. Tap, tap. Just the sound of one sick hitting another. Plain and simple. But somehow on this spring day, the sound seems to belong in the landscape. It is a purely natural sound, like the tapping sound a woodpecker on an old tree would make. I tap out some rhythms as I walk along and I listen to the sound of wood on wood. I could make different sounds by hitting or holding the sticks differently. Simple sounds, yet beautiful sounds in the time and place where I walked. They belonged with me on this sunny warm day, amongst the trees, the hedges, the elderflowers and the honeysuckle. Perhaps this was how our ancestors created their first drum beats. I could have been the leader of a procession. I could have been a pilgrim, on a journey of meditation through the landscape. Later, I try different larger sticks and I am drawn into the music held within their being. It was indeed a act of meditation. To play, to create, to listen, to feel a part of something - it was my own small time of discovery, of enjoying the presence of simple music in Nature.
The hedgerows are full of the scent of elderflowers honeysuckle, bracken and wild roses. After all the rain recently, the present warmth is a welcome relief. I am walkling along a bridleway and snap a couple of overhanging dead twigs from a branch. This to me was just an almost intuitive action to seeing a sharp branch that could hurt a passing horse rider or cyclist if they fail to spot it. I am now holding two sticks, the longest only being about 12 inches. The desire to see what sound they make when I hit them together is too great an opportunity to pass by. Tap, tap. Just the sound of one sick hitting another. Plain and simple. But somehow on this spring day, the sound seems to belong in the landscape. It is a purely natural sound, like the tapping sound a woodpecker on an old tree would make. I tap out some rhythms as I walk along and I listen to the sound of wood on wood. I could make different sounds by hitting or holding the sticks differently. Simple sounds, yet beautiful sounds in the time and place where I walked. They belonged with me on this sunny warm day, amongst the trees, the hedges, the elderflowers and the honeysuckle. Perhaps this was how our ancestors created their first drum beats. I could have been the leader of a procession. I could have been a pilgrim, on a journey of meditation through the landscape. Later, I try different larger sticks and I am drawn into the music held within their being. It was indeed a act of meditation. To play, to create, to listen, to feel a part of something - it was my own small time of discovery, of enjoying the presence of simple music in Nature.
Monday, 28 May 2007
Edge of the Wood
Footpath near Ley Green, 26 May 2007
Where the lightness of the open sky meets the darkness deep within the trees,
Where the skylarks song meets the gentle clattering of the aspen leaves,
Where the bracken fronds unfurl their carpet beneath the slender pines,
Where the cool wind of the early morning meets the stillness of night,
Where the path divides the tall trees from the short cammomile, grass and beans,
Where the elderflowers light up the woodland edge with lights of white,
Where the muntjac leave shelter and venture into the expanse of the open,
This is the edge of the wood.
Where the lightness of the open sky meets the darkness deep within the trees,
Where the skylarks song meets the gentle clattering of the aspen leaves,
Where the bracken fronds unfurl their carpet beneath the slender pines,
Where the cool wind of the early morning meets the stillness of night,
Where the path divides the tall trees from the short cammomile, grass and beans,
Where the elderflowers light up the woodland edge with lights of white,
Where the muntjac leave shelter and venture into the expanse of the open,
This is the edge of the wood.
Blackbird Song
Ford Farm, Newent, May
I am standing at dusk beneath a silver birch just listening. Listening to the songs of a couple of blackbirds penetrating the enclosing darkness. Song so powerful, melody so different. Is it music? I don't hear such singing so obviously around home - it takes a holiday to be able to go out more freely into the countryside in the evenings and enjoy that time of day.
I am standing at dusk beneath a silver birch just listening. Listening to the songs of a couple of blackbirds penetrating the enclosing darkness. Song so powerful, melody so different. Is it music? I don't hear such singing so obviously around home - it takes a holiday to be able to go out more freely into the countryside in the evenings and enjoy that time of day.
Hello Fox
Ford Farm, Newent, 14 May
I am standing on a small narrow bridge where a footpath crosses a stream. I am surrounded by trees and wild garlic as I sketch the stream below. A rustling in the undergrowth, and a fox cub tentatively approaches me. There is a worn path through the ransomes over the bridge, presumably thye fox's own footpath. After a few minutes and a few wary advances the fox passes me only about a foot way and scampers off to the other side of the stream.
I am standing on a small narrow bridge where a footpath crosses a stream. I am surrounded by trees and wild garlic as I sketch the stream below. A rustling in the undergrowth, and a fox cub tentatively approaches me. There is a worn path through the ransomes over the bridge, presumably thye fox's own footpath. After a few minutes and a few wary advances the fox passes me only about a foot way and scampers off to the other side of the stream.
Rain, My Companion
A walk up onto Croft Ambrey, Sunday 13 May.
Pouring Rain, all day long. I walk up through Fishpool Valley, then cut up throught the woods onto the lower banks of Croft Ambrey.
I look at the colours on the woodland floor. Even in the rain the green colours seem so vivid and bright - even yellows that contrast with the greyness of the sky: spurge, dog's mercury, ferns... Such vibrancy, so many shades of green, they almost have a light of their own.
Then I pass into the conifer stands. The mist is almost purple between the near distant trees. Greens give way to the browns, oranges and the smell of pine.
I pass a sheet of corrugated iron, possibly an old pheasant shelter/feeder, propped up by a wooden frame and brambles. The face of a startled fox peers out from its dry shelter only about four feet away from me. Then off it runs through the dampness.
I exit the pines onto the lower edge of croft Ambrey - common land with new bracken unfolding. The air is still here on the sheltered side. Low cloud envelopes the hill. Quiet and still. The heavy scent of the surrounding hawthorn blossom fills the air - strong, damp, peaceful in the surrounding mist. I look at the hawthorn flowers close up. So beautiful - white, with pink anthers and silver drops of water.
I am alone on top of the hill.
Walking back down the track. I observe the rain falling on the oaks and other other broadleaves edgeing the stoney path. Water drips all around me, so close. And then I side-step into the pines - the sound is so much more diffuse, high above me the rain touches the top of the canopy - a more ethereal and distant sound that fills the larger space.
I have touched the cool rain. It has touched me. I am refreshed. The rain has become my companion on the lonely hill where few have tread on this very wet day.
Pouring Rain, all day long. I walk up through Fishpool Valley, then cut up throught the woods onto the lower banks of Croft Ambrey.
I look at the colours on the woodland floor. Even in the rain the green colours seem so vivid and bright - even yellows that contrast with the greyness of the sky: spurge, dog's mercury, ferns... Such vibrancy, so many shades of green, they almost have a light of their own.
Then I pass into the conifer stands. The mist is almost purple between the near distant trees. Greens give way to the browns, oranges and the smell of pine.
I pass a sheet of corrugated iron, possibly an old pheasant shelter/feeder, propped up by a wooden frame and brambles. The face of a startled fox peers out from its dry shelter only about four feet away from me. Then off it runs through the dampness.
I exit the pines onto the lower edge of croft Ambrey - common land with new bracken unfolding. The air is still here on the sheltered side. Low cloud envelopes the hill. Quiet and still. The heavy scent of the surrounding hawthorn blossom fills the air - strong, damp, peaceful in the surrounding mist. I look at the hawthorn flowers close up. So beautiful - white, with pink anthers and silver drops of water.
I am alone on top of the hill.
Walking back down the track. I observe the rain falling on the oaks and other other broadleaves edgeing the stoney path. Water drips all around me, so close. And then I side-step into the pines - the sound is so much more diffuse, high above me the rain touches the top of the canopy - a more ethereal and distant sound that fills the larger space.
I have touched the cool rain. It has touched me. I am refreshed. The rain has become my companion on the lonely hill where few have tread on this very wet day.
Thursday, 10 May 2007
Rain, Moths and Rabbits
At last, a few days of rain and, actually, a reasonable amount. The fields around here seemed, slightly worringly, rather dry. I am sure that the corn and beans will welcome it. The beans are still in flower and their scent is amazing; whilst the oilseed rape is going over now. Although we have had days of wonderful warmth, the nights have been cold. Some things in the garden are growing well, others are static. Putting tomato plants out a couple of weeks ago was, perhaps, a little on the optimistic side and many of my runner beans seeds have rotted in their pots. Must remember to allocate funds towards a small greenhouse or something!
***
I think we had a couple of cinnabar moths in the garden a few weeks ago. As I have only now remembered to look them up I have to rely on my memory for identification. Such beautiful red markings on the hind wings. On balance it was them rather than burnet moths.
***
Haven't had time to be inspired by much recently apart from creativity for work. Developing a new concept for a cute rabbit for greetings cards isn't a bad day job!
***
I think we had a couple of cinnabar moths in the garden a few weeks ago. As I have only now remembered to look them up I have to rely on my memory for identification. Such beautiful red markings on the hind wings. On balance it was them rather than burnet moths.
***
Haven't had time to be inspired by much recently apart from creativity for work. Developing a new concept for a cute rabbit for greetings cards isn't a bad day job!
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