Grey Wethers

Sunset - on the way back from Devil's Den our little group pondered a while on what looks like a ruined long barrow situated at possibly the highest point on Fyfield Down.

********

Back in August a friend from the Avebury Forum, Pete Glastonbury walked with me up to Fyfield Down to show me the Polisher Stone (thought to be where axes were sharpened by the prehistoric people who lived in area). Last weekend, after a wet, windy Saturday, Sunday dawned bright and crisp. I was invited to join Pete once more with others from the Avebury Forum who had travelled down from Yorkshire on the previous Friday. I had never met any of them before but had no hesitation in setting my alarm to ensure I caught the first Sunday bus out to Avebury. As ever, Avebury in the early morning is a peaceful place to be - the wet grass glistening in the morning sunlight, the magnificent sarsens shining, hardly any people or traffic.
We started our walk up Green Street towards the chalk track that leads to the Ridgeway, what followed was a memorable day for all present. Somehow time seemed suspended - the enthusiasm of the Yorkshire three was energising and inspiring. We walked to the Polisher again, then onto the rare cup-marked stone (see photo above) courtesy of Pete who must be one of the most knowledgeable people around when it comes to the Avebury landscape. It is doubtful that I could find it again on my own.

Follow the link for an account of the August walk
http://wrens-and-hedgesparrows.blogspot.com/2009/08/finding-polisher-stone.html

Devil's Den, Wiltshire's only surviving dolmen

Follow the link to see dolmen surrounded by poppies and yarrow

http://swindonia.blogspot.com/2009/08/devils-den-and-wild-flowers.html

The sarsen drift in the valley of Fyfield Down en route to the Devil's Den dolmen. The stones are called grey wethers because of their similarity to the sheep who pasture along side them - it is sometimes hard to tell sheep from stones.

Dreaming Spires

Christchurch College and meadows

******

Runs it not here, the track by Childsworth Farm

Past the high wood, to where the elm-tree crowns

The hill behind whose ridge the sunset flames?

The signal-elm, that looks on Isley Downs

The Vale, the three lone weirs, the youthful Thames? -

This winter-eve is warm

Humid the air! leafless yet soft as spring,

The tender purple spray on copse and briers!

And that city sweet with her dreaming spires

She needs not June for beauty's heightening.

(taken from the poem Thyrsis by Mathew Arnold 1822-1888)

The Cherwell - a tributary of the Thames

*****

Yesterday I boarded an empty bus that took me to Oxford - probably my favourite city. When I lived in London I could take a bus there from Marble Arch so it became a bolt hole from the ever crowded, teeming metropolis. Now I live in Swindon, a still busy but smaller town along the M4 corridor, Oxford is my escape from the ordinary. An atmosphere of learning pervades the beautiful architecture of the city's centre along with a sense that life is an adventure after all. A walk along the Thames towpath to Iffley Lock on a Sunday afternoon was to observe the rarefied world of Oxford's students as rowing boat after rowing boat passed on river with their coaches calling instructions from cycles as they also passed along the towpath - at a more ponderous pace.

Amber and gold - an old quince tree

This beautiful old quince tree stands in a meadow out in Avebury village. On my meanderings I think I have seen quince growing in hedgerows but this is the only solitary quince tree I know of. There was much to enjoy yesterday in Avebury as everything, including the ancient stones, seemed to be bathed in golden light ... almost Samhain when winter starts to close in, daylight diminishes and the branches have yet to be laid bare by a sudden storm - golden afternoons (it is an afternoon light) in late October seem like a gift from the universe.

Kestrel over a long barrow

West Kennet Long Barrow is my bolt hole; its the place my feet take me to when there isn't another plan. The walk from Avebury via Waden Hill and Silbury never fails to recharge my batteries whatever else may be going in 'life'. I always without fail encounter a bird or birds that somehow seem special to the occasion; once a wren flew out of the barrow, perching for a bit on one of the entrance stones. Summer brings skylarks, goldfinches and the swallows swooping over the river Kennet. Buzzards can often be seen hovering high in the sky over Waden Hill.

Visiting yesterday with a few friends, we had walked to the end of the barrow when we saw what we thought was a sparrowhawk hovering over the entrance of the barrow. One of our small group quickly named it the barrowhawk as apparently it makes a regular appearance. I have since been told it is a kestrel as sparrowhawks favour wooded areas whilst the kestrel always hunt over open farm or heathland. This kestrel seemed to track us as it moved from its position at the front of the barrow to where we were standing at other end. I had put my camera away and was reluctant spoil the moment of the kestrel hovering in the sunlight ... as you can see my photo doesn't do the moment justice. More and more I find nature is best observed fleetingly and captured in the mind's eye.

Note: Kestrels belong to the falcon family of birds.

Geese in flight

It was late afternoon today, I was returning home from running a few errands in the town centre, it was still light though with a with sense of evening drawing in. I was thinking how disconnected I had felt from the town today, everyone seemed to be pointlessly rushing around. Then, just a couple of streets from where I live I saw them ... a flock of geese flying in formation towards the western sky. Some of them were calling, that unique call of wide-open-spaces-and-freedom. Transfixed, I stopped in my tracks and watched them in wonder, expecting one or two others to do the same ... no one seemed to notice. For me though, in a few fleeting seconds it was an experience of connection with nature. Nature's song can never be completely muffled, even in a town it can still be heard if you listen to the sky.

Manorbier

I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
(from the poem 'Do not stand at my grave and weep' - author unknown)

The King's Quoit - Manorbier
Just returned from a week in Pembrokeshire - arrived by train then relied on feet and the small buses that ran to most places at hourly intervals. The coastal path walks were spectacular, a pair of ravens spotted on one occasion; the tiny city of St David's and a visit to St Non's healing well -another coastal walk before going to look at the beautiful 'hidden' cathedral; a ferry across to Caldey Island, one of the Celtic holy islands. Such a lovely week, out of season in Tenby, itself built on and around a medieval castle. The place that moved me most though was Manorbier and the Neolithic burial chamber of King's Quoit on the coastal path up from the white sand cove.

This was the first ancient burial site I encountered in Pembrokeshire; it drew me back to Manorbier for a second visit. King's Quoit is made from red sandstone and sits in a sheltered spot just before the brow of the cliff. Directly behind it there were five or six large sandstones set into the bracken covered cliff. Apart from the path up from the beach there is a second cliff path that runs from the quoit directly to the village's Norman Church of St James the Great - a leaflet about the church says "The foundation date of the church is unknown. However, the oval shape of the churchyard suggests a religious site of great antiquity". It is not hard to imagine that in times when people believed we are spirit as well as flesh, this was a place to set the spirit free - into the wind, sky and sea. We cannot know anything about the prehistory of these British Isles, we can only look for clues at the ancient burial sites and stone circles. Only imagine that the four elements of wind, water, fire and earth were all important; this poem from the Book of Leinster (compiled 1160 but thought to be a collection of the oral tradition and far older manuscripts) reflects this.

I am the stag of seven tines

I am the wide flood on the plain

I am the wind on deep waters
I am the shining tear of the sun
I am a hawk on the cliff
I am fair among flowers
I am a god who sets the head afire with smoke
I am a battle-waging spear
I am a salmon in the pool
I am the hill of poetry
I am a ruthless boar
I am a threatening noise
I am a wave of the sea
Who but I knows the secrets of the unhewn dolmen?
(This version of the ' Song of Amergin' was taken from White Goddess by Robert Graves)
To reinforce the sentiment that life goes on and is all around us, on the second occasion of visiting Manorbier, while waiting for one of the small buses in the village centre, a flock of gold finches appeared on the railings and grass verge. Completely unfazed by human presence, I believe these foraging flocks are called 'charms' and charming they were.
http://www.britishbirdlovers.co.uk/british-birds/goldfinch.html

Conkers and Cobwebs

At the close of September these golden days have been a gift to replenish us after another uninspiring summer. Spiders in great numbers have been weaving their webs across the back garden - spun gossamer in the chilly morning sun light.
Autumn is very much in evidence as squirrels are seen collecting and hoarding the shiny brown conkers lying under the horse chestnut trees in the local park.
It is time to get ready for October Gold again ...
http://wrens-and-hedgesparrows.blogspot.com/2008/10/colour-gold.html
and so the year turns.

"Oh what a tangled web we weave,

When first we practise to deceive!"
Sir Walter Scott, Marmion, Canto vi. Stanza 17, Sir Walter Scott (1771 - 1832)

Woodland walking and the night sky

West Woods, Wiltshire

*****

Yesterday was a warm, sunny late summer day. I had the pleasure of walking with a couple of friends through West Wood in Wiltshire, a county better known for its rolling downs and almost mystical vistas ...

In the evening, with the same two friends I went out to an 'open mic' music evening held out at Avebury. As we made our way out onto the downs in Cathy's ramshackle car (new one pending) we were going at a speed that allowed us to observe the sun going down, spreading that nameless sunset colour across the sky and bathing the downs in golden light.

One of the reasons I love to attend these music nights is that I get to see the breath-taking stars in the night sky at the end of the evening. Last night did not disappoint ... astonishing, amazing; these words seem inadequate. I saw the Milky Way for the first time.

On the journey home, my friends discussed the musical merits of the evening while I sat quietly in the back of the car and watched the orange crescent moon rise above the dark hills. As the neon lit town of Swindon came into view, the moon appeared to rise and was suspended in the sky above the plain below ... a strangely beautiful sight.

I am aware that I miss so very much of the night sky by being a town dweller ... the trade-off for not owning a car.

The woodpecker on the bowling green

This evening I took a little detour through the Victorian park near to where I live, there standing perfectly still on the centre of the bowling green was a green woodpecker. Because of its very appropriate camouflage, green with a red on the top of its head, I usually just see this woodpecker out the corner of my eye while it is in flight.
There it was though; no camera with me today so I just watched. It took off across the green and landed by the club house. I watched it hop over to the glass door and tap on the window with its beak. It must be almost tame, alas however, the clubhouse was closed and locked so the woodpecker returned to the centre of the green, unearthing insects from the well-watered lawn.
I walked around the perimeter fence to try and get a clearer look - the woodpecker had now been joined by a pair of magpies and a squirrel … completely unperturbed by each other. An unusually relaxed green woodpecker out for an evening hop, skip and peck on a well manicured bowling green. What a joy!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R3T6YQAXE5A
http://www.rspb.org.uk/wildlife/birdguide/name/g/greenwoodpecker/index.asp

Memories of Lamorna

I have recently been reading about the Cornish stone circle Boskawen-un which I was able to research with the aid of Julian Cope's influential work The Modern Antiquarian (there is also a web-site inspired by the book).

http://www.themodernantiquarian.com/site/229/boskawenun.html

However, it was while reading about The Merry Maidens, a nineteen-stone circle quite close to Boskawen-un, that I started thinking again about Lamorna.

September, some years ago (1990s) while I was still very much a Londoner I travelled with a dear friend to spend a week based in Penzance - though at that time I knew nothing of ancient stone circles. On a visit to Mousehole we attempted the cliff walk around the coastline to Lamorna. After a fairly arduous walk our destination came into view, we only had to negotiate a narrow bit of the cliff path to start our downward descent into the cove ... and a cup of tea. It was then that my dearest of all friends admitted he was terrified of heights. After trying to talk him round it became clear we couldn't go on and made our way back to Mousehole. I confess, to my shame, I was a bit grumpy by the time we arrived back Mousehole ... we had been caught in a sharp, slanting shower and were somewhat bedraggled.

The next day we caught a small bus from Moushole to Lamorna; I have managed to locate the written impressions of our visit, recorded on a scrap of paper ...

Lamorna Cove - Friday 17th September (a good wee while ago)

An exquisite perfect day, if this were to be the last day of my life I would want to take Lamorna Cove with me.

Water cascading down from the wooded shady hill-side falling over rocks into the sea.

The sea blue; the sky blue - a jewel in the crown of Cornwall. Peace and tranquility.

All the seas, all the rivers flow into each other - the connection of life. How can this help me get through life if this is not to be the last day, I must go back tomorrow to the stress and strife of London.

I will take this with me, the warmth of the sun, the sound of the water-fall, flowing into one - coming from one source and returning again. The air we breath, so clean here is the same air we breath in noisy, congested London.

Well, it seems I am still around, although sadly my dear friend Chris is not. I no longer live in London but in Swindon, Wiltshire. Earlier today, as I hurried along a busy road, Lamorna came back to haunt me. In between the sound of passing cars I could hear the gentle waves, on that peaceful September day, washing into Lamorna cove.

I must go back soon .... (to be continued)

http://www.cornwalls.co.uk/Lamorna-village.htm

A blessing

There is beauty in all nature -

Didn't actually get round to kissing this little chap.

He looks beautiful just as a frog.
*******

May the sun

bring you new energy by day,

May the moon

softly restore you by night,

May the rain

wash away your worries,

May the breeze

blow new strength into your being.

May you walk

gently through the world and know

its beauty all the days of your life.

-Apache Blessing

********

This arrived in my in-box today from someone I have never met and am unlikely to ever meet, but who has become a friend.

Thank you, you know who you are.

Finding the Polisher Stone

The axe-sharpening stone - grooves made by the Neolithic (Stone-Age)

My first attempt at finding the almost mythical Polisher stone was Lammas weekend last year. A small group of us, with a reluctant child and two dogs in tow, trundled up Green Street looking at wild flowers and insects on the way. None of us has seen it before and although we knew it was close by we were unsuccessful on that occasion. A few more lone attempts followed but I always seemed to instinctively turn right instead of left up on Fyfield Down. However, each walk in the Avebury landscape was rewarding in its own way; the clouds, the hills, and the wildlife complimenting the scattered sarsens.

Earlier this month the sun came out and an Avebury friend, PeteG, offered to show me the Polisher … as we headed up Green St we watched a flock of swallows give an amazing aerial display – they were in fact successfully chasing a predatory sparrowhawk away. Pete, being Pete, didn't take me by the straightforward route but down across Fyfield Down and through a private wood. He assured me that it was not grouse shooting season but we proceeded cautiously anyway. A barbed wire fence to climb the other side (walking with Pete usually involves a fence or two which is what makes it challenging but fun). As we picked our way through the greywethers it started to feel very warm so it was a rare occasion when my sunhat made an appearance. On the slope leading up to the Polisher we spotted and enormous circle of mushrooms (*parasol mushrooms I believe). A Fairy Ring – we stepped in a Fairy ring … neither of us disappeared so we continued uphill.The Polisher was everything I imagined … ancient, lichened, smooth like marble in places. We sat for a while soaking in the silence and peace, the only sound being seeds popping on a nearby gorse bush.
I took some photos then asked Pete to take one of me by the large triangular shaped stone nearby, with the Polisher in the foreground. A couple of photos and then Pete said excitely 'look behind you'; I turned to see the legendary Red Arrows fly past … they were on the flight path to RAF Lyneham where an air display was taking place. Eventually, we walked back down; me … hot but happy at having finally found the Polisher.

After I parted company from Pete over near East Kennet I walked back to Avebury via Waden Hill through the newly cut grass … a wonderful smell from childhood. At the top of Waden I usually stand and reflect awhile, on Silbury and the stunning land/sky-scape. That afternoon there were two men, Buddhists perhaps, sitting quietly chanting, we smiled at each other as I walked past.

* http://www.nifg.org.uk/edible_fungi.htm

The Circle Game

Sam holding on tight ... his first ever carousel ride
******
Yesterday a child came out to wonder
Caught a dragonfly inside a jar
Fearful when the sky was full of thunder
And tearful at the falling of a star
Then the child moved ten times round the seasons
Skated over ten clear frozen streams
Words like, when your older, must appease him
And promises of someday make his dreams
------
And the seasons they go round and round
And the painted ponies go up and down
We're captured on the carousel of time
We can't return we can only look behind
From where we came
And go round and round
In the circle game
------
So the years spin by and now the boy is twenty
Though his dreams have lost some grandeur coming true
There'll be new dreams, maybe better dreams and plenty
Before the last revolving year is through
------
From the song 'Circle Game' by Joni Mitchell
first published 1966
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6XOV34vsjfg

*******

The circle of the year has turned many times since I first heard Joni Mitchell's song on the Ladies of the Canyon album. My sons have both grown into men and, in spite of the odds against, are well adjusted, hard working, fine people. This weekend I had the joy of spending the weekend with them both in celebration of my little grand-daughter's first birthday. We met on Brighton beach near the carousel and young Sam (who reminds me so much of his father as a child) was shown how to fly a kite by his uncle. We left father and uncle untangling the kite and wandered over to the carousel - up Sam climbed, fearless. 'Hold on tight, little fellow - don't let go'. He held on very tight.

This blog has been partly about internal landscapes of musing, ideas, favourite poetry and the remembering of loved ones. I consider myself fortunate indeed to gather together with on a chilly beach in Brighton with the my grown up children, their friends and several small people - who are just starting out on the great adventure of life.

Liminal places - dimensions in time

Stonehenge today - visitors come by coach and car. A busy road, fences, carpark, and visitors centre keep this most mysterious of monuments fixed in the material world. Stepping away from the modern day trappings, it is easy to imagine that time stays the same moving in a seasonal cycle - we on the other hand move through time like dream walkers.

Walking towards Stonehenge along the route of the Avenue - the magical moment when it first comes into view, without visitors, cars or carpark.

The river Avon at the start of the Stonehenge Avenue

Today a friend from the Avebury Forum, took me into the Stonehenge landscape; it was a wonderful elemental sort of day, the sort I experienced on the Orkneys, only right here in Wiltshire. We went to Durrington Walls and walked across what had once been a Neolithic settlement, the hairs started to tingle on my arms, a strange sensation.

Then round into Woodhenge to stand and stare for a bit ... before a shower blew over.

I was thinking it couldn’t get any better when my friend showed me a hidden spring by the river Avon right at the start of the Avenue to Stonehenge. I am trying to find the right word for such a place apart from the usual mystical, sacred; it was both of those things. Walking across the Avenue, which is still intact as a raised grassy ‘road’ the word liminal came to mind. Limen is from the Latin meaning ‘threshold’ - it was that sort of place.

The same experience occurred walking back towards Stonehenge in the long wild grass of what was once the Avenue. Wonderful … it was a day I will not forget.

There is a quite long article on a similar theme at the link below - "Why Christopher Robin wouldn't walk on the cracks"

http://www.indigogroup.co.uk/edge/liminal.htm

Many thanks to Pete Glastonbury, the friend who took me on a magical mystery tour through time ... a memorable few hours indeed.

Summertime in Wiltshire

"Fields Of Gold"

You'll remember me when the west wind moves

Upon the fields of barley

You'll forget the sun in his jealous sky

As we walk in the fields of gold

(Sting)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rCNJBopK25I

Ripening barley field
--------

Walking with a friend on a hot summer summer afternoon in Wiltshire. A profusion of butterflies everywhere, a buzzard flying low between the trees, a muntjac disturbed takes off through the undergrowth - not sure which of us was more startled. It is good to be back in my familiar woods, waterways and fields. We wandered through the shady forest, made our way along a section of the Kennet and Avon Canal coming out by a green-gold field of barley. A meadow of wild grasses stood five feet high as we walked into it, reliving the joy of childhood for a few moments (when everything seemed taller than us).

My trip to Scotland and the northern isles of Orkney and Shetland was memorable in so many ways but the ripening grain fields of this southern county will always beckon me home.

Seascape

The Old Man of Hoy - the Orkneys

Seascape: The Camera at the Shore
-------
In the rockpool a child dips (shrilling)
Fingers, toes.

Below the widest ebb it opens,
The lost sea rose.
Then, drowning rose and reef and rockpool
The west inflows ...
The Atlantic pulse beats twice a day
In cold gray throes.
Shy in a rock-caught crumb of earth
One seapink shows.
Scotland, scattered saw-teeth, melts like petals
In the thin haze.
Lucent as a prism for days, this shore, until
A westerly blows.
Then stones slither and shift, they rattle and cry,
They break and bruise.
Shells are scattered. Caves like organs peal
Threnody, praise.
Tangles lie heaped in thousands, thrust and thrown
From the thunder and blaze!
Silence again. Along the tidemark wavelets
Work thin white lace.
Among that hoard and squander, with her lens
Gunnie goes.
-------
George Mackay Brown (1921-1996)
-------

George Mackay Brown was born in Stromness in the Orkney Islands where he spent much of his life. Before his death in 1996 he published, to great acclaim, over fifty works, including poetry, plays, novels, short stories, essays, children's books and his autobiography.

Last week I travelled to Orkney by ferry in the early morning mist, by midday the mainland island was bathed in crystal clear light. I bought my copy of The Collected Poems of George Mackay Brown from the Stromness Book shop at 1 Graham Place, Stromness. The owner of the shop sat quietly with an aura of stillness about him - I was struck by the similarity in appearance he had to my dear friend Michael who died in late 2006. Strangely, the bookseller was also American and shared the name Campbell, he showed me a photo of a beautiful Swedish woman who had been his wife until she died just over two years ago. Our conversation lasted only minutes before I had to rush off but the encounter stayed with me.

This post is for Ian and his wife Pen ... happy beachcombing!

The mist lifted ....

At last I see a puffin close up - at Sumburgh Head on the Shetlands

Seabirds on the cliffs - Sumburgh Head

Common seals with pups - Mainland, Shetlands

Looking down on the beach with seals

The Ring of Brodgar on Orkney - looking towards the nearby mound

The Ring of Brodgar looking towards the loch

----------

Over the past week I have fulfilled a long held desire to visit the Orkneys and Shetland Isles; the long journey up to Caithness was made over two days through spectacular scenery and an overnight stay in Stirling, arriving at the northern most tip of Scotland only to find everything concealed by dense mist. The plan was to stay a couple of days in the small coastal town of Thurso to relax after the journey and then to catch a ferry over to Stromness on Orkney, continuing on to the Shetlands.

On the first full day in Thurso the mist lifted and a few wonderful hours were spent walking along the cliffs which were covered by a myriad of wild flowers, including orchids.

The Orkney day finally dawned. Although misty and chilly for the ferry journey across, it quickly became bright, blue-green and beautiful. The first place to visit was Skara Brae, which was everything I imagined set against the backdrop of a sparkling sea. Then back to Stromness where I was directed to the local bookshop in my search for a compilation of poetry by Orkney poet, George Mackay Brown. My brief encounter with the owner of the shop turned out to be a strange and compelling few minutes - a story I will save for another time.

Back with the people I travelled with, there was still so much to see, the Stones of Stenness, Maes Howe, and finally the stunning Ring of Brodgar. I was not prepared for the elation I would feel when walking around this remote heather covered henge by the sea, surrounded by the distant hills of neighbouring islands. In many ways it seemed to mirror the Avebury henge back in Wiltshire (and home) - Orkney was definitely the highlight of the trip. The Shetlands were still to come, however, and the time spent there was sunny, warm with the bluest of seascapes, seals basking on the sands, wonderful puffins, gulls, cormorants, and shags flying in mesmerising profusion around sheer cliffs. Then on to the fascinating archaeological site of Jarlshof. I cannot do Skara Brae or Jarlshof justice here but will come back to them later.

Perhaps the most memorable aspect was the daylight. I did not experience the darkness of night for the duration of my trip though had no trouble sleeping - travelling from Orkney to Shetland on an overnight ferry it was a little weird to be looking out at the sea at midnight, while still light.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k1_W7Og-L3Q

(music of the Shetlands)

Golden fish

crisp and clear blue sky

alighting on a tree branch

a goldfish!!
-Dhugal

Flamingos and swans

Flamingo or a Swan

Wasn't purple, pink, or white

Legs not too long, or short, but just right

She was so lovely, she was so kind

I can’t remember, have I lost my mind

Was she a flamingo or a swan

How can I know now that she’s gone

I hope I find her or she finds me

Nothing could make me more happy

As I think back and wonder

How we separated from that loud thunder

She must have been so very worried

Tried to catch her, oh how I hurried

The wind was strong the rain was hard

I’m just so happy to land in your yard

Was she a flamingo or a swan

How can I know now that she’s gone

Perhaps someday I will find

That she’s ok and just in a bind

Feel so lonely and so lost

Hope our paths again will cross

How can I know

Where ever did she go

Perhaps she’s found another soul mate

I guess I’ll just have to wait

I’m trying to figure

I’m trying to picture

Why I know her so well

Yet I cannot tell

Was she a flamingo or a swan

How can I know now that she’s gone

by Gloria Buono (c) 2004

A few moments of flamboyance - flamingos must be the the the most spectacular of birds and the swan the white-brightest

photos taken by jj for wrens and hedgesparrows on a recent visit to Slimbridge

A bat by twilight

This evening I experienced a 'first' in awareness of the natural world that is all around us. Almost midsummer, at 10.00pm this evening it was still light when I went into my little back garden. I had been wondering where Sam the cat was as hadn't see him for a few hours; he was of course fine, sitting in his usual meditative position on an upstairs window ledge.

As I looked up I spotted a tiny pipistrelle bat flying around in a circle just above my head, it flew into the branches of a nearby lime tree which stands in the old cemetery behind my house, then out again and around again. A twilight ballet went on for several minutes as I stood transfixed ..... just quietly watching and listening to the almost indiscernible swish of the tiny bat in flight. A magical few moments which made the minor irritations of the day fade into triviality. I have seen flitting bats before but have never had such a close up encounter as this evening ..... and in my own back garden.
http://www.rspb.org.uk/wildlife/wildlifegarden/atoz/p/pipistrellebat.asp
http://www.bats.org.uk/

There are many excellent educational web-sites about bats; at http://www.batcon.org/ I found this evocative poem.

Summer Bats
Leatherwing fluttering, cut-outs in black ink
Against the fading fluorescent sunset sky;
Leaf-spiraling with purpose and hunger,
Cries shrilled out of hearing, sketching their world.
Replacing the swallows, the night-shift pours forth
From crevice and eave. The host of shy hunters
Fills the middle air with their dance.This show
Is unseen for the most part, yet the insect-seekers
Are not invisible. It is our lapse of attention:
How few of us look up for quiet wings at twilight!

(by Hugh Eckert)

Kingfisher- Fisherking

The elusive kingfisher. I have only seen it once some years ago; ironically while walking along the Barnet Open Space by a brook, near Whetstone in north London. A flash of blue, then gone .... I have been haunting watery places ever since in hope of another sighting. A quest for the allusive, the fleeting, the dancing harlequin of life.
The legend of the FisherKing is in some ways symbolic of this quest. It concerns the legend of the 'Holy Grail', a mythical concept; some think it is the lost chalice that is associated with the life and death of Jesus. For myself, I think it is the quest for something allusive, just out of reach. It is the coming of spring with its blaze of light, blossom and birdsong. It is the kingfisher swooping across a stream; the call of the swallows when they return in May; wild swans in flight; my one and only sighting of a pair of goldcrests (the tiniest of all birds). It is so often hidden in the ordinary .....
----------
And a man stood there, as still as moss,
A lichen form that stared;
With an old blind hound that, at a loss,
Forever around him fared,
With a snarling fang half bared.
I looked at the man; I saw him plain;
Like a dead weed, gray and wan,
Or a breath of dust. I looked again--
And man and dog were gone,
Like wisps of the graying dawn...
"Wasteland" Madison Cawein

http://www.uiweb.uidaho.edu/student_orgs/arthurian_legend/grail/fisher/

---------

The Myth ofThe Fisher King is one of the many 'Holy Grail' legends.
The Fisher King is the guardian of the Grail, which, in medieval legends, is the cup used by Jesus at the last supper and which was used to collect drops of his blood at the crucifixion.
The Fisher King is dying, his kingdom is dying around him, he's a man who's probably seen too much of life - he's experienced betrayal and tragedy. His life is slowly crumbling, and his kingdom goes barren. He has also lost the Grail. It's the one thing that can save him, but he's lost the ability to see it and experience it.

A fool comes along and finds the Grail right next to his bed and restores (it to) the king; the fool, a pure and innocent soul, demonstrates the kind of compassion that can free the king from mortal anguish.

The Kingfisher Hide at Slimbridge, though sadly no sightings on this visit, the search continues .....

Note: the photo image of the kingfisher is courtesy of the internet (BBC site).

The Wanderer

This extract from the Old English (Anglo-Saxon) poem, The Wanderer, was sent to me by Ian who has kindly made encouraging comments on a few previous posts. I have copied it below along with his email. Thank you, Ian, it is a beautiful poem and I am very happy to include it here.

*******

The Wanderer

Hwear cwom mearg? Hwær cwom mago?

Hwær cwom maþþumgyfa?

Hwær cwom symbla gesetu?

Hwær sindon seledreamas?

Eala beorht bune! Eala byrnwiga!

Eala þeodnes þrym!

Hu seo þrag gewat, genap under nihthelm, swa heo no wære.

*******

Where has gone the horse? Where has gone the man?

Where has gone the giver of treasure?

Where has gone the feasting place?

Where be the hall-joys? Alas bright cup!

Alas the armoured warrior! Alas the Prince's glory!

How the time has passed away,

grown dark under night-cover, as though it never were.
*******

This is from a poem called The Wanderer, contained in The Exeter Book. It is regarded as one of the truly great poems of world literature, adopted in part by Tolkien, and confronts the problems of loss, mortality and the transitory nature of life. (IC)

A translation of the poem can be read in its entirety at the link below:

http://www.anglo-saxons.net/hwaet/?do=get&type=text&id=Wdr

Also on the fleeting nature of life:

What is life? It is the flash of a firefly in the night. It is the breath of a buffalo in the wintertime. It is the little shadow which runs across the grass and loses itself in the sunset.

By north American Indian: Crowfoot

The Willow Grove

The river Cole and willows

******

This is one of my favourite places, a cycle path near to where I have been working for the past nine years; a little river, willows, butterflies, bees, birds, a profusion of wild hedgerow flowers and trees (including a few elders that I have grown fond of). I have been to this spot in snow, rain, wind, and sparkling sunshine. When I felt like a prisoner chained to a computer and telephone, with just a patch of sky to be glimpsed through window, I could escape for half an hour and come here. It has kept me sane; next month I am leaving my job to strike out on my own - navigating the uncharted waters of self discovery, my only compass being a deep sense of connection with the natural world.

I look forward to Life's continuing adventure with anticipation, meanwhile this is a homage to my lunchtime sanctuary.

[Jon Dathen writes in his little book of Ogham the following: To see the willows in their true light, choose a midsummer night when the moon is full]

I could write many words about the willow, would have no difficulty in finding a poem to quote; though may well be repeating myself, as I know I have written about willows before. What I love about them is that when you see willows you know there is a stream or river nearby.

The life-force and song of the land - a silvery breeze whispering through shimmering leaves.

The first swallows of summer

(Illustration by Frank Papes from At The Back of the North Wind by George Macdonald)

********

Earlier today I decided to apply some stain to my very-small-wooden-shed in an attempt to undo the damage done by Sam the cat who uses it as a scratching post. Not to mention neighboring cats who use its roof as a sun lounge. A peaceful pottering activity, listening to the radio; then I heard that wonderful sunshine sound of swallows over the old cemetery. They were back, these astonishing birds return each year to the same Old Town area of my town. Later in the day, I saw them swoop over a Victorian terraced street, the same one they always seem to return to. (Its possible my swallows are swifts because I find it hard to tell the difference when they are in flight).
Summer is finally here.

********

Swallows travel to and fro,

And the great winds come and go,

And the steady breezes blow,

Bearing perfume, bearing love.

Breezes hasten, swallows fly,

Towered clouds forever ply,

And at noonday, you and I

See the same sunshine above.

Dew and rain fall everywhere,

Harvests ripen, flowers are fair,

And the whole round earth is bare

To the moonshine and the sun;

And the live air, fanned with wings,

Bright with breeze and sunshine, brings

Into contact distant things .....

incomplete poem by Robert Lois Stevenson

*********

I found the extract below at:http://www.egyptianmyths.net/swallow.htm

In Ancient Egytian mythology Swallow means menet (soul).

"Meaning: During the Old Kingdom, swallows were associated with stars and therefore the souls of the dead. ... The imperishable stars were those near the North Star that never seemed to rise or set, and therefore were "constant".

The swallow also appears in paintings of the solar barque as it enters the underworld. The swallow is usually shown on the prow of the boat. In this context, the bird appears to be an announcer of the sun's approach."

Click on internet link for the complete text

The swallow heralds the coming of spring and happiness, poets praise it, and it appears on the flowering peach branch in classical Chinese painting. In Egyptian love poetry, the swallow sings of the first signs of a new love. For some, it’s a symbol of fertility and renewal, a harbinger of good and a symbol of transformation. For the pilgrim to Mecca, the swallow is the symbol of constancy and faith, and is said to fly to that holy city each year. Swallows mate for life, and therefore represents fidelity and loyalty.

The swallow must be one of the most joyful of all birds.

May Day

Song on a May Morning

"Now the bright morning-star, Day’s harbinger,
Comes dancing from the East, and leads with her
The flowery May, who from her green lap throws
The yellow cowslip and the pale primrose.
Hail, bounteous May, that dost inspire
Mirth, and youth, and warm desire!
Woods and groves are of thy dressing;
Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing.
Thus we salute thee with our early song,
And welcome thee, and wish thee long."

John Milton, Song on a May Morning, 1660

**********

The first of May, May Day or Beltane, named after the Celtic god Bel or Belenos, meaning the Shining One. Today the hedgerows were burgeoning with wild flowers, blossom and new leaf, truly the best day of the year. Children dancing around a smaller Maypole in the old Tithe Barn at the village of Ansty (south Wiltshire). Earlier in the evening there had been celebrations around the large Maypole which is in the centre of the village. As evening drew in families gathered in the tithe barn; I had the most delicious serving of chips from a little fast food van that I have ever tasted. A memorable May Day indeed.

Blue

Blue
Blue, songs are like tattoos
You know I've been to sea before
Crown and anchor me
Or let me sail away
Hey Blue, there is a song for you
Ink on a pin
Underneath the skin
An empty space to fill in .....
Joni Mitchell
******
I love blue of all shades and hues but perhaps my favourite is the indigo of the evening sky followed closely by the deep delicate blue of the bluebells in the peaceful wood where I walked this morning.
Later in the day, I went out with the intention of buying some wood preservative for my rickety little shed. However, I somehow managed to avoid going anywhere near shops where such a product is sold and came back instead with a lapis lazuli necklace. Now how did this happen, I asked myself as a wave of guilt washed over me, it usually does when I buy myself some non-essential item. As I fastened the string of small lapis beads around my neck they felt instantly right and I knew that for some reason they were a more essential purchase than wood stain (that will wait for another un-bluebell day).

The name Lapis Lazuli comes from a variety of words meaning "blue" (azure) or "heaven": the Latin "lazulum", stemming from the Arabic "lazaward", and the Persian "lazhward" constitute the Lazuli part. The first part of the name, Lapis, is of Latin origin meaning simply "stone". And this stone was named after its likeness to the heavens and of course because of its color -- a brilliant deep blue which is usually veined with small flecks of yellow-gold color from its most common mixture with Pyrite (Fool's Gold) or white streaks from its mixture with Calcite or other minerals.
(taken from one of the many internet sites on Lapis Lazuli)

The woman in the Crystal Shop told me that Lapis Lazuli represents enlightenment (the third eye) and my own book on crystals says it is associated with all forms of communication, expression and learning. It is also known around the world as the stone of friendship and truth.

Lapis Lazuli has an amazing history in its use as a pigment for many of the materpieces we see in art galleries, to find out more see:-
www.gemstone.org/gem-by-gem/english/lapis.html

Rambling on .... beautiful Wiltshire

This morning I joined my local Ramblers group for a 10 mile walk out around the always beautiful, ever inspiring Wiltshire country-side. I have been dipping in and out of this group for about two years now - some faces are consistently there each week, some faces are new. Conversation ebbs and flows, there is no pressure to divulge anything about who you are or why you are there. We just walk ..... today we started off at Martinsell Hill, along to West Wood which was just stunning though the bluebells are not yet fully out. We followed the group leader down to Oare where we came upon a meadow with rare snakeshead fritillaries growing then passed by Giant's Grave Hill then back up to Martinsell hillfort.
A lovely, therapeutic and physically tiring walk - I ache a bit as had to go off elsewhere after I returned home but it was all so very worth it.

West Wood long barrow - with the bluebells just coming out

Half a dozen vintage tractors trundled by as we stopped for a break

We passed a beech wood - and more bluebells

Rare snakes-head fritillaries in a meadow near Oare

Giant's Grave Hill

Christopher

Christopher

*******

This blog is for Christopher Johnson who gave me now cherished books of poetry by 'AE' and Fiona Macleod (see previous posts). This morning I reluctantly went to work with a heavy head cold and the niggling feeling that today was an important anniversary. I found myself thinking of Chris, one of my dearest of all friends; a musician, writer, publisher and one of the kindest men I had had the privilege to know - so strong was his sense of presence, I typed his name and that of Skoob Esoterica, the publishing company he helped to set up, into Google's search engine. Up came an obituary which had been published in the Independent - Chris had died on April 7th 1996, thirteen years ago. This was the first year I hadn't consciously remembered .... the past few weeks having been somewhat up and down as another close person became seriously ill, threaded together with more life affirming activities such as walking over the downs in the spring sunshine - with new friends.

But I hadn't forgotten Chris - all that he loved returns in each new spring.

*******

In the hollows of quiet places may we meet, the quiet place where is neither moon nor sun, but only the light of amber and pale gold that comes from the Hills of the Heart. There, listen at times: there you will call, and I hear: there will I whisper, and the whisper will come to you as dew is gathered on the grass, at the rising of the moon.

From 'Silence of Amor' by Fiona Macleod.

The Golden Age

A chalk water stream in a magical wood, leaves of new growth unfurling almost before our eyes

One of the many chalk water springs - in an enchanting place, which for now will have to remain unidentified.

This little blog has almost done a full circle, I started in May last year and now it is another spring - perhaps I have completed what I wanted to say, perhaps not quite yet.

The Golden Age

When the morning breaks above us

And the wild sweet stars have fled,

By the faery hands that love us

Wakened you and I will tread

.......

Where the lilacs on the lawn

Shine with all their silver dews,

In the stillness of the dawn

Wrapped in tender primrose hues

.......

We will hear the strange old song

That the earth croons in her breast,

Echoed by the feathered throng

Joyous from each leafy nest.

.......

Earth, whose dreams are we and they,

With her heart's deep gladness fills

All our human lips can say,

Or the dawn-fired singer trills.

.......

She is rapt in dreams divine:

As her clouds of beauty pass,

On our glowing hearts they shine.

Mirrored there as in a glass.

.......

So when all the vapors grey

From our flowery paths shall flit,

And the dawn shall begin the day,

We will sing a song to it.

........

Ere its yellow fervour flies: -

Oh, we were so glad of youth,

Whose first sweetness never dies

Nourished by eternal truth.

George William Russell (AE) 1867-1935

...........

For the small group of people I walked with on Saturday - each one eloquent in their own way. Thank you for showing me the springs and wood, alive with birdsong and the first dragonflies of the year - an enchanted place.

**********

To Blossom

One of the esoteric writers I hold in high esteem is someone called William Sharp who used the pseudonym of Fiona Macleod, he writes of the luminosity of spirit in nature. Here are some of his thoughts on Spring.

The tides of Blossom have begun to flow. The land will soon be inundated. Already a far and wide forethrow of foam is flung along the blackthorn hedges. Listen .... that chaffinch's blithe song comes from the flowering almond! ... that pipit's brief lay fell past yonder wild-pear!

The shores, the meadows, the uplands, on each there is a continual rumour. It is the sound of Spring. Listen ... put your ear to the throbbing earth that is so soon to be a green world: you will hear a voice like the voice which miraculously evades the hollow curves of a shell. Faint, mysterious yet ever present, a continual rhythm. Already that rhythm is become a cadence: the birds chant the strophes, flower and blossom and green leaf yield their subtler antiphones, the ancient yet ever young protagonist is the heart of man. Soon the cadence will be a song, a paean. The hour of the rose and honeysuckle will come, the hour of the swallow hawking the grey gnat above the lilied stream, the hour when the voice of the cuckoo floats through the ancient woods rejoicing in their green youth, that voice which has in it the magic of all springs, the eternal cry of the renewal of delight. [from the Silence of Amor 'The Awakener of the Woods' by Fiona Macleod aka William Sharp]

To Blossoms

........

But you are lovely leaves, where we

May read how soon things have

Their end, though ne'er so brave:

And after they have shown their pride

Like you awhile, they glide

Into the grave

........

What! were ye born to be

An hour or half's delight,

And so to bid good night?

'Twas pity Nature brought you forth

Merely to show your worth

And lose you quite.

.......

Fair pledges of a fruitful tree,

Why do ye fall so fast?

Your date is not so past

But you may stay yet here awhile

To blush and gently smile,

And go at last.

..........

poem by Robert Herrick (1591-1674)

Ephemeral and fragrant - blossom in the afternoon sunlight

A perfect day - spring Equinox

My three companions walking on ahead on the ridge of Fosbury Camp Hillfort

Walking today with three friends we spent a few hours out in the glorious spring sunshine at the vernal equinox - we walked to beautiful and peaceful village Lower Chute where we stopped at the village pond for lunch - then onto Fosbury Ring, 26 acres, Iron Age hillfort via the lovely village of Chute Standen. We found an ancient beech on one of the ramparts which, with a girth of six and a half metres, is thought to be one of the largest in the country.
http://www.ancient-tree-hunt.org.uk/discoveries/newdiscoveries/2008/fosburyhillfortbeech.htm

Frog spawn (and a frog) in the village pond of Lower Chute on the Wiltshire/Hampshire border. On the quiet village lane there was a road sign saying "Caution, frogs and toads in the road".

Wild primroses growing in the mossy undergrowth of woodland

Wild violets spotted along a bank on our walk today
...............

A poem for Equinox 'March morning unlike others' by Ted Hughes

...................

Blue Haze. Bees hanging in the air at the hive-mouth

Crawling in prone stupor of sun

On the hive lip. Snowdrops. Two buzzards,

Still-wings each

Magnetised to the other

Float Orbits.

Cattle standing warm. Lit, happy stillness.

A raven, under the hill,

Coughing among bare oaks.

Aircraft, elated, splitting blue.

Leisure to stand. The knee deep mud at the trough

Stiffening. Lambs freed to be foolish.

...........

The earth invalid, dropsied, bruised, wheeled

Out into the sun,

After the frightful operation.

She lies back, wounds undressed to the sun,

To be healed,

Sheltered from the sneapy chill creeping North wind,

Leans back, eyes closed, exhausted, smiling

Into the sun. Perhaps dozing a little.

While we sit, and smile, and wait, and know

She is not going to die.

Ted Hughes (1930-1998)

......................

It was one of those perfect days, I felt completely at ease with my three companions - the cool breeze and warm spring sunshine combined to make ideal walking weather. Sitting by the village pond in Lower Chute I was in harmony with the world as we watched frogs rising to the surface of the pond in the amongst the frog spawn. (I still haven't managed to kiss one, oh well, too late now).

We walked on to the Hatchet Inn where we sat outside with a drink - as we chatted I watched a buzzard soar overhead and had the best view ever of their beautiful under-feather markings.

Later, as we made our way down from the Iron Age hillfort of Fosbury Camp, I was treated to a rare sighting of a barn owl in flight - looking snowy white in the sunlight.

A perfect spring Equinox day!

The fragility of butterflies

The Brimstone (image courtesy of Internet butterfly images)

This week spring arrived, bright chilly mornings turning into warm sunny days. Earlier in the week on my lunchtime walk I saw the first butterflies of the year - yellow Brimstones and a Red Admiral, so delicate and lovely, the very sight of them can only bring joy to the beholder.

I've watched you now a full half-hour;
Self-poised upon that yellow flower
And, little Butterfly!
Indeed I know not if you sleep or feed.
How motionless! - not frozen seas
More motionless! and then
What joy awaits you, when the breeze
Hath found you out among the trees,
And calls you forth again!
~William Wordsworth, "To a Butterfly"

Last night I watched a French film called The Diving Bell & The Butterfly (Le Scaphanfre Et Le Papillon) a very moving film about a 43 year old editor of the fashion magazine Elle, Jean-Dominique Bauby, who suffered a stroke leaving him with 'locked in' syndrome. He could hear and see but could not speak or move. However, with the movement of his left eyelid and the use of a special alphabet code he went on to dictate his moving memoir and died 2 days after it was published. The film affected me deeply and I came away reflecting on the strength of the human spirit. How it can lift itself out of the most deadening of physical imprisonments to soar like a skylark. As fragile and resilient as the first butterfly of spring.

Notes on word association with butterflies:

Chrysalis from the Greek Chrysos meaning gold - the name for the gold coloured sac the caterpilla is coccooned before its metamorphosis into a butterfly.

Metamorphosis - meaning transformation. This is a word I like a lot, it seems to define all sorts of possibilities for creative or artistic change.

Ancient woodland in north London

I was visiting north London this weekend and found our capital city never looked lovelier in the spring sunshine - cherry blossom and daffodils suddenly appearing everywhere. Having spent nearly two decades living in Highgate, near to both East Finchley and Muswell Hill - going back to visit one of my sons and his family often feels like going home. Although I now live within a short journey of some spectacular and ancient downland scenery in Wiltshire which I much love, I still miss the ancient woodland of this part of London. There are four woods all within a square mile of each other - Highgate Wood, Queens Wood, Coldfall Wood and Cherry Tree Wood - a small wooded park which I visited yesterday with my little grandchildren.

The plaque on the drinking fountain in Highgate Wood has a quote from the poet Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772-1834) he lived his latter years out in Highgate and died there on July 25th 1834.

"Drink, Pilgrim, here! Here rest! And if thy heart

Be innocent, here too shalt thou refresh

Thy spirit, listening to some gentle sound

Or passing gale or hum of murmuring bees!"
-------

Spring sunlight in Highgate Wood today - surely as lovely as Paris, as the smiling people of London wandered through the woods enjoying the warmth of this beautiful mid March day.

One of the entrances to Highgate Wood

Coldfall Wood

I visited here for the first time today - a lovely little wood tucked away in Muswell Hill. Unlike Highgate Wood which is so very popular this little wood was empty except for the occasional dog walker.

For Samuel and Hope my dear little grandchildren - I didn't expect to care for them quite so much. They will probably grow up in this part of London as both their parents did before them - may they enjoy these ancient woods, rare enough to find but so very rare to find in a city and the reason why this part of London is actually quite beautiful.

The magical yew

Taxus baccata Linnaeus - the yew. Yesterday I was in the churchyard of Avebury's St James's church when one of my companion's pointed out this pollen laden male yew. I don't think I have ever seen this phenomena before, or at least have never noticed. Male yew trees flower later winter/early spring producing small catkins with abundant pollen which is borne on the wind. The friend who pointed out the tree yesterday shook one of the branches and a cloud of pollen drifted into the air. On the other side of the path the female tree stood awaiting pollination to produce crimson berries in late summer. Another friend tells me that on a hay-fever calendar of when pollens are released from spring onwards, the yew is shown as the first.

Although the leaves, bark and seeds of the yew are poisonous, the leaves are now used to produce the drug Taxol which inhibits cancer cell growth permanently. The berries, however, are edible - just don't swallow the seeds. So, although toxic if ingested, with the right knowledge the yew's chemistry can be turned into a healing drug for cancer - that's more than a bit magic.

Almost all churchyards have a yew growing in them - the yew is considered one of the sacred trees of the British Isles and has associations with the ancient druids. The yew was planted outside farms and homesteads to act as guardian spirits and they also perform this role in churchyards symbolically watching over souls passing to the Otherworld and protecting from evil. Yews are extremely long lived and there are examples of yews that have survived 2000 years.

Yew wood is strong and elastic and was once used to make long bows and is still much sought after today for wood carving. In the ancient tree alphabet of Ogham it represents the letter I (Idho) and is associated with the eve of Winter Solstice.

I found website about ancient yews - where two poems about yews can be found:
http://www.ancient-yew.org/poems.shtml

The business of Spring

The busy wind opening a tulip for a bee

A children's illustration by Frank Pape from 'At the Back of the North Wind' by George Macdonald

...........

This spring morning broke bright and chilly - I awoke to the sound of birds singing, the dawn chorus so beloved of the summer months. As I walked along later, I noticed how busy the birds have become, nest building - a blackbird with a piece of dried fern, a magpie with twigs - there was a large magpie nest in the tree-lined street I walked along on my way to work.

I thought about how birds are so synonymous with spring and life - every year the same birds appear with their birdsong and business. I saw a robin today on a high branch, its trill song no doubt calling to its mate. The blackbird, tit, chaffinch, sparrow, wren - the crow, jackdaw and magpie. Townie birds all busy and yet .... though they seem the same, they are not the same birds of a year or two ago. I do not know the life span of garden birds but I suspect it is not that long. Their springtime song reminds us that the lifeforce continues, the same renewing cycle - though not the same ..... and we really only have a walk on part.

..........
Work Without Hope
All Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lair -

The bees are stirring - birds are on the wing -

And WINTER slumbering in the open air,

Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring !

And I, the while, the sole unbusy thing,

Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing.
Yet well I ken the banks where Amaranths blow,
Have traced the fount whence streams of nectar flow.

Bloom, O ye Amaranths ! bloom for whom ye may,

For me ye bloom not ! Glide, rich streams, away !

With lips unbrightened, wreathless brow, I stroll:

And would you learn the spells that drowse my soul ?

WORK WITHOUT HOPE draws nectar in a sieve,

And HOPE without an object cannot live.

.............

Samuel Taylor Coleridge - written 1825

Note: the capitalization in the poem's text is as the poet wrote it.

The March Wind

An illustration by Frank Pape from the children's book At the Back of the North Wind by George MacDonald.

I read a page this morning from a book of daily meditations for the turning of the year called The Celtic Spirit by Caitlin Matthews. The passage was called Colours of the Wind and and made the point that the weather vane of our emotions and moods is very much attuned to the winds. March has just arrived and, after the coldest winter in quite some years, there were no daffodils for St. David's Day.Today we have had wind and driving rain and my mood feels somewhat indigo and mauve - yesterday when it was bright and springlike, it felt silvery like the colour of dew in morning sunlight.

As the month progresses towards the equinox and spring, the occasional rainbow will appear across the sky in between showers - and once again the land will be flecked with blue, green and yellow as warmth returns to the northern hemisphere.

A bridge over the Winterbourne

The Winterbourne viewed from the foot bridge, looking towards Silbury Hill

The little bridge that connects Avebury Trusloe to Avebury. Although there are several small foot bridges crossing the Winterbourne this is probably the one most used.

...........

The Winterbourne is a beautiful river that meanders from its source somewhere near Winterbourne Bassett through the village of Winterbourne Monkton along the edge of Avebury, past Silbury to meet up with the river Kennet and eventually the Thames. The Winterbourne is joined by the Sambourne and today, for the first time, I saw the spot where they join. I have walked across the small bridge in the photo many times but have never viewed from afar before.

The river is called the Winterbourne because traditionally it dries up in the summer though with our recent wet summers this has not been the case. The Winterbourne has been written about extensively elsewhere so I can only write from a personal perspective. I understand this little river renowned for it 'magical' quality is linked to goddess worship of old when sources of water were equated with the life giving aspects of Mother Earth.

Thank you to the small group of people I walked with today. Pete and Steve, both local to Avebury and very knowledgeable about the hidden elements of the landscape. Rose and Sue, two lovely nurturing women, thanks to Sue for her truly sublime muffins. The two children that walked with us and who searched for flint arrowheads in the mole hills on Windmill Hill - I was pleased to find I am still in touch with the 10 year old within as I joined them in this activity. And last but not least, Betty the black labrador who jumped in the Winterbourne to chase a stick just before we returned to Avebury.

I close this piece with a reflection on the well known adage 'water under the bridge' - meaning, I believe, having the wisdom to know when something that once seemed important is now finished business.

Walking to Swallowhead Spring

Swallowhead Spring - the source of the river Kennet

Where the rivers Kennet and Winterbourne meet

Silbury Hill from the top of Waden Hill - the grass looking somewhat sad after the snow.

Walking up Waden Hill - I was not alone, nor ever am on this mystical hill.

Setting off and returning - through the south east quadrant of the Avebury Henge
............

Yesterday, I was in one of my favourite hilltop places in my north Wiltshire town - the snowdrops had survived the snow and the sun had just come out. In the distance I could see the snow covered downs and I was suddenly filled with a curious happiness which is perhaps better described as the joy of being alive.

So today I headed for those misty, distant hills - on a bus out to Avebury. I was surprised at how much snow still covered the downs. It started out as a cold, clear morning though soon started to cloud over - the above photos track my walk from Avebury, along West Kennet Avenue of Stones and up Waden Hill, where the snow was still untrodden and frozen in places. Stopping at the top to take in the land/skyscape, I then had to choose between walking to West Kennet Long Barrow or to Swallowhead Spring - I chose the spring with all its symbolism of new life.

As I retraced my steps back to Avebury, I climbed Waden Hill and was thrilled to see a large hare appear. It loped downhill in no particular hurry, stopping to just sit and look for a few moments - another sign of the imminent arrival of Spring.

Thaw

Over the land freckled with snow half thawed

The speculating rooks at their nests cawed

And saw from elm-tops, delicate as flower of grass,

What we below could not see, Winter pass.
Edward Thomas (1878-1917)

(The poetry of Edward Thomas has featured on this blog before - sadly many of the elms have now gone from our landscape.)

Solitary stone in snow

Solitary stone

Stands alone

Still

A lone monolith in the snow. However this stone is not out at Avebury or the Marlborough Downs but very close to where I live near a town centre. It feels like 'my' stone and I suspect no one else cares about, or even notices it, as old stones have a way of becoming invisible. I know nothing of the stone's history except that it is ancient and probably local sandstone. It stands on the side of a hill in a small Victorian cemetery - I do not know if it stood there before the land became a cemetery or whether it was placed there subsequently. It is in fact aligned with the morning sunrise (though this could be coincidental) and I haven't been able to test whether there is particular significance to certain times of year such as midsummer, as the hillside cemetery is surrounded by Victorian streets and houses. The stone is still, and holds fast its secrets.

Sand and Water

Solid stone is just sand and water ......

Sand and water and a million years gone by .....

I will see you in the light of a thousand suns

I will hear you in the sound of waves .....

(Beth Nielson Chapman)

People are often flawed; we pursue goals with single-minded determination until one day something happens to wake us up and see the beauty of nature around us. One day we wake up and to our surprise we are no longer young and, as with some ancient stones, we find we have become less visible.

But old stones can survive thousands if not millions of years; they deserve our homage.

Location of the lone stone

A peaceful little cemetery, also designated as a local nature reserve - today covered in virgin snow ..... and silence. When the snow finally melts the wild primroses will appear.

A combe wood

A chalk water stream running off the downs through this magical little wood

(photo taken looking down from a small bridge)

Bracket fungi growing off the side of an old tree
...........

Today, the last day of January, I went out for a ramble with a small group of fellow walkers. Our walk started by Morgan's Hill and took us downhill to the peaceful hamlet of Calstone Wellington - clusters of snowdrops out along the sloping path from the old church. We headed towards the stunning Calstone Coombes taking in, on our way, a magical little wood tucked away in one of the deep combes. A chalk water stream flowed along the combe bottom, the water running straight off the Downs. Moss covered branches and fallen trees, fungi growing in profusion and last year's leaves still soft underfoot, gave the wood an enchanted air. I wonder if Edward Thomas was walking here when he was inspired to write his poem, The Combe.

...............

The Combe was ever dark, ancient and dark,

Its mouth stopped with bramble, thorn, and briar;

And no one scrambles over the sliding chalk

By beech and yew and perishing juniper

Down the half precipices of its sides, with roots

And rabbit holes for steps. The sun of Winter,

The moon of Summer, and all the singing birds

Except the missel-thrush that loves juniper,

Are quite shut out. But far more ancient and dark

The Combe looks since they killed a badger there,

Dug him out and gave him to the hounds,

That most ancient Briton of English beasts.

Edward Thomas (1878-1917)

.............

Edward Thomas had a great love of nature and the countryside, especially around Wiltshire. He wrote the biography of Richard Jefferies plus other successful books and poetry before enlisting to fight in WWI. He was killed in action at the age of 39.

Note: Combe is also spelt Coomb. The National Trust have spelt it as Coombes. With reference to the stream, a friend who knows Calstone very well has told me that I may have found the Calstone Springs ..... I must go back for a more thorough forage.

The river of life

Fast flowing - the upper river Thames, near Kelmscott

The Thames near Inglesham - the last navigable point for boats

...............

Today I went walking along the upper Thames near the lovely Cotswold town of Lechlade. A beautiful January day that started out cold and then became almost spring-like, lots of snowdrops out under trees. Later, in the afternoon sunshine, I spotted the first crocus.

The two photos above show the same river on the same day. In one it is tranquil, safe and calm, in the other it surges forward becoming a larger river, gathering tributaries along the way until it eventually becomes the mighty ocean. In so many ways life mirrors nature - going with the flow is usually so much easier than swimming against the tide, though there are times during the course of our lives when that is just what we have to do. And sometimes events flood over us and it becomes a case of sink or swim.

I like to think that, as with my walk today, eventually the river of life becomes calm and gently flowing. A place where the sound of birdsong can be heard, a smell of woodsmoke, and the first flowers of spring can be seen.

The first snowdrops

The Snow-Drop

Fear no more, thou timid Flower!

Fear thou no more the winter's might,

The whelming thaw, the ponderous shower,

The silence of the freezing night!

Since Laura murmur'd o'er thy leaves

The potent sorceries of song,

To thee, meek Flowret! gentler gales

And cloudless skies belong.

...........

Her eye with tearful meanings fraught,

She gaz'd till all the body mov'd

Interpreting the Spirit's thought-

The Spirit's eager sympathy

Now trembled with thy trembling stem,

And while thy droopedst o'er thy bed,

With sweet unconscious sympathy

Inclin'd the drooping head.

The first two verses from Samuel Taylor Coleridge peom The Snowdrop

............

My favourite flower, the snowdrop - the flower of Imbolc. So fragile yet, in the language of metaphors, so brave. To Francis of Assisi, known for his love of the natural world, they were considered an emblem of hope ...... and so they still are. At the start of 2009 with so much to concern us in the world, this little flower remains just that, a symbol of hope as a new cycle of growth starts to unfurl.

Swans in flight - nature's ballet

Swans in Flight

Image courtesy of 'Waterfowl Wallpaper'

A local swan - seconds after landing on the thawing ice
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I don't know how serious writers manage but it seems to me that I sometimes spend quite a while with the seed of what I want to say lying dormant. Earlier today I had been walking back along the canal path looking out for the lone swan, spotted about half an hour earlier - it had been sitting on the ice, looking for all intents and purposes, stuck. It was nowhere to be seen so I assumed it managed to make its way up onto the bank on the far side of the canal ..... then I saw it. A swan in flight, it circled round and was flying back towards the canal. As it came into land, its great wings silently beating the air, it flew past me at head level. I fumbled in my pocket for my little digital camera but too late, the swan landed on the ice with balletic grace. The three youths I had just passed (with their scary looking dog) turned to watch with me - I was pleased to see the awe on their faces. We all smiled at each other, we were after all just people.

The first time I saw wild swans in flight was in Lincolnshire against a blue sky, the sight thrilled me and the image never left. More recently (a couple of autumns ago) at a local beauty spot I observed the magic of parent swans teach their grown cygnets to fly the length of the lake. Again I was unable to capture the moment on camera. A few mornings later I looked up to see five young swans flying west across the town - they turned out to be the same cygnets I had watched learn to fly.

Later this month I am going to see the loveliest of all ballets at our small local theatre, the Wyvern - Swan Lake by Tchaikovsky - here is the music, which will no doubt bring to mind one of nature's most wonderful sights. Swans in flight.

http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=1ea90L91eZk

The return of vibrancy - bullfinches

Bullfiches

image courtesy of Gerd Rosen

http://www.digital-nature-photography.com/nature

Illustration by Alan Harris from the Kingfisher Field Guide to Birds - Britain and Ireland

Bother Bulleys, let us sing

From the dawn till evening! -

For we know not that we go not

When the day's pale pinions fold

Unto those who sang of old.

from Thomas Hardy's poem, 'Bullfinches'

Today I was conscious that my last two posts were somewhat monochrome. As it approached lunchtime at work today (hard going) I noticed that the freezing cloud cover had lifted giving way to bright, though very cold, blue sky. As I looked out towards the the bird feeders on next door's apple tree and the ivy covered poplar I was treated to an arial display of two male bullfinches and a female - quite rare I believe. They generally move around in pairs (male and female) so it was unusual to see two males together. The male has a vibrant bright pink breast whilst the female is more of a dusky pink - to see them together is a joy, bringing much needed colour into my day.

The bullfinch is on red alert by the RSPB see:

http://www.rspb.org.uk/wildlife/birdguide/name/b/bullfinch/index.asp

New Year's Day

To see a world in a grain of sand,

And a heaven in a wild flower,

Hold infinity in the palm of your hand,

And eternity in an hour.

William Blake from Auguries of Innocence

That it will never come again

Is what makes life so sweet.

Emily Dickinson

The Pied Wagtail - 'road-runner'

This little bird has been flitting in and out of my vision ever since I moved to the terraced street where I now live. I have never seen it in woods or parks and only ever see it running or hopping across roads or pavements near where I live (although I have seen it in other built up areas around the town). My street is home to crows and magpies - often spotted on tv aerials and chimney pots en route to other leafier places. There seems to be colony of pied wagtails along the next street which runs parallel to the route of the old canal so I imagine they are roosting in the eaves of these houses - and have done so for many generations.

The illustration above is a wood-carving by Agnes Miller Parker taken from The Old House at Coate by Richard Jefferies. Here is what Richard Jefferies writes about the wagtail in his autobiographical piece 'The Blue Doors':

The legs of the wagtail are so slender that they scarce seem capable of sustaining even its light weight; each appears a mere black line; the plumage is shaded with delicate precision and every tiny feather besides that side or tip that meets the eye is equally carefully marked underneath, and where it cannot be observed, so much "work" is there, so much thorough honesty in nature's art. Everything out of sight is as tenderly touched as that open to the passing view. The wagtails, like the ibis, were sacred; they were never shot or disturbed; wagtails, swallows, swifts, turtle-doves, yellow-hammers, robins, wrens, green plovers and even thrushes, if not semi-sacred were rarely fired at. (Richard Jefferies 1848-1887)

For more information on the pied wagtail go to: http://www.rspb.org.uk/wildlife/birdguide/name/p/piedwagtail/index.asp

Addendum: New Year's Eve, a hard frost over everything as I came out of the house this morning - by my gate were a pair of wagtails, pecking at the pavement. They hopped across the road and watched me from the kerb as I quietly closed the gate behind me. A drop of magic to start the day.

January 3rd: Still freezing (the coldest winter I can remember for quite some time). Some pied wagtails have moved into the eaves of the houses across the street so now I have the pleasure of looking at the rooftops and seeing them run-hop across the tiles, their long tail-feathers wagging all the while.

A year and a day - Mistletoe

Mistletoe acts as a master-key as well as a lightning conductor; for it is said to open all locks. (From the Golden Bough by Sir James Frazer)

Jon Dathen author of OGHAM (Wisdom of the Trees) writes that Mistletoe rules the 23rd December which is the extra day set apart from the rest of the year due to its sacred and sacrificial nature. There are 13 Ogham months in the calendar year, the last being ruled by the Elder tree, ends on December 22nd. The first month, ruled by the Birch tree starts on the December 24th. Therefore, December 23rd belongs to neither the old or the new year - and gave rise to the old country saying "wait for a year and a day". Mistletoe represents health, return to health, fertility, success, good fortune, a reminder of our responsibilities to others, the need to respect all beings and see ourselves as part of a whole - an individual part of a vast universe encompassing both the spiritual and physical realities (acknowledgement to Jon Dathen).

The plant grows on various trees, particularly the oak and the apple. The ancient British Druids venerated it and traditionally the plant was cut with a golden sickle and used during rites accompanying the sacrifice of a white bull. In mythology mistletoe has a sexual symbolism as it usually grows two berries together - representing testicles. In the classical tradition Uranus was castrated by his son Cronus with a golden sickle. His testicles fell into the sea changing into blood and foam from which rose Aphrodite (Venus) the goddess of love. The twin berries and leaves are also symbolic of the celestial twins. In Scandinavian legend Balder, god of light and son of Odin and Frigga is said to have been slain with an arrow of mistletoe. The plant was dedicated to Frigga, goddess of love - many customs, such as kissing under the mistletoe, would seem to have originated from the belief in its phallic power. In feudal times mistletoe boughs were gathered on Christmas Eve to decorate homes though it was believed to be unlucky to cut the plant before Christmas Eve (acknowledgement to Josephine Addison's The Illustrated Plant Lore).

Mistletoe has come to represent the 'life-force' and life itself as it grows on leafless trees in the midst of winter. At Yuletide it is symbolic of the rebirth of the 'god of light', it is not uncommon for Yule Mistletoe to be saved until Imbolc on February 2nd (Candlemas) to be burned in the fire, thus completing the transition from the winter solstice.

This post is for anyone who finds the number 23 significant in their life (see Cosmic Trigger by Robert Anton Wilson)

Night and Day

Image courtesy of http://www.utahskies.org/

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Today, this Midwinter Day (winter solstice) it is a time to spend a while meditating upon light and dark - day and night.

There was a time when people carried the lunar rhythm of the moon close to their hearts and often collected healing herbs by the light of the moon. They told variations of a legend when Night was dominant over Day. I recently came across this myth from 'The Prose Edda', Tales from Norse Mythology by Snorri Sturluson (thought to have been written in 1220). It told of a woman called Night, daughter of one of the original giants. Night was dark-skinned and dusky-haired like the family she came from. Then she married a god called Shining One, the Sun ...... and they had a son called Day who took after his father's side being bright and beautiful. So Night was conceived as the original state of the cosmos.

The story goes on to tell that Night and her son Day were given two horses and two chariots and they were put in the sky, so they could ride round the world every twenty four hours. Night rides first on a horse called Frosty-mane and every morning he bedews the earth with foam from his bit. Day's horse is called Shining-mane and the whole earth and sky are illuminated by his mane. Thus Night is regarded as ushering in day - the nocturnal came first.

There was a time when people lived in harmony with nature and, as with Night and Day, the year was divided into Winter and Summer with winter being the dark side of the year when nature sleeps. Today marks the longest hours of darkness - gradually, imperceptibly at first, the light will now creep back and by Imbolc on February 2nd the first stirrings of green shoots start to appear in the soil.

Acknowledgement of source of material to: Professor Brian Bates author of The Real Middle Earth - Magic and Mystery in the Dark Ages

Woody and the Goldcrests

Walking back from my lunchtime forage along the nearby cycle track today, two tiny birds appeared right beside me in the leafless hawthorn hedge. I stopped very still and listened and watched - they were about the size of a wren, though with a gentler song, completely new to me. I hurried back to work to see if I could identify them. At first I thought they were siskins and mentioned them to someone I work with who is a fellow bird lover - she told me straight away that they were goldcrests. I had only ever seen goldfinches before and I'm not sure I had even heard of goldcrests . These tiny little songbirds are quite rare and apparently the UK's smallest bird, along with the flamecrest which is very similar. Somehow they seemed to be the highlight of an otherwise ordinary working day.

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Also today, our old friend Woody made a reappearance at the bird feeder hanging from the old apple tree in the neighbouring garden (the window of my office faces it). Last winter the Great Spotted Woodpecker delighted myself and my colleagues as we caught glimpses of it pecking the bark of the tree. Although brightly coloured, it only stays for a matter of seconds before taking off into the nearby copse. No sightings at all during the summer - it was good to see this illusive bird back.

Observing garden birds is one of the joys of winter, something I never tire of - here is a strange little poem called The Woodpecker:

I once a King and chief

Now am the tree bark's thief

Ever 'twixt trunk and leaf

Chasing the prey

William Morris (1891)

The Real Middle Earth

Morning sunlight - reflecting on a crow

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The Road goes ever on

Down from the door where it began

Now far ahead the Road has gone,

I must follow if I can.

Pursuing it with eager feet

Until it joins some larger way

And whither then ? I cannot say

(Professor Tolkien - from Lord of the Rings)

The sun rising on a frosty winter morning - in an old hillside cemetery

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I have recently started reading a fascinating book called The Real Middle Earth - Magic and Mystery of the Dark Ages, by Brian Bates. Though I have still much of it left to read, Professor Bates has started me on a journey of discovery with which I felt an instant affinity. He talks about how the Anglo-Saxons and Norse peoples settled our islands after the Romans left - apparently avoiding the deserted villas and towns built by the Romans. It seems the people of the historical Middle-earth preferred to live closely to trees, streams and wild animals - their lives were rural and their homes built of wood. Perhaps there is an element of shamanism in Professor Bates book and it is all the more enjoyable for that.

Some time ago I started my blog Hidden Swindon (linked to this blog) and The Real Middle Earth is quite close to 'the spirit of the land' I was trying to capture. The morning sunlight in winter casting long shadows across the frost covered grass. Today, on my way to work, I took a detour through a the small hillside cemetery behind my house. Now a designated local nature reserve, it is a haven of quiet tranquility, astonishingly close to the town centre. It is the place I watch the seasons change, today autumn leaves still lay crisply frozen along the path. In January the first snowdrops can be seen there, heralding the spring, followed by wild primroses, celandines, daffodils and bluebells. The birds are always present, from crow, woodpecker, bluetit, wren; along with squirrels, badgers, foxes - and probably a few rats in the undergrowth, they have their place too. In summer the swallows and bats come back.

The words from Tolkien at the start of this post "The road goes ever on ..... " were sent to me in a card by the first man I ever fell in love with; he posted them from the other side of the planet. Back then, I didn't know where the words had come from, or how prophetic they would turn out to be - here I am contemplating them once more, so many years later. The young man, striding out into the world without looking back, is gone - and can never return. The girl left behind to stare wistfully at the moon is still here (in spirit anyway) very much older, hopefully wiser and still gazing at the moon - no longer wistfully but in ever increasing wonder at our beautiful fragile Middle Earth.

"And whither then? I cannot say."

Mirrors within mirrors

Yesterday, while doing some local research the historical Town Hall (which these days is used as for dance) I was allowed access to the studio. Standing at one end of the high-ceilinged airy room looking at mirrors reflecting in mirrors I mused on how they can sometimes be used to create illusions. Something that has intrigued me all my life - though I can fully understand why some people choose to live without mirrors. Today I found this poem by Sylvia Plath which, until now I had been unfamiliar with. Perhaps because she took her own life while her children slept in the room next door affected my maternal instincts that sought to protect my own children from harm's way - I turned away. Here is her much studied poem - Mirror.

Mirror
I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.

Whatever I see I swallow immediately

Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike.

I am not cruel, only truthful-

The eye of the little god, four cornered.

Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.

It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long

I think it is a part of my heart. But it flickers.

Faces and darkness separate us over and over.

Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me,

Searching my reaches for what she really is.

Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.

I see her back, and reflect it faithfully.

She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.

I am important to her. She comes and goes.

Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.

In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman

Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.

Sylvia Plath 1932-1963

The following fascinating myth was taken from "The book of imaginary beings" by Jorge Luis Borges with Margarita Guerrero. Revised, enlarged, and translated by Norman Thomas di Giovanni. Published by E.P. Dutton & Co., 1970.

"In those days [legendary times of the Yellow Emperor] the world of mirrors and the world of men were not, as they are now, cut off from each other. They were, besides, quite different; neither beings nor colors nor shapes were the same. Both kingdoms, the specular and the human, lived in harmony; you could come and go through mirrors. One night the mirror people invaded the earth. Their power was great, but at the end of the bloody warfare the magic arts of the Yellow Emperor prevailed. He repulsed the invaders, imprisoned them in their mirrors, and forced on them the task of repeating, as though in a kind of dream, all the actions of men. He stripped them of their power and of their forms and reduced them to mere slavish reflections. Nonetheless, a day will come when the magic spell will be shaken off.The first to awaken will be the Fish. Deep in the mirror we will perceive a very faint line and the color of this line will be like no other color. Later on, other shapes will begin to stir. Little by little they will differ from us; little by little they will not imitate us. They will break through the barriers of glass or metal and this time will not be defeated. Side by side with these mirror creatures, the creatures of water will join the battle."

And a bit of background about this legend :
"In one of the volumes of the 'Lettres edifiantes et curieuses' that appeared in Paris during the first half of the eighteenth century, Father Fontecchio of the Society of Jesus planned a study of the superstitions and misinformation of the common people of Canton; in the preliminary outline he noted that the Fish was a shifting and shining creature that nobody had ever caught but that many said they had glimpsed in the depths of mirrors."

(Poem and legend taken from the Sylvia Plath Forum)

(Mirror photo by June Jackson)

Clear blue sky and blackbirds

Escaping from work at lunch-time, it is a winter's day of the best sort. Clear blue sky, cold and invigorating - there are many places I would like to walk today but it is a working day for me so I head for my hedgerow cycle-track to make the most of this precious window of daylight time.

The first thing I notice along the way is a blackbird, only this one has a companion which is not it's mate as the female blackbird is a brownish colour. Blackbirds then seem to appear intermittently on the bare branches of the hedgerow and shrubbery for the rest of the walk - either singly or in pairs. The blackbird is probably the most quintessentially English garden bird, loved for its singular song.

http://www.rspb.org.uk/wildlife/birdguide/name/b/blackbird/

According to Ted Andrews author of Animal Speak, the blackbird represents "understanding the energies of Mother Nature" - the sighting of two male blackbirds together is a good omen as, like the robin, they fiercely stake out their own territory. An old legend associates the blackbird with St Kevin, one of the early Christian monks in Ireland. St Kevin was known as a person of tremendous gentleness and love so much so that a blackbird nested in his outstretched hand as he prayed.

'Blackbird' is also my favourite song by Paul McCartney:

Blackbird singing in the dead of night,

take these broken wings and learn to fly

All your life,

you were only waiting for this moment to arise.

Blackbird singing in the dead of night,

take these sunken eyes and learn to see

All your life,

you were only waiting for this moment to be free.

Blackbird fly

Blackbird fly,

into the light of the dark black night.

I dedicate this post to Kevin - of all my friends, he is possibly the most cherished . Kevin is a die-hard Marxist and would not like to be compared to a saint. He is, however, the gentlest of men - albeit he does have a broken wing.
Image copyright Gerd Rosen from

http://www.digital-nature-photography.com/nature

The Power of Light

A Victorian postcard showing a floral clock - a specially planted collection of flowers which open and close at different times of the day. The viewer could tell the approximate time by looking to see which flowers were open.

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Ring the bells that still can ring

Forget your perfect offering,

There is a crack, a crack in everthing

That's how the light gets in.

Anthem (Leonard Cohen)

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As November closes and we enter the darkest time of the year in the northern hemisphere, some of us hibernate and some of us head south like migrating birds to the sun. I thought, therefore it would be fitting to use this time to reflect on the power of light.

In every religion, however old or recent, light is considered spiritual, sacred and healing. The most ancient mythology has light at its source: Apollo "the Shining One" was the ancient Greeks sun-god, and Re (in its many manifestations) was the same for ancient Egypt. In the prehistoric British Isles, temples of stone were built to the sun, marking the shortest day at winter solstice - the most famous being Stonehenge in Wiltshire.

December is a time to to light candles in our homes and in these dark times (never more metaphorically true that at present). Perhaps this year is the year we step back from the consumerism of our modern way of life and show kindness, friendship and yes, love, to our families, friends and neighbours. A good time to let old grievances slip away and start by forgiving ourselves for any perceived shortfalls ... this act of self acceptance somehow effortlessly radiates outwards to those we care about.

I found this little website about 'festivals of light' at

http://www.souledout.org/festivals/festivalsoflight/festivalslight.html

It closes with the words:

"To remind us that darkness must yield to light. The sun does come back and spring will follow winter"

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This post is for Carl, one of my sons, who lives in Brighton and hasn't had the best of weeks. And for Miles, my other son - who is moving home with his little family next week. Love and light to you both.

Light and shadows

Downs walking on a bright, very cold Saturday in mid November

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Leisure
What is this life if, full of care,

We have no time to stand and stare? -
No time to stand beneath the boughs,

And stare as long as sheep and cows:
No time to see, when woods we pass,

Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass:
No time to see, in broad daylight,

Streams full of stars, like skies at night:
No time to turn at Beauty's glance,

And watch her feet, how they can dance:
No time to wait till her mouth can

Enrich that smile her eyes began?
A poor life this if, full of care,

We have no time to stand and stare.

William Henry Davies (1871-1940)

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Walking with friends on Saturday, we climbed the hill and stood and stared at the shadows and light drifting across the downs. It was cold but the afternoon turned out to be most magical - the ever exuberant Pippa with her ordinance survey map tucked under her coat; Hilary who is fast becoming one of my dearest friends; and Steve ..... who joined us spontaneously at the last moment and who wove a silver thread through the afternoon by leading us to the green-sand spring at Alton Priors, by demonstrating with his voice the the amazing acoustics inside the little Saxon church and then spurring us to climb up the steep incline to Adam's Grave longbarrow - one of the highest points in the landscape where the views are breathtaking. He seemed to know there would be enormous wild mushrooms growing on the side of the the hill ....... there were, which he picked for his evening meal. That's magic!

Thank you to all three (and Betty and Ruby, the stoical black Labradors who walked with us) for a memorable and enjoyable day that somehow completely transcended the bitter cold.

(Note of caution: unless you really know your wild mushrooms, it is wise to err on the side of caution - if in any doubt don't eat them.).

Rooks - in the Wiltshire landscape

Rooks - field foraging

Rooks in a field out near Tan Hill in Wiltshire today - just before a shower of freezing rain blew over.

http://rooks.org.uk/

Although part of the crow family, they are distinguishable from them by their bare greyish-white face and thinner pale beak. Rooks are rarely spotted alone, they roost in flocks in the winter (see link). Mainly seen in open fields, they largely keep clear of towns and cities.

Rooks on a telegraph wire near the village of East Kennet (taken in September this year)

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Rooks

There where the rusty iron lies,

The rooks are cawing all the day.

Perhaps no man, until he dies,

Will understand them, what they say.

The evening makes the sky like clay,

The slow wind waits for night to rise

The world is half content. But they

Still trouble all the trees with cries,

That know, and cannot put away,

The yearning to the soul that flies

From day to night, from night to day.

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Charles Sorley (1895-1915)

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Charles Sorley wrote much of his poetry while attending Marlborough College. He was killed in WWI at the age of 20 and is also highly regarded as a war poet. The above poem was published in 1916 a year after Charles Sorley's death, I do not know if it was written from a quiet Wiltshire landscape or a bleak war zone. Where ever it was written, it has the still-quiet quality of melancholy and reflection.

As the crow flies .....

Yesterday I was in London and as I walked from Highgate Underground Station to the bus-stop on the final part of my journey to Muswell Hill, two crows glided overhead into nearby Highgate Wood. I wondered about the hundreds of different reasons why people to come to the capital city and here I was crossing a familiar road in a part of London used to look on as home - I am thinking only of crows, a bird I usually associate with Avebury and Wiltshire downland. Crows also habituate the hillside Victorian cemetery at the back of my small house in Swindon, where I listen out for their caw all the time, I open the bathroom window and I hear crows. Along with jackdaws and magpies, they treat the chimney pots and tv aerials of the terraced street as an extension to their treetop perching and nesting places. I am watching them all the time - there is something mysterious about this 'other bird world' that thrives above us and regardless of our activities. Our cars cannot touch them, they are the true survivors.
Crows are social in nature and interaction with their own kind is important. They mate for life and live in family groups which they protect vigorously. They have been know to chase off predators such as hawks and owls.
Ted Andrews who compiled Animal Speak (The Spiritual and Magical Powers of Creatures Great and Small) writes that the Keynote for the Crow is: The Secret Magic of Creation is Calling, with the Cycle of Power being All day - All Year.
Part of the Corvidae family the crow belongs to the same family of birds as the raven though whilst the crow thrives of the detritus and leftovers of humans, the raven has retreated to secluded clifftop places. However, some of the raven's mysticism and mythology is shared by the crow.
In Roman mythology the raven and crows used to be as white as swans. In fact the white crow watched over Apollo's pregnant lover at Delphos. One day the crow brought bad news to Apollo and was turned black. The connection with watchfulness remains today as they are messengers calling to us about the creation and magic that exists in our everyday world.

http://www.rspb.org.uk/wildlife/birdguide/name/c/carrioncrow/index.asp

He was a friend of mine

Michael and me - around 1997, not long after he had moved into his new flat

..................

I had known Michael since around 1987. I was working for a London Borough when Michael came into he room on his way to an interview for the post of manager of a day centre for people with learning difficulties. Michael was from San Diego, he wore a long ear-ring in one ear and his prematurely greying, long hair was braided over one shoulder - he seemed rather exotic to my every-day world. He got the the job and in the course of my own position we often spoke on the phone - when he went back to America on holiday he was kind enough to bring an San Diego American Football cap back for my son who at that time was an avid fan.

We gradually got to know each other as friends - though on a warm summer's evening we sort of had a date. One Saturday, we met in Highgate, north London (where I lived) and walked across Hampstead Heath. By the time we walked back it was dark and there was a full moon hanging like a lantern in the sky. When we reached the Kenwood part of the heath there were dozens of people sitting around in groups with little camping stoves and lanterns, enjoying the warm night after an open air classical concert - there was definitely something magical about that evening.

Michael was something of a loner, he always wore black and gradually his long hair became shorter and whiter until he wore it completely cropped. Although he was a very handsome man, he had a complex about his looks and spent quite a bit of his savings on cosmetic surgery. On one occasion, he asked me to meet him from a clinic in Knightsbridge after he had had his face 'dermablasted'. He left the clinic swathed in bandages and the taxi-driver asked me if he had been in a house fire. Why Michael did it I never quite understood and thought it must be a Californian 'thing'.

Quite remarkably, when I left London to live in Wiltshire, Michael and I remained friends. A few times a year, I would meet up with him in London for the day and we would go to art galleries. Then he got the culture bug and started going to classical and world music concerts at least once or twice a week - Sunday mornings we would check in with each other by phone and I would get to hear about his trips to concerts or the theatre. In turn, I drove him to exasperation with the angst I experiencing over a 'great love affair gone wrong' - but he was always patient.

Then, early summer, a couple of years ago Michael sounded scared on the phone. He had found lumps on his body and had an extreme pain in his shoulder - the thing that had haunted him for nearly twenty years finally caught up with him. Michael was a gay man and had lived with the HIV virus from the mid-eighties onwards. A dreadful few months followed while test after test was delayed and his pain increased - eventually he was hospitalised where, this most fastidious of people, managed to retain his dignity to the end. Michael died mid-November two years ago.

At his funeral, Michael had asked people to wear black (as he always did) and to carry one white lily. He chose his own music and the first piece was the theme to the film Dracula - very dramatic. Unfortunately, on that wet, dismal, November afternoon, the celebrant at the service had been caught up in a traffic jam, so the Dracula music was played over and over again while the gothic Golders Green chapel got chillier and gloomier. It was sort of funny, in a dark way.

Michael taught me the meaning of integrity in which he excelled. He also advised me not to wear grey and I try not to. I guess he must have been lonely a lot of the time but he chose that life rather than compromise anyone else by his medical condition.

Out of sight but not out of mind. Michael, the quiet American - he was a friend of mine.

http://video.aol.com/video-detail/bootleg-series-vol-1-02-he-was-a-friend-of-mine/484158908/?icid=VIDURVMUS02

The old oak

The oaktree:

not interested

in cherry blossoms

(Matsuo Basho)

This particular tree is probably my favourite tree - an old oak, it stands not in a meadow, or wood, or forest but on an open space outside a large upmarket hotel and near a roundabout on a busy road that is a main route in and out of a busy town. It is still magnificent and holds the history of a much older landscape in its bark and branches. A landscape that existed on the outskirts of a once small Wiltshire market town now long faded, like an old photograph, into the pages of local history.

Since time began the Oak was revered by many cultures. Due to its enormous size and low electrical resistance it has been struck by lightning more than any other species of tree. It is therefore associated with the gods of thunder and lightning - Zeus and Jupiter in ancient Greek/Roman mythology and Thor the Norse god of thunder and the sky. Thor was widely worshipped by Norse warriors, farmers and peasants alike. The Oak is also associated with protection, strength, stability and comfort and still stands as the 'King of the Forest'.

In the Ogham year, the Oak represents the midsummer period between 10th June - 7th July but when I came upon my oak today, whilst walking in the rain, I felt great affection for it. Just standing there being itself, still holding onto its burnished leaves - while the world rushed by - I knew I must pay a tribute to my late autumn, ancient oak.

The wren and the barrow

West Kennet Long Barrow

Today I took a spontaneous day off work due to a head cold and, as I didn't feel ill enough to stay indoors all day, I took myself off out to Avebury in the hope of clearing my head. Once there, I did one of my favourite walks across to Waden Hill and West Kennet Long Barrow. Walking towards the barrow, all I could hear was the song of the skylarks that always seem to be rise from the fields over there. However, as I drew close to the entrance of the barrow I was enchanted to see a wren, flitting from stone to stone with its familiar 'chit-chat'. The wren is one of my favourite birds as anyone reading might guess from the name of this Blog; whenever I see one it feels like a good sign - that all will be well and that 'I do not walk alone'. The wren stayed for a few seconds before flitting off into the grass and for a few minutes there was complete silence - I could no longer even hear the skylarks. This evening while doing some research on the wren I read that they roost together in little colonies in the cold weather and I wondered whether they had been roosting inside the barrow.

There is much folk-lore associated with the wren relating to winter solstice time. I would just say here, however, that in my previous post 'Birds on Bare Branches' I said that the robin is symbolic of winter and for many of us it is. However, in folk-lore the reverse is true, the robin is associated with summer and the Oak-king while the wren represents winter and the Holly-king. Ancient folk-lore has it that the robin kills the wren at mid-winter (hence the red breast) and it is true that the wren was hunted on St Stephen's day (though revered for the rest of the year) and killed, presumably as a sacrifice.

The inside if West Kennet Long Barrow - where wrens have possibly been roosting. The scientific name for the wren is Troglodytes troglogdytes - which means cave dweller, after the wren's preference for cave like places.

http://www.birdsofbritain.co.uk/bird-guide/wren.asp

For information about skylarks who now have endangered status see:

http://www.rspb.org.uk/wildlife/birdguide/name/s/skylark/index.asp

Birds on bare branches

A bird does not sing because it has an answer, it sings because it has a song. (Chinese proverb)

A wet, windy Monday morning:
When I looked out of my office window at the rain today the old coppiced poplar which stands alone on the other side of the fence appeared to be a place of great activity. Now almost completely denuded of its leaves there seemed to be a multitude of birds showing a great interest in the bird feeder that hangs on an old apple tree in the residential garden - also on the other side of the fence.

The first to appear on the fence this morning was a robin - the very symbol of our winter. I then realised yet again, that this is one of the blessings of the dark months, birds reveal themselves to us. From my office I have the most wonderful view of an amazing variety of garden birds as they go about the serious business finding food as the berries disappear from the hedgerows.

Although, I will always have affection for the pair of collared doves that have been appearing on the fence regularly throughout the summer, today on the bare branches of the poplar tree I was thrilled to see tree sparrows, bluetits, coletits, a beautiful goldfinch, chaffinches (male and female), blackbirds, an odd crow and one or two common old pigeons. Not to mention a few grey squirrels almost joining them in aerobatic flight. No lesser spotted woodpecker as yet (a frequent visitor last winter).

I dedicate this short post to the Robin, who was the first bird to appear today - with the message that there are small joys all around us if we look - whatever the weather.

http://www.rspb.org.uk/wildlife/birdguide/name/r/robin/index.asp

November - "Nothing Gold Can Stay"

An avenue of beech trees - a deserted park on an early November day

The stillness of Samhain seeps into the month of November. Late afternoon all too soon gives way to darkness and some days there doesn't seem to be much light at all. Not quite winter, more a sense of everything in abeyance, waiting - for the gales that will inevitably arrive later in the month to strip the trees bare. Nature continually reminds us of the transience of all things.

Nothing Gold Can Stay

Nature's first green is gold

Her hardest hue to hold.

Her early leaf's a flower

But only so an hour.

Then leaf subsides to leaf.

So Eden sank to grief,

So dawn goes down to day

Nothing gold can stay

Robert Frost (1916)

November

No sun - no moon !

No morn - no noon -

No dawn - no dusk - no proper time of day

No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthy ease,

No comfortable feel to any member -

No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees

No fruit, no flowers, no leaves, no birds !

November!

Thomas Hood (1789 - 1845)

For a friend out there who suffers from Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD) and doesn't do well at this time of year - you know who you are, thanks for the poem and I wish you light.

The Parting Glass

This evening I had the immense enjoyment of seeing Cara Dillon, Sam Lakeman and James O'Grady in concert at the Swindon Arts Centre. Whatever heaviness of heart you may be feeling, for whatever reason, music lifts and heals the spirit.

Cara Dillon's pure renditions of traditional songs, Sam Lakeman's amazing talent as a pianist and guitarist and James O'Grady brilliance on the uilleann pipes and fiddle, were a joy. Their 'encore' song was taken from Cara Dillon's new CD 'Hill of Thieves' (not yet released).

The Parting Glass

-----------

Of all the money that ere I had, I've spent it all in good company,

And all the harm that ere I've done.

alas it was done to none but me

And all I've done for the want of wit, to memory now I can't recall

So fill to me the parting glass, goodnight and joy be with you all.

Of all the comrades the ere I've had,

they are sorry for my going away,

And all the sweethearts the ere I had,

they would wish me one more day to stay,

But since it falls unto my lot that I should rise

and you should not.

I'll gently rise and I'll softy call, goodnight

and joy be with you all.

A man may drink and not be drunk,

a man may fight and not be slain

A man may court a pretty girl

and perhaps be welcome back again.

But since it has so ordered been by a time to rise

and a time to fall

Come fill to me the Parting glass, goodnight

and joy be with you all.

Come fill to me the Parting glass, goodnight

and joy be with you all.

--------------

Traditional arrangement: Cara Dillon and Sam Lakeman

-----------

Cara Dillon and Sam Lakeman performing together - Garden Valley

http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=8PZDD_Zt6MA&feature=related

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Quietude - the dying of the year

Thistles - ephemeral in the October sunlight

Fungi growing on a tree stump

-----------

Stillness settles over the land.

Dead wood and foliage return to the earth to fertilise the soil for next year's growth.

Nothing is wasted, all is renewed.

Back to the earth

-----------
The end of October brings the the cycle of the year to a close - with the dying of the old year it is a time to reflect on loved ones that have passed through the door of life into the misty realms of memory.

-----------
"I know the year is dying,

Soon the summer will be dead.

I can trace it in the flying

Of the black crows overhead;

I can hear it in the rustle

Of the dead leaves as I pass,

And the south wind's plaintive sighing

Through the dry and withered grass.

Ah, 'tis then I love to wander,

Wander idly and alone,

Listening to the solemn music

Of sweet nature's undertone;

Wrapt in thoughts I cannot utter,

Dreams my tongue cannot express,

Dreams that match the autumn's sadness

In their longing tenderness."

Mortimer Crane Brown, 'Autumn Dreams'

The Thirteenth Fairy

Sleeping Beauty by Sir Edward Burne-Jones

(died 1898) from the 'Briar Rose' series

********

The story of Sleeping Beauty "La belle au Bois dormant" The Beauty asleep in the woods. First published by Charles Perrault in 1697.

This story has always fascinated me - there are many versions so I have decided to use the one from my memory of childhood stories: Once upon a time .........

There was a king and queen who, overjoyed at the birth a long awaited baby daughter, held a feast to celebrate the baby's christening. They invited twelve good fairies to the banquet but forgot to invite the oldest thirteenth fairy. The thirteenth fairy arrived as an uninvited guest and burst in on the banquet in great agitation and anger at being overlooked; for she had once been the wisest and fairest of all. Eleven of the fairies had already bestowed their gifts to the baby girl - beauty, grace, wisdom, sweetness of nature - when the thirteenth fairy cast her malevolent spell, that at the age of fifteen the princess would prick her figure on a poisoned spindle and die. The twelfth fairy had not yet given her gift and though did not have the power to undo this dreadful prophecy she changed it so the baby princess would not die but sleep behind a forest of briars for a 100 years until she was woken by the kiss of a prince.

I'm not really intrigued by the prince's kiss - far more interesting is where the idea of the wicked thirteenth fairy came from and why 13 is considered unlucky. Is it a metaphor for the thirteenth ogham (or lunar) month which is represented by the magical elder tree and is symbolic of the dying of the old year? This would of course also be symbolic of the old pagan ways that preceded the coming of Christianity. To this day wiccans meet in covens of thirteen. Superstition has always been used as a weapon against old wisdoms.

The ancient Egyptians considered 13 to bring good luck. They believed there were 12 steps on the ladder of eternal life. To take the 13th step meant going through death into immortality or everlasting life.

Rather than being unlucky therefore - consider 13 a beneficial and significant number, perhaps the reason why in times gone by the 'baker's dozen' was always thirteen loaves.

Woody nightshade - bittersweet

Woody nightshade (Solanum dulcamara)

Dulcamara means bittersweet which is another name for the plant. When first taken the stems are bitter followed by a sensation of sweetness. Also known as felonwort, originating in the plant's effectiveness in curing abscesses, which were at one time commonly known as felons; the bright red berries are reputed to remove warts and in herbalism today they are used to treat skin conditions.

According to 'Herbal Magick' by Paul Beyerl - Woody nightshade is associated with balancing energies, is harmless and its benevolent properties remain known today - as opposed to its cousin Atropa belladonna (Deadly nightshade) which is poisonous. Having done some further research, however, I do not think this is the case. Other reliable sources clearly state that Woody nightshade is poisonous to humans and livestock though not to birds.

See:http://www.english-country-garden.com/flowers/woody-nightshade.htm

As well as bittersweet and felonwart, other country names for the Woody nightshade are poison flower, shady night, snakeflower, scarlet berry, blue bindweed, trailing nightshade and witch flower.

In the language of flowers Woody nightshade bears the sentiment Truth.

Maud Heath's Causeway

One of the unheralded wonders of rural Wiltshire, the path known as Maud Heath's Causeway rises above the Avon flood plain on sixty-four arches.
Maud Heath was a widow who carried eggs to market in Chippenham. On her death in 1474, she bequeathed, in land and property, the sum of eight pounds a year to be laid out as a causeway leading from Wick Hill to Chippenham Clift, which was the path along which she tramped to market everyday.
500 years later the charity still maintains the path out of her bequest.
Reference source: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Maud_Heath

The flood plain by the river Avon showing a section of Maud Heath's Causeway and the tiny lichen covered, little church of St Giles at Tytherton-Kellaways.

A section of the elevated footpath on the Causeway - from the road

One of the two memorials to Maud Heath

This one by the actual causeway is a Dial Post with a sun dial at the top. Not all the words can be made out as it is heavily covered with lichen. Words that can be clearly seen say "Injure me not".

See http://www.walkscene.co.uk/England/Wiltshire/Maud2zz.htm for the walk that starts from Wick Hill. Thank you to my dear friend Ruth who lives in Chippenham for showing me this place and for taking me to Sutton Benger. It was a lovely afteroon.

The river Avon

'The Lord of the Greenwood' at Sutton Benger Church

A detail from the Green Man carving - birds eating hawthorn berries.

The Green Man Carving at Sutton Benger Church - today I saw it for myself, it is every bit as intricate and beautiful as I imagined.

A notice on the wall by the Green Man says the following:

Although the Green Man is often associated with the hawthorn, or May Tree, if you look more closely at the carvings you will see that it is an emblem of autumn, not of spring. The hawthorn leaves are never accompanied by flowers, but often by fruit. At the church of Sutton Benger, Wiltshire, the generous Green Man provides hawthorn berries for the birds. The crudest carver could usually manage to surround him with some acorns or grapes.

To continue:

Old Churches can seem very stark and plain today but in the Middle Ages they would have been bright with green and gold, the colours of growth. Medieval people love bright colours which were so difficult for them to make artificially and yet so abundant in nature. The mystic, Hildegarde of Bingen, spoke of viriditas, 'the greening of the soul'. The Green Man would have conjured up thoughts like this. He himself was always human colour, not tinted green, although there were other outlandish figures in popular tradition who were this colour. In the twelfth century, two Green Children were found at Woolpit, in Suffolk. They said they came from a fairy underworld and they stayed green by living on beans.

Green leaves were a delight. Learned clerks wrote ominously about them signifying the sins of the flesh, and preachers warned against the temptations of springtime, but not everyone listened. In May, people carried home the branches of the hawthorn, with its sweet blossoms. Young couples strolled in the woods, their heads crowned with garlands of ivy. Green Men shared in this symbolism, and in a set of carvings at Weston Longville church in Norfolk, they surround a young man carrying branches of May. In fact many Green Men resemble well-dressed youngsters of the period; they are certainly not wild spirits. Their hairstyles, when they can be recognised, are those of fashionable young men of the time. (taken from text in the church)

See also the post made on 25th September 'Enchantment - in nature'. Apologies for any duplication.

All Saints' Church at Sutton Benger - near Chippenham

Formerly called St Leonard, there has been a church on this site since the 13th century. Many of the statues were defaced or destroyed by the Puritans and the church was restored between 1836 -1862. Although the Green Man has been dated back to the 13th century, it may have been refashioned in 1851.

The Hill

Martinsell Hill on a warm afternoon in early October

The Hill

Breathless, we flung us on the windy hill,

Laughed in the sun, and kissed the lovely grass.

You said, 'Through glory and ecstasy we pass;

Wind, sun and earth remain, the birds still sing,

When we are old, are old ....' 'And when we die

All's over that is ours; and life burns on

Through other lovers, other lips,' said I

'Heart of my heart, our heaven is now, is won!'

'We are the Earth's best, that learnt her lesson here.

Life is our cry. We kept the faith!' we said;

'We shall go down with unreluctant tread

Rose-crowned into the darkness!'..... Proud we were,

And laughed, that had such brave true things to say.

- And then you suddenly cried, and turned away.

Rupert Brooke (1887 - 1915)
*******

Rupert Brooke is known as a war poet though he did fact die in 1915 of blood poisoning from a small wound which, had it been treated, would not have killed him. He came from an academic family and was handsome, athletic and gifted thus later becoming symbolic as the 'golden haired, young apollo - fallen warrior.'

Oak Magic

I was shown this Green Man today by the leader of the walking group I was out with in the Martinsell area of Wiltshire.

I have talked about the Green Man in a previous post under 'Enchantment in Nature' and this is the carving which inspired my interest. It was carved by a good friend of musician and writer Steve Marshall who posted a photo on the Avebury Forum at http://avebury-web.co.uk/ see 'The Green Man'. Steve protects the privacy of his friends vigorously - so the woodcarver's identity continues to remain a mystery.

This oak tree stands alone on an exposed hilltop field boundary, it seemed stark and stunted compared to the oak-wood trees which were tall and still green (I believe the oak is one of the last trees to shed its leaves in the autumn).

William Blake wrote:
The tree which moves some to tears of joy is in the eyes of others only a green thing that stands in the way. Some see in Nature all ridicule and deformity, and others scarce see Nature at all. But to the eyes of a man of imagination, Nature is Imagination itself.
(Taken from Letters 1799)
There is so much to write about the oak that I am not going to attempt to cover it in this post. The oak is sacred in many cultures and certainly to pre-Christian pagans, particularly the Druids. In more recent history, oaks have been considered a royal tree - many pubs are called the Royal Oak, indeed I saw one today. The oak has always been a symbol of wisdom and strength

There is no crown to mark the forest's King, for in his leaves shines full the summer's bliss, as Sun, storm, rain and dew to him their tribute bring. (Anon)

Willows and Bridges

A stream by the path

With clear clear waters.

"In the willow's shade

I'll stay just for a while," I thought

But for long couldn't move away.

Saigyo, poet and monk (1118-1190)

The Kennet and Avon Canal near Wootton Rivers today - the most beautiful of early October days, sunnier and warmer than most of our wet summer. This was the last part of a wonderful walk through and oak wood and across Martinsell Hill in Wiltshire.

Autumn reflections from under one of the many canal bridges along the peaceful Kennet and Avon Canal

The Spindle Tree

I had not been aware of this wayside tree until yesterday when I was walking the Uffington stretch of the Ridgeway. This part of the Ridgeway differs from the Wiltshire section, which has rolling open views of the downs, in having quite dense hedgerows along it - yesterday they seemed to be laden with berries. I saw some the most opulent of hawthorns, buckthorn, elder, blackberries (now gone over) with lots of woody nightshade intertwined in the foliage.

The Spindle Tree seems to have very little written about it and, until it comes into berry, it is often mistaken for the buckthorn. The unusual pinkish-red of its berries mark it out from our more familiar autumn berries. It is also known as the Euonymus europaeus, said to derive from Euonyme, the mother of Furies - because of the harmful toxic properties of its berries, bark and leaves.

The berries do, however, yield a yellow dye and the burnt wood produces artists' charcoal. Formerly the wood was used for making spindles and looms - and later for skewers and musical instruments.

October Gold

Gloria Mundi

Who needs words in autumn woods

When colour concludes decay?

There old stories are told in glories

For winds to scatter away

Wisdom narrows where downland barrows

Image the world's endeavour.

There time's tales, are as light that fails

On faces fading forever.

Siegfried Sassoon (1886-1967)

******

Gloria Mundi translated from Latin means "thus passes the glory of the world" or "world's things are fleeting".

The transitory beauty of autumn sunlight on maple leaves.

Etchings of nature

August in Wiltshire (1976) by Robin Tanner

*******

Below is an extract from the writings of Robin Tanner's wife, Heather:-

"Wiltshire has the best of three worlds - Downs, Cotswolds and level pastureland. It is the first of these that is best known outside the county. For one thing, it is the most spectacular: everyone loves a 'view'. From the heights above Bratton or Cherhill stretches the squared pattern of field and farm till the generous hedgerows merge into the distance of forest. A Wiltshire landscape must have downs somewhere in the picture - if not in the foreground, then on the horizon, with their beech coppices and their white horses. Theirs is a beauty of curves - folds of velvety olive hills spilling over into the plain; the sweep of plough furrows; the windings of the ancient trackway following the ridge. Here there is perpetual wind, whistling through the twisted thorns and the dried kexes, bringing uncannily near the sound of bleating from pastures far below. Isolated from contemporary mankind one is nearer to early man, who, if he came back, would find comparatively little change in the immediate surroundings of chalk and flint, barrow and dyke and treeless open fields."

Extract taken from An Exceptional Woman -the writings of Heather Tanner (published by The Hobnob Press)

Wicket Gate (1978) by Robin Tanner

Autumn (1934) by Robin Tanner

Robin Tanner (1904-1988) was a Wiltshire artist and teacher. He was as interested in teaching as he was in creating his own art. He married his teenage love Heather Spackman (1903-1993) in 1931 and they enjoyed a partnership rooted in shared philosophy and love of art, craft and the natural world. They lived their lives together in Kington Langley, near Chippenham - where Robin Tanner taught at the Ivy Lane School.

Much of his work now forms part of the Tanner Archive in the Crafts Study Centre at the University College for Creative Arts at Farnham. I understand there is also work held at the Devizes Museum in Wiltshire which can be accessed by special request.

I first saw, and fell in love with, Robin Tanner's etchings in a small exhibition at the Ashmolean Museum in Oxford. Because the work is susceptible to fading it was displayed is cabinets which were light had to be activated to view.

The Farmer Poet

Following the Plough

a wood engraving by CF Tunnicliffe OBE (1901-1979)

*******

Twisted Furrows

She walked with me yesterday

Guiding my plough

Straight from headland to headland ...

Lament with me now.

My furrow twists like falsehood

The field's length and breadth

O straight truth I cry out

But my cry is death -

She will not come again

My furrow to guide,

For I have sinned against Guidance

And my plough has lied.

She will not come again

Till my field is ploughed -

I have not gone humbly cheerful

With shoulders bowed.

Patrick Kavanagh (1904 -1967)

*******

To A Blackbird

O pagan poet you

And I are one

In this - we lose our god

At set of sun.

And we are kindred when

The hill wind shakes

Sweet song like blossoms on

The calm green lakes.

We dream while Earth's sad children

Go slowly by

Pleading for our conversation

With the Most High.

Patrick Kavanagh (1904-1967)

*******

Patrick Kavanagh (1904 -1967) was born in the village of Inniskeen in Co Monaghan, Ireland. After spending twenty years as a young man working on the family farm, he went to Dublin in 1939. The Dublin Literary Society looked down on him as a country farmer and referred to him as "that Monaghan boy".

His first published volume of poems was The Ploughman and other poems (1936) though his best known work was perhaps The Great Hunger which was published in the early 1940s.

********

This post is dedicated to my good neighbour and friend Pat - and to her sister (and anam cara) Phyllis, who lives in Derry. I remember well the summer evening a few months back when we shared a bottle of wine, a few stories and laughter.

Nor must I forget to mention my mother Eileen, who grew up on an isolated farm and who knew a different Ireland.

The sparrow and sparrowhawk

The first of October, the beginning of the end of the natural cycle of the year. Today was a working day for me, one that turned out to be particularly busy. I could see it was a bright windy day outside - my office overlooks a nearby garden where an apple tree is heavy with what looks like delicious cooking apples. A pair of collared doves mooch about and there is a colony of sparrows in the ivy covered poplar the other side of the fence.

I managed to get out at lunch time for my walk along a nearby cycle track - glad today of my old leather coat. It was sunny and blustery in the best autumnal way. I love this section of the cycle track - it is one of those tucked away little enclaves of nature that thankfully has not yet been destroyed. The track partly takes the route of an old canal that used to run through the town centre and is also where a small river re-surfaces from its underground culvert. There are willows in abundance - today their slender leaves turning gold and swirling around in the wind. There are elders dotted along the way, still in berry; blackberries - a few left (though in folk-lore, today the devil spits on them and they turn); hawthorns in profusion with their dark red berries and, occasionally, a few bright rose hips. Apart from the willows, there are some old and lovely trees interspersed along the way - a mighty ash and a few hidden horse chestnuts that belong more to an abandoned sports ground that is concealed on the other side of the old hedgerow.

It was wonderfully fresh and elemental - the air energising as I walk facing the sun. I go as far as the old elder, ivy and crab-apple tree, a cluster of ancient hedge. At this point I am approaching a busy road which cuts across the track so I turn here to retrace my steps.

Then I see the sparrowhawk, slate grey and brown, I think it must be a female. She lands on top of a nearby lamp-post and it feels as if she is watching me. Had I been an inattentive sparrow or other small bird, at that moment I would have been in grave danger. The sparrowhawk takes off, weaving low, I can see she is scouting the hedgerow for small prey ...... unsuccessful this time, she flies away across into a deeper wooded area on the other side of the river.

http://www.rspb.org.uk/wildlife/birdguide/name/s/sparrowhawk

Just a short walk, snatched from a busy working day. Enough though to remind me of my true reality.

Enchantment - in nature

The Green Man and the Magic Thorn

This Green Man can be found in church at Sutton Benger in Wiltshire. It has hawthorn issuing from its mouth with birds eating the berries. The hawthorn is the most magical of all trees (see previous post) Image taken from Mike Harding's A Little Book Of The Green Man. Mike Harding, although better known to most people as a comedian and musician, has done some thorough research into the Green Man who 'crops' up in churches and cathedrals. Believed to be a pagan interpretation of John Barleycorn - who dances before the May Queen as a symbol of the Corn Spirit that must 'die' and be 'reborn'. Mike Harding has his own website where more information can be found http://www.mikeharding.co.uk/greenman/greenindex.html

The Green Man is also known as Jack-in-the Green, Green Jack, and Green George. I am only touching on the subject here and I will no doubt come back to it when I have done more research and have seen some examples of the Green Man for myself.

Dryads

In tree mythology a dryad is a wood nymph that inhabits a tree. This tree was spotted at Avebury - not a hawthorn but with a hawthorn growing next to it.

Toadstools and mushrooms

Toadstools are sometimes known 'Fairy tables or chairs'. This picture was taken was taken earlier this summer in the ancient woodland of Highgate Woods in north London. Amazingly, this precious place survives and thrives in one of the biggest cities in the world. Highgate Wood appears in an earlier post back in July - although I no longer live near to it, it remains a place very dear to my heart. When I left London a few years ago the one thing I was truly homesick for was Highgate Wood - happily though I still get to visit it.

Wild mushrooms often grow in 'fairy rings' often up to thirty feet in diameter - in folklore these are said to be entrances to the underworld.

The Fairy Stone - Wiltshire

This sarsen stone is on a field boundary somewhere in north Wiltshire. I was shown this stone by a friend the just the other day - why it is called the Fairy Stone we do not know and will probably never know. Country people are very reluctant to talk about enchantment but that doesn't mean they do not believe in its spell and true country dwellers are often very superstitious. The stone was the inspiration for this particular post - which I publish with some reservations. I am intrigued by folk tales and 'fairy' tales, some of them quite dark. However, I am well aware that in writing about them, I am probably going be described by some of the more cynical readers who may stubble on my blog whilst wandering the web, as being 'away with the fairies'. Should I continue I ask myself, will my credibility as an observer of nature and its 'hidden magic' be questioned. Probably!

Does it matter? Of course not - these are just my own musings and meditations. As the years pass with ever increasing speed I think there is time to revisit the magic of childhood - to have a look around and then come back again into the real world. In these troubled times we all need a little enchantment - and it is all around us. We only have to use our imagination and look with a the clear gaze of a child.

A traditional impression of faery folk Victorian style - Titania

by Arthur Rackham

Winged Words

The winged words, they pass

Still everywhere,

Seeds of the spirit-grass

The dream-winds bear

From that heart-field to this,

Where thought as feeling is;

There's not a seed will miss

Life, once sown there.
They pass, the faery words,

In shade and shine,

As they were magic birds

This heart of mine

Gave shape and colour to,

As in the light and dew

The primal creatures grew

From germs divine.

Robert Crawford (1868 - 1930)

Scarlet berries - the mystical hawthorn

Hawthorn berries

Illustration taken from 'Wayside and Woodland Trees'

(by Edward Step FLS)

The hawthorn belongs to May and its blossom is named after that month. However I cannot let the autumn slip past without commenting of the fruit of the hawthorn - the prolific, shiny, deep red berries. The hawthorn can survive from between one and three centuries and is common throughout the countryside, also planted to form dense and sturdy hedges - in fact the name 'hawthorn' comes from the Anglo-Saxon haegthorn meaning hedge thorn. Also known as the whitethorn, maythorn, or quickthorn the hawthorn's berries are loved by birds such as fieldfares and hawfinches, and can be made into tasty jelly or country wine.

The hawthorn is regarded with respect by country people and folk-lore associates it with faeries and the entrance to their world. It was (and still is) considered unlucky to chop a hawthorn down or to bring cuttings from it into the house.

The hawthorn is associated with the feminine and fertility rights. In Greek mythology, hawthorn lighted the alter temples of Hymen the god of marriage and the flowers were used as bridal wreaths.

It is also associated with the Roman cult of Cardea, the goddess of health, thresholds and door hinges which was celebrated at Beltane (the hinge of the year) as it is still celebrated by many today: see http://whitedragon.org.uk/articles/hawthorn.htm

In fairness, I must not forget to mention the hawthorn in Christianity where it is considered a holy tree associated with the Virgin Mary and the legend of the Glastonbury Thorn. The story goes that Joseph of Arimathea came to England to preach the Gospel and, having landed at the sacred Isle of Avalon (now Glastonbury) he thrust his staff into the ground. When he awoke it had changed into a tree covered in snowy white blossom - where he later built a chapel (which evolved into the great Glastonbury Abbey.)

Astrologically hawthorn is assigned to Mars and bears the sentiment of contentment. It is symbolic of fertility, marriage, hope, self-denial and spring.

The Wayfaring Tree

Viburnum Lantana

Image taken from Wayside and Woodland Trees by Edward Step F.L.S (first published 1940, revised and reprinted 1957).

I came across the Wayfaring tree when I was doing some research on the Elder Tree; at first I thought they were the same tree as I hadn't encountered the Wayfaring tree in any of my more modern tree books. The author of Wayside and Woodland Trees says that this name is comparatively recent and the original name for this tree is lost in the mists of time. He quotes John Gerarde, whose 'Herbal' was published in 1597, noting its fondness for for roadside hedges and thickets called it Wayfaring tree or Wayfaringman's tree.

William Howitt (1792 - 1879) wrote the following lines:
Wayfaring Tree, what ancient claim
Hast thou to that right pleasant name?
Was it that some faint pilgrim came
Unhopedly to thee
In the brown desert's weary way
'Mid toil and thirst's consuming sway,
And there, as 'neath thy shade he lay,
Bless'd the Wayfaring Tree.

A rather quaint little poem, it captures the idea that the tree gave shelter from sun and rain the the weary traveller of days gone by.

The leaves and kernels have been used beneficially by herbalists and the foliage apparently used to dye hair black.

The Elder Tree

Elderberries and wild apples

The elder tree has become a hedgerow tree for which I have developed a great affection. It has much folk lore and some superstition attached to being the 13th tree of the Ogham calendar and is associated with the ending of the old year - a reminder that with each ending there is a new beginning.

There is much written about the elder tree - on a purely herbal level its flowers and fruit are most beneficial and are used to this day to make cordial and wine. 'She' is also called the Elder Mother or the wise woman aspect of the Triple Goddess see http://www.whitedragon.org.uk/articles/elder.htm an article written by Glennie Kindred about the wise, prolific, hedgerow elder. Glennie explains that some of the 'bad press' the elder has had (ie its association with death) is born out of fear and superstition of the 'old ways' and the village hedgewitch - changing the old belief that the elder protected against evil to one that the elder was associated with death and malevolence.

The picture above was taken at a hedgerow out in the Wiltshire countryside on a beautiful clear day just before Equinox - the elder never looked more lovely. However, it also grows on little scraps of scubland and along cycletracks - where brambles have been cleared and cut back the elder remains, inconspicuous to anyone who is not looking for it. The elder gives protection and blessing to those who approach 'her' with respect and an open mind.

An Answer

An Answer

Come, let us go down into the lane, love mine,

And mark and gather what the Autumn grows:

The creamy elder mellowed into wine,

The russet hip that was the pink-white rose;

The amber woodbine into rubies turned,

The blackberry that was the bramble born;

Nor let the seeded clematis be spurned,

Nor pearls, that now are corals of the thorn,

Look! what a lovely posy we have made

From the wild garden of the waning year.

So when, dear love, your summer has decayed,

Beauty more touching than is clustered here

Will linger in your life, and I shall cling

Closely as now, nor ask if it be Spring.

Alfred Austin (1835 - 1913)

Morgan's Hill and Calstone Coombes

'She did not turn' a magical painting by David Inshaw which was reproduced in the little booklet of four North Wessex walks published by the Wiltshire Archaeological and Natural History Society and was the inspiration for my walk today. I am indebted to my friend Hilary for driving us up to the start of our walk at the Smallgrain plantation picnic site.

Morgan's Hill is famous for its many varieties of wild orchids. The notice illustrates the Early Purple Spotted Orchid, Marsh Helleborine, Pyramidal Orchid, Frog Orchid and Twayblade. It also says that the late summer the slopes are covered in a haze of purple devils'-bit scabious and today we saw them plus many other late summer wild meadow flowers.

Calstone Coombes - our path took us through the folds of the coombes, generally considered to be medieval cultivation terraces or strip lynchets along the valley sides. A magical and dramatic landscape.

Sheep watching our progress along the valley of Calstone Coombes

The Song of Amergin - for Samuel

Samuel has been an important name in my life. I have a little grandson called Samuel who will be two next weekend. I have a daft old tabby called Sammy, inherited from my niece when her life circumstances changed. And I had a wonderful father called Samuel whose birthday would have been today, 14th September. Today is not a sad occasion but one to celebrate his life - a day of yellow roses placed beside his picture. I read these lines of poetry at his funeral in the year 2000 and had first came across them in a collection of The Nation's Favourite Poems where it was chosen as 'the first past the post, poll position' - Do not stand at my grave and weep.

Do not stand at my grave and weep;
I am not there. I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow.

I am the diamond glints on snow.

I am the sunlight on ripened grain.

I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you awaken in the morning's hush

I am the swift uplifting rush

Of quiet birds in circled flight.

I am the soft stars that shine at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry;

I am not there. I did not die.

The origins of the poem remain a mystery but I am always struck by its similarities with the ancient Song of Amergin.

There are many versions of this text - I am using the one from Robert Graves' 'White Goddess'. He suggests that the thirteen statements contain hidden significance and correspond with the thirteen Ogham Months of the Year (in the pre-Christian calendar). The words 'I am' and 'I have been' occur frequently in ancient Irish and Welsh poetry and denote a pantheistic conception of the Universe where godhead is everywhere and omnipotent.

I am the stag of seven tines
I am the wide flood on the plain
I am the wind on deep waters
I am the shining tear of the sun
I am a hawk on the cliff
I am fair among flowers
I am a god who sets the head afire with smoke
I am a battle-waging spear
I am a salmon in the pool
I am the hill of poetry
I am a ruthless boar
I am a threatening noise
I am a wave of the sea
Who but I knows the secrets of the unhewn dolmen?

A bean field on a blustery day

The sight of Silbury in the distance shining out like a beacon in the distance as I made my way through the long wet grass and thistles along the edge of the bean field. Mysterious Silbury (archaeologists cannot reveal its secrets) viewed from the distance of the Windmill Hill approaches, has the appearance of being the vibrant heart of the landscape.

Windswept September poppies growing in the bean field.

A field of blackened beans going towards Windmill Hill from Winterbourne Monkton - something a bit eerie about the it, spoilt by the weeks of continual rain I wonder. I made my way around the edge of the field towards Windmill Hill following the tracks of some small animal, probably a hare as came across a form (resting place) further along. I could hear the squeaking of field mice as I walked.

I ended up having to climb over a barbed wire fence when I reached the far corner of the field which was a bit tricky but as the saying goes where there is will there's a way.

The Winterbourne at Winterbourne Monkton (it may be a tributary called the Sambourne) my first visit to the village so my geography might need to be revised. I paid a visit to the peaceful little church which is open to visitors and got to touch and see for myself the famous Norman font with its fertility goddess engravings see;- http://www.swindonia.blogspot.com/ post on Winterbourne Monkton church.

A hedgerow Oak against the bright windswept sky - everything was fresh and glistening as I walked across the meadow at the back of the village in search of a footpath - I could hear the sound grasshoppers (or perhaps crickets). A pair of buzzards circled above, calling as they hovered.

Common Joys

Moss and lichen on an old garden wall

Common Joys

See how those diamonds splutter and choke -

What greedy things they are for light!

That pearl, whose pulse less wildly beats,

Is far more restful to my sight.

Soon tired of all those glittering toys,

With my delight and wonder gone -

I send my thoughts, like butterflies

To dream on some old spotted stone.

So, when the Skylark sings no more,

And I have seen the graceful Swallow;

When I have heard the Blackbird too,

And many a bird in field and furrow:

Then to my Sparrow I return,

Who scolds me well for what he misses -

And thinks a common chirp at times

Pays all his debts, like children's kisses.

(W H Davies)

William Henry Davies was born in 1871 in Newport, Wales. He lived much of his younger life as an itinerant in America, later returning to England to spend many years as a tramp. He wrote the Autobiography of a Super-Tramp in 1925. Later in life he married a young woman thirty years his junior who he met while she was working as a prostitute in London - he wrote about his life at that time in Young Emma. They lived contentedly together until he died at the age of 69 in 1940.

Sweet Hope

My little granddaughter was born six weeks ago and when my son and his partner told me they had named her Hope I was at first a little puzzled. However, it very quickly became just the right name for her especially as the word hope sums up a lot of factors surrounding her birth (which I won't go into here).
Hope is so much part of our everyday vocabulary that we use it without thinking: I hope the sun shines; I hope you are well; I hope you have a good day - and so on and so forth.
Barbara Walker makes an entry in her classic book The Woman's Encyclopedia of Myths and Secrets under Saint Hope:
According to Hesiod's fable of Pandora's Vase (or, as it was later erroneously called, Pandora's Box), the spirit called Hope stood for the refined cruelty of Father Zeus towards helpless mortals. Zeus sent a vase full of spites to plague humanity with vice, madness, sickness, hard labour, war, famine, and every other ill; he also enclosed Hope, whose function was to prevent men from killing themselves in despair, to escape the miseries Zeus decreed for them.
Hope was thus presented as a spirit of delusion, her ultimate purpose was to make men suffer. In Christian scriptures however, she was combined with Faith and Charity (or Love) as one of the essential virtues. Some excessively naive hagiographers even canonised these three virtues as three fictitious virgin martyrs, all daughters of the equally fictitious Saint Sophia. Saint Hope is still listed in the Roman canon of saints even though scholars have shown she never existed.

Some Poems about Hope:

Hope is the thing with feathers (by Emily Dickinson)
"Hope" is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul
And sings a tune without the words
And never stops at all

And sweetest in the gale is heard
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm

I've heard it in the chillest land
And on the strangest sea,
Yet never, in extremity
It asked a crumb of me.

When Hope but made Tranquility (fragment by Samuel Coleridge)
When Hope but made tranquility be felt -
A Flight of Hopes for ever on the wing

But made Tranquility a conscious Thing -
And wheeling round and round in sportive coil
Fann'd the calm air upon the brow of Toil -

The last verse of To Hope (by John Keats)
And as, in sparkling majesty, a star
Gilds the bright summit of some gloomy cloud.
Brightening the half veil'd face of heaven afar
So, when dark thoughts of boding spirit shroud,
Sweet Hope, celestial influence round me shed,
Waving thy silver pinions o'er my head.

The final word (for now) on Hope, I will leave to Samuel Johnson:

The natural flights of the human mind are not from pleasure to pleasure but from hope to hope.

Sea of Steps

The steps to the Chapterhouse in Wells Cathedral

When visiting Wells and Glastonbury earlier in the week, I made a brief visit into the cathredral. My main objective on the day was to see the springs in the gardens of the Bishop's Palace as I had visited the magnificent cathedral on my previous visit to Wells. On this occasion, however, I was able to snap a quick picture of these beautiful worn steps - you can only wonder at how many feet have trodden up and down.

I was going to call this entry "Stairway to Heaven" (see below)

http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=ayzhJKy8H_A

[This link is for my good friend KS]

Healing Springs

The Lion's Head - where the pure spring waters may be drunk

Today I drank from the healing waters of the Red Spring in the Chalice Well Garden at Glastonbury - the water is very high in iron content which accounts for the name. After drinking from the spring and having a quiet wander around this most tranquil of gardens I walked up Glastonbury Tor. Reaching the top is such an exhilarating feeling - today there was an assortment of people gathered around the tower and almost straight away a driving shower blew in (it could be seen moving our way as I walked up the tor). With or without the rain, the walk up and then back down left me feeling energised and light - I'm not sure how that works but perhaps the healing waters from the Red Spring played a part.

There is another famous healing spring flowing from the tor called the White Spring and until quite recently there was a little cafe at the side of the tor on Wellhouse Lane where this spring came out - tea made from this water was the most delicious I have ever drunk.

One of the springs that feeds St Andrew's Pool at Wells

Before arriving at Glastonbury today I also visited Wells for a couple of hours - although not enough time to familiarise myself with the town I spent the time at the gardens of the Bishop's Palace. This is where the wells and springs that give Wells its name rise - the flow of the water apparently averages 40 gallons a second.

Chapel Perilous

Illustration by Mackenzie

from Chistine Chaundler's book Arthur and His Knights

In this version of the King Arthur myth, Lancelot is tested at the Chapel Perilous with great danger but his courage does not desert him and he eventually comes out unscathed protected by his valour and fidelity to his love for Queen Guinevere.

I have recently rediscovered Robert Anton Wilson - to be truthful it was my good friend and former partner Kevin who was really into his writing. Back then though, the window of perception had not yet opened for me nor had I realised it was me that needed to lift the catch. Yet it is never too late ...... just recently Robert Anton Wilson (RAW for short) has been mentioned on the Avebury Forum where, apart from discussing the many facets of the wonderful Avebury landscape, occasional surrealism and wit gets batted around.

Robert Anton Wilson was born January 18th 1932 and died on January 11th 2007. His work still sparkles with humour, courage, understanding and tolerance. He was a committed agnostic with regard to most aspects of his life and contended that when dogma enters the brain all intellectual activity ceases.

So I have borrowed and am reading a copy of Cosmic Trigger which was first published in 1977. Here's what RAW says about Chapel Perilous:

Chapel Perilous, like the mysterious entity called "I" cannot be located in the space-time continuum; it is weightless, odourless; tasteless and undetectable by ordinary instruments. Indeed, like the Ego, it is even possible to deny that it is there. And yet, even more like the Ego, once you are inside it, there doesn't seem to be any way to get out again, until you suddenly discover that it has been brought into existence by thought and does not exist outside thought. Everything you fear is waiting with slavering jaws in Chapel Perilous, but if you are armed with the wand of intuition, the cup of sympathy, the sword of reason and the pentacle of valor, you will find there (the legends say) the Medicine of Metals, the Elixir of Life, the Philosopher's Stone, True Wisdom and Perfect Happiness.

That's what the legends say, and language of myth is poetically precise. For instance, if you go into that realm without the sword of reason, you will lose your mind, but at the same time, if you take only the sword of reason without the cup of sympathy, you will lose your heart. Even more remarkably, if you approach without the wand of intuition, you can stand at the door for decades never realising you have arrived. You might think you are just waiting for a bus, or wandering from room to room looking for your cigarettes, watching a TV show, or reading a cryptic and ambiguous book. Chapel Perilous is tricky that way.......

The Selfish Gene

I have recently been watching the new tv series presented by Richard Dawkins about Charles Darwin's theory of evolution. The first programme in the series was excellent and Richard Dawkins did a splendid job of explaining the work of Charles Darwin in clear and accessible language.

This week, however, Richard Dawkins talked largely about his own best selling book The Selfish Gene which I haven't read yet, though will make a point of doing so in the near future. He talked about the selfish gene also being a subtle gene and that altruism exists in human nature only to make ourselves more acceptable and liked by our social groups. I found this a rather bleak but credible view.

Questions quickly surface however, what about the majesty of the universe and humankind's struggle to articulate its place within the Great Order? What about the astonishing art, architecture, literature, music, medicine and scientific achievements that have come from the species of animal called Man? What about the fragile balance of our own beautiful blue planet Earth? Can all this be rationalised away as just the accident of evolution.

I personally don't hold any particular religious belief except for a great appreciation, verging on reverence, for Nature, especially Spring when the world comes back to life. I feel as though Richard Dawkins, as much as I respect him as an academic, has missed something essential to the human condition.

One of my favourite mystical writers is an Irishman named George Russell, also known as AE. I am fortunate to own a little book of his poetry called 'Homeward Songs by the Way' and the first poem in it is called The Unknown God.

Far up the dim twilight fluttered
Moth-wings of vapour and flame:
The lights danced over the mountains,
Star and after star they came.

The lights grew thicker unheeded,
For silent and still were we;
Our hearts were drunk with a beauty
Our eyes could never see.
(AE 1867 - 1935)

To also quote him from The Candle of Vision.
For some years my heart was proud, for as beauty sank into memory it seemed to become a personal possession, and I said "I imagined this" when I should humbly have said "The curtain was a little lifted that I might see"

I don't have any answers and as I grow older, the questions don't seem to matter that much either. But I do know there is more to the universe than just that which is visible and provable. That the world works on evolution cannot be denied (not by me anyway). Neither would I deny the existence of the unseen, the mysterious and the mystical. Something that cannot be seen and cannot be touched but sometimes it touches you.

(musings by June Jackson)

Harvest Moon

One of Samuel Palmer mystical pastural moonscape painting's (image courtesy of British Museum). Samuel Palmer 1805 - 1881

The Harvest Moon

The flame-red moon, the harvest moon,

Rolls along the hills, gently bouncing,

A vast balloon,

Till it takes off, and sinks upward

To lie in the bottom of the sky, like a gold doubloon.

The harvest moon has come,

Booming softly through the heaven, like a bassoon.

The earth replies all night, like a deep drum.

So people can't sleep,

So they go out where the elms and oak trees keep

A kneeling vigil, in a religious hush.

The harvest moon has come!

And all the moonlit cows and all the sheep

Stare up at her petrified, while she swells

Filling heaven, as if red hot, and sailing

Closer and closer like the end of the world.

Till the gold fields of stiff wheat

Cry 'We are ripe, reap us!' and the rivers

Sweat from the melting hills

Ted Hughes (1930 - 1998)

Blackberry Picking

Blackberry Picking

Late August, given heavy rain and sun

For a full week, the blackberries would ripen.

At first, just one, a glossy purple clot

Among others, red, green, hard as a knot.

You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet

Like thickened wine: the summer's blood was in it

Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for

Picking. Then red ones inked up and that hunger

Sent us out with milk-cans, pea-tins, jam-pots

Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots .....

extract from a poem by Seamus Heaney (b.1939)

August observations - a hint of autumn

Berries on a Yew tree

Sunlight on leaves

Ripening apples over a garden wall

Fungi on tree bark

Out for a walk today, it is still early August but the weather has been changeable and blustery. There is more than a hint of autumn in the air - berries are turning red or purple, apples are ripening on the bough, the sunlight casts leafy patterns on the ground. As always, the beauty of nature is all around us in the small as well the majestic.

Scary old tree

One of the old sweet chestnut trees as you enter the garden at Stourhead - reputed to be 600 years old.

Perspectives and Reflections

Today I visited Stourhead with a friend who is a National Trust member and who didn't want to drive the diagonal journey across Wiltshire on her own. Stourhead is an amazing garden full of astonishing perspectives and reflections. As I pondered on what to write about this visit, it occurred to me how often we use words such as perspective and reflection as metaphors for trying to make sense out of our own life's journey. I wondered whether the creator of Stourhead, Henry Hoare II (also known as Henry the Magnificent) had encoded this same idea into it's vistas with the replica temples to Flora the goddess of flowers, spring, and fertility and Apollo the god light and the sun, music, poetry and medicine.

The Temple to the goddess Flora

The Pantheon - reflected in the lake

The Temple to Apollo - set up a steep hill to represent Apollo's choice between the easy path of pleasure and the more arduous path of virtue.

The Black Sheep

The Black Sheep

From their folded mates they wander far,
Their ways seem harsh and wild:
They follow the beck of a baleful star,
Their paths are dream-beguiled.

Yet haply they sought a wider range,
Some loftier mountain slope,
And little recked of the country strange
Beyond the gates of hope.

And haply a bell with a luring call
Summoned their feet to tread
Midst the cruel rocks, where the deep pitfall
And the lurking snare are spread.

Maybe, in spite of their tameless days
Of outcast liberty,
They're sick at heart for the homely ways
Where their gathered brothers be.

And oft at night, when the plains fall dark
And the hills loom large and dim,
For the shepherd's voice they mutely hark,
And their souls go out to him.

Meanwhile, 'Black sheep! black sheep!' we cry,
Safe in the inner fold;
And maybe they hear, and wonder why,
And marvel, out in the cold.

(Richard Francis Burton, 1821 - 1890)

Richard Francis Burton was an English explorer, translator, writer, soldier, orientalist, ethnologist, linguist (he spoke 25 languages plus another 15 dialects), poet, hypnotist, fencer and diplomat. He had a special interest in Eastern Erotica and translated the unexpurgated version of The Book of 1001 Nights, (Arabian Nights), Kama Sutra and The Perfumed Garden.

Photo taken at Avebury Henge: 2/08/08

Footnote:

Now here's is a piece of interesting synchronicity: I had just completed the above post when I went to check my bulk emails, there to find an email from Head Heritage informing me that Julian Cope has just released an CD called Black Sheep. For those that don't know, Julian Cope as well as being a talented musician and songwriter, is also an leading light on megalithic sites and lives very close to Avebury - where I took my picture.

Magical mugwort

This herb was one of the many herbs and wildflowers I encountered on my Lammas walk up to the Ridgeway yesterday. My two adult companions, Rose and Steve (we also had a little berry of a child with us) had much knowledge which they were happy to share, and thanks to Steve for identifying mugwort.

Mugwort has been used for magical purposes in times gone by, and probably still is. The generic name comes from Artemis, the Greek form of Diana, goddess of the moon. Medicinally the herb has been associated with child-birth and mixed with chamomile and agrimony was used to alleviate cramp. Before hops, mugwort was used in brewing to make beer more intoxicating. It can also be used to enhance dreams.

Mugwort is associated quartz crystal, silver, pearls and moonstone. It is deeply connected with Midsummer's Eve - as if used as a bathing herb prior to the shortest night offers many blessings. Bunches of dried mugwort from the previous year's harvest may be tossed into the Midsummer fire.

In Holland and Germany one of it's many names is St John's plant because of the belief that if gathered on St. John's Eve (Midsummer's Eve) it will protect against diseases and misfortune.

ref: Herbal Magick by Paul Beyerl and The Illustrated Plant Lore by Josephine Addison

Lammas (Lughnasadh)

The first day of August is the Festival of Lammas or Lughnasadh which marks the time of the first (grain) harvest and is named after Lugh, a Celtic deity of light. Summer is still at its height but the days are shortening and autumn is on the way.

Today I met up with some people from the Avebury Forum for a walk from Avebury up to the Ridgeway. When I turned up as planned just before mid-day, it was still raining and the forecast said 'heavy showers' all day. Avebury worked its magic however, and the skies cleared, the breeze freshened and we enjoyed rather lovely wildflower walk up to the Ridgeway.
The original objective of our walk - to find the mysterious Polisher Stone was not achieved on this occasion as our guide and Stone expert, PeteG had been unable to join us.

The walk back down was just beautiful, the sun was shining, there was a warm wind blowing and the golden grain stood high, ready for harvest. Crows rose from the downland fields and filled the sky with swirling symmetry.

It had turned into a perfect Lammas Day (albeit the second day of August).

Fulfilment

Now came fulfilment of the year's desire;

The tall wheat, coloured by the August fire,

Grew heavy-headed, dreading its decay,

And blacker grew the elm trees day by day.

About the edges of the yellow corn,

And o'er the garden grown somewhat outworn

The bees went hurrying to fill up their store;

The apple-boughs bent over more and more;

With peach and apricot the garden wall

Was odorous, and the pears began to fall

From off the high tree with each freshening breeze

(William Morris 1834 - 1896)

Burnished berries - the summer gently turns

Rowan Berries

The berries of the Rowan have been called the "Food of the Gods" (according to Robert Graves in The White Goddess). It is a native tree to Britain and has many country names which include: the quicken, quickbeam, quickerberry, picken, whitten, whitty tree, witchen. The wood is strong and flexible - it was sometimes used for making long-bows but more commonly for tool handles, poles, barrel hoops, tethering pegs etc. Ripe Rowan berries can be used to make the preserve Rowan jelly which is apparently delicious with cold game and is an excellent source of vitamin C.

(Ref: Ogham - Wisdom of the Trees by Jon Dathen)

Cuckoo-pint (Arum maculatum)

Usually found in woods and along hedge banks - I found these growing by the old wall of a village churchyard. Also known as Lords-and-Ladies, Cuckoo-pintle and Wake-robin. The berries, although eaten by birds, are extremely poisonous to children (and adults).

Queen's Wood, Ancient Woodland

The mighty oak, near the entrance of Queen's Wood on Muswell Hill Road in North London, still standing, I was very happy to see today when I took refuge from the heat of the mid-day sunshine.

A nostalgic walk around an old haunt from my London Life - today. I was in Muswell Hill with my son and his little family. Great joy at the birth of my new little grand-daughter yesterday.

Queen's Wood ancient woodland - situated across the road from Highgate Wood on the other side of Muswell Hill Road in north London. I used to think it was a spooky little wood as had read somewhere that it was burial site for people who had died in Great Plague. Today in the sunshine it was enchanting and cool.

Queen's Wood Organic Cafe

Highgate Wood

One of the ornamental gates at Highgate Wood

Highgate Wood, North London

This place is a dear old friend - I was there for a while this morning with the Muswell Hill dog-walkers and joggers. I lived very close by for two decades; my children played here, I walked here often with my dear friend Chris, who opened so many doors (of knowledge and perception) but sadly wasn't able to see me walk through them later down the line. This place is in my heart and in my soul - an ancient woodland tucked away in our capital city.

I dedicate this post to Hope - my little grand-daughter who came into the world at 3.15pm on July 26th 2008. May she love these woods as she grows, the future is hers.