I shall try to remember the message of the trees.
“Yes, the estate remains open until dusk. But I’m afraid the bluebells are almost over.” The National Trust staff member looked genuinely crestfallen that we had perhaps made a futile journey. I wondered too. Had we left it too late? Not in the time of day – I had deliberately chosen late afternoon just as the main house and gardens were closing – but in waiting so late into the spring? The bluebells have been magnificent this year; we still had plenty at home. But had I left it too late to see them in their true glory – massed amidst spring woodlands? Continue reading “The View from Here: in nature’s cathedral”
For just a few fleeting weeks, green sings and has its moment in the sun.
May 1st is considered in some quarters to mark the coming of summer. The meteorological beginning of summer comes later, and this year’s weather would support that. In this Corner of Cornwall there has been very little merry-making in the merry month of May. May, thus far, has been cold and stern with northerly winds which carry a sharp bite and a nip of frost, which has blackened tender tips and kept me largely indoors. But not always. There have been interludes of sunshine even if temperatures have remained stubbornly low.
Continue reading “The View from Here: an early May snapshot”
This year we seem to have been dancing back and forth, dallying between the seasons on a daily basis.
Since April arrived, we have been thrust back into winter. Those balmy February days which turned my head and had me harbouring thoughts of an early spring seem a long way back. Continue reading “The View from Here: snatches of spring”
There is something in the air on this final February Saturday. The light is bright; the sky is clear. There’s a strength to the sun that belies this shortest of months. There is birdsong on the wing and between the leafless branches. Into the blue falls the sharp mewl of buzzards, too high to be easily spotted but proclaiming their presence with haunting calls which shred the air like darts and remind me of my small place against this wide empty sky. Continue reading “Who Killed Cock Robin?”
And in making her choice, the squirrel – generous squirrel – has granted me the opportunity to join her at her table.
This morning I watched a squirrel, sleek and plump. The squirrel and I are at eye level. We are each intent upon breakfast: I, dallying safe in my warm kitchen in our inverted home built from bricks and glass, cocooned and disconnected from what it really means to be in the throes of life, and he, moving freely in a habitat more suited to his wild and precious nature where every sight, sound and smell weaves a story in his brain about how to survive. He is intent on his task and seemingly oblivious to my silent presence, tidied away behind the glass and safely distanced from those sensory signals that shout ‘danger’. Continue reading “The View from Here: a tentative return”
I had accepted that for the moment I can’t write – nothing publishable at least. It will pass. But snippets, fragments, jottings coalesced without my noticing… into what I would be writing about if I could.
Earlier today I accepted that, for whatever reason, at the moment I can’t write. I have the ideas but not the capacity to create anything from them. I was explaining this in a reply to Margaret at From Pyrenees to Pennines.
Margaret, thankfully, is much more prolific and consistent than I am. Among other posts on her blog, she provides a one-word stimulus every Tuesday here at Ragtag Daily Prompts. She has provided three so far, each one chiming absolutely with things I want to capture. Every week I want to respond – it just doesn’t happen. And I was explaining this to Margaret in a comment on her latest post. Until I realised that without thinking about it, I was writing what’s been eluding me these past weeks. Continue reading “The View from Here: when the words don’t come”
The panorama is surreal, alien, unique
The view from here is harsh and it takes no prisoners
I may have been eager for what has seemed like an especially long winter to end, but a small part of me has been glad we have had to wait for a run of reliable spring days, because I have been writing about Dungeness in winter. A task which doesn’t sit easily among vistas of skipping lambs and primroses, soft blue skies and playful breezes. Continue reading “The View from Here: Dungeness”