kpreisty3005

I took a stroll along our lane this afternoon. The gloomy morning sloped off after lunch to be replaced by a raw heat that churned the sky milk-blue and rinsed vibrancy from the vegetation. 

Beyond a row of silent ash trees, the lane rolled steeply downhill, whereby the dry stone walls were exchanged for open swathes of rough grassland that had been left to run feral over the spring and summer months; umbels of caramel atop brittle stems, were interspersed by a tangled mass of grasses. This impenetrable forest undulated above and below eye-level, in accordance with the landform beneath. 

As I walked, the scent of warm hay crashed around me – sweet fragrance of nostalgia – whilst a distant chiffchaff maintained a repetitive serenade from a bank of ash and birch; an elusive bird, the chiffchaff’s clear call made all the more beguiling by its shyness. 

Grasshoppers added to the day’s celebration with their distinctive background chirr, which vibrated the air on all sides and was almost overwhelming in its yellow intensity, whilst creeping thistles punctuated the verge at intervals, their purple flower heads proving irresistible to a myriad of bumblebees.

Deep amongst the long blades there was a flicker of movement. As my eyes honed in, I saw endless numbers of meadow brown butterflies pirouetting around the stems of common couch grass, Timothy, false oat-grass and cocksfoot – dizzying to watch as they ceaselessly chased one another. 

In the foreground an occasional speckled wood butterfly tripped its way along the margin and as I continued, the burnt orange wings of a gatekeeper drew my attention to a patch of bramble, where it delicately rippled across the surface.  

Nearing the bottom of the hill, the chiffchaff’s resilient call was joined by a dunnock alighting on a fence post. Beneath its perch, a wasp busied itself stripping away wood for its nest, whilst a large white butterfly flew purposefully over the tops of the vegetation and out of sight. 

At the base of the slope, the grassland gave way to a dark tunnel of trees; at its cusp, a muddle of green nettles spread across the verge, adorned by the crenelated outline of a comma butterfly – its wings open to the sunlight in an opulent display of tangerine.

Although I limit my paper usage to the bare essentials, I have the potential to be a bit of a stationery geek. I just love the feeling of opening a new notepad; the sense of anticipation as the pen hovers over the unblemished page, and the self-imposed pressure that what I am about to write must be of some weight and be delivered in my best handwriting (no mean feat I can assure you).

There is something about noting things down by hand that simply isn’t replicated when typing on a computer; a different way of the brain processing things somehow. I always write things down by hand when I am brainstorming or problem solving, it allows my mind to develop ideas in a more creative way, it also means that I tend to remember things more easily too.

My newest notebook is in use as a nature diary, the entries of which will feed into other projects further down the line. I find that having this notepad close to hand when I’m out in the garden, on a walk with our four-pawed family member, or generally out-and-about, has made me even more observant than I was previously. It has been quite a revelation in terms of being present with the daily changes of the season, which it can be easy to miss. A real awareness of the detail of the present moment, and how much this changes in 24/48 hours.

I only started the diary a few weeks ago, but already it is a joy to flick back through its pages and remind myself of all that has passed so far. I can’t wait to see how it unfolds and what I will observe over the coming months.

Leaving the car, parked beside the reservoir, we set off across the road bridge towards the dark expanse of woodland. The valley funnelled the wind into a crescendo of gusts that battered our forms and whipped the water below into a churning grey mass. After the summer heatwave, the reservoir was a shadow of its former self – ridged banks, raw in profile, towered above the waves. We leaned into the volleys, lulled into a false sense of security, only to have the squalls abruptly drop away, causing our progress to lurch between slow-motion and fast-forward … it was an exhilarating start to the walk.

The sky darkened further as we reached the foot of the trees and marbles of rain began to zigzag through the blasts of air. We joined a stony path that wound its way upwards, skirting the edge of the forest. As we climbed, the views across the valley gently revealed themselves, splaying away from the reservoir in a tapestry of rough grassland and grazed pasture.

A sudden bend in the path turned us from the open vistas onto a wide track, used by forestry vehicles; the route carved a bold line through the elegant profiles of the larches and pines, and the wind dropped … at ground level anyway. High above us, the slender trunks swayed in unison – enthusiastic choir members at an orchestral concert with skeletal silhouettes as far as the eye could see. We pulled coat hoods tighter around cold faces and breathed in the fresh atmosphere. Continuing along the track, fallen trees littered the forest floor at regular intervals, exposing shallow root systems to the elements. We glanced nervously at the moving skyscrapers and quickened our pace.

Lowering our heads against the rain, our attention was drawn to the streams that ran beneath the track. The rushing water, amplified by the channels, added a new voice to the symphony whilst cutting steep gorges down the hillside.

A large area abruptly opened out to our left, showcasing views of the valley and the reservoir below. The tangled ruin of tree stumps, twisted branches and bracken told a tale of recent felling, which provided a welcome window of light into the forest. A number of mature oak trees stood sentry over the scene, offering a clue to the land’s former character.

We left the track and meandered along a gnarled pathway, which led towards the lower woodland. Here the broadleaved trees grew in number – bare branches clattered together as the wind streamed past, providing a percussive dimension to the concert.

Passing young beech trees, stubbornly clinging onto their russet foliage, we turned onto an undulating path that ran parallel to the reservoir’s banks. The rumpled carpet of leaves gave way to umber needles, dampening our footsteps further as we moved through blocks of larch. The air had lost the wild freshness of the higher levels and was replaced by the rich, dark scents of the woodland floor – nature’s recycling.

We continued along the path, guided by remnant sections of dry-stone-walls that provided another marker of the land’s former use. Lurid green mosses – which upon closer inspection were exquisitely detailed – draped luxuriously across the dark stones.

The path marched on, running parallel to the higher route we had taken earlier, leading us back to our starting point. Tree-roots slowed our progress: exposed bones from an archaeological dig, they knotted the track, reminding us to remain in the present to watch our step.

Arriving at the reservoir, we gazed back at the forest. Our route was obscured, hidden in the protective embrace of the trees. The wind raged on, the waves tumbled and surged, and the dark woodland danced.