A Midwinter Urban Meadow

For those of you who enjoy reading this blog (and my Idiomythos Substack), this is a short twixmas* post to let you know that I’ll soon be migrating all my writings to one place: a new personal website going live (I hope!) at Imbolg next year. I’ll keep you posted. 

In the meantime, for a rather special, sacred winter experience, I re-direct you here to a January post from a few years ago, when I thought the distinctive feeling I experienced then was because of the watery environment: in particular the water-where-water-shouldn’t-be. But clearly it can't have been, since I had a similar, powerful sense of being in nemeton - in non-ordinary reality - when, during an xmas visit to family in Skipton, I had to walk from my hotel through Aireville Park, where there is a rare traditionally maintained urban wildflower meadow called Gawflat Meadow.

As I walked through the park on xmas day morning, there were plenty of dog walkers about and plenty of children wearing new football strips or riding shiny new bikes. Even the tennis court had players: with their new racquets and tennis outfits - and surely new balls please.

In the previous evening’s walk in the other direction - to my hotel - it was dark and I’d been accompanied by my son. I’d seen the interpretation board at the entrance to the meadow and had taken a few moments to stand at the edge breathing into the night’s darkness and feeling a strange sense of being completely alone - in my own nemeton - even though I was just a few steps away from the concreted path through the main park, where my son waited for me. I decided then that in the morning I’d walk up the incline of the meadow, to where it meets the Leeds and Liverpool canal at the top.

At this deepest winter time, and in this weak morning light, it couldn’t have looked more unprepossessing: wildflower-free, apart from a couple of trampled, muddied dandelions, puddles everywhere on the uneven path, leaden skies, leafless trees. No birds, not even calls. Away from the main area, with its people and dogs, there was complete silence. But as I slowly walked two sides of the square shaped meadow, staying on the path as requested, the shift began. 

I noticed the berries first: bright glows of red and orange among the dull grey and brown branches of trees and shrubs. I enjoyed noting hawthorn, rowan, holly, and the subtle greens of ivy leaves with their own darker berries. Then, movements and sounds above me. I wasn’t the only one to notice berries. I stood still as a small raiding party of fieldfares made their way through the bare branches, chattering (the bird books call it ‘chacking’) away to each other as they stripped off the berries. 

When they moved on, I moved on, but with a new awareness of being embodied in the space, rather than simply moving through it. I breathed in deeply: absorbing cold air and damp smells. I picked a luscious looking rose-hip, wiped it on my sleeve, and bit into the soft flesh. I collected a small spray of ivy, and some lichened twigs to gift to the garden of my son and daughter-in-law.

I stood still again to enjoy a last few moments of being in this quiet, sacred space before the noisy seasonal festivities began.  As I’d decided the previous evening that I’d return to the meadow the next day to see it in daylight, I decided now I’d return to it again to experience it in the full glory of summer. 

Although I reminded myself, as I left, that it had shown me its quieter glories right now, and had lifted my spirits as the natural world so often does.

*twixmas: I don't like this word because of its coining by the tourism and events industries to market activities during the quiet period between xmas and new year, but I do love the Old English word 'betwixt' from which this modern portmanteau word has been created. It echoes the sense for me of being betwixt realities as I relate here.

Solstice Starlings

I love starling murmurations. Previously, I've only experienced them at nationally well-known sites such as the piers at Aberystwyth and Brighton, or on the Somerset Levels, but this winter they have been gracing my very local North Cave Wetlands - gracing us both in frequency and number, and in the beautiful complexity of their patterns.

Here's a recent extract from my nature journal: 

Another murmuration this evening. A remarkable, beautiful sight as thousands of starlings congregate together, twisting and swirling, making endlessly changing patterns in the darkening skies. Sometimes they move together in one mass, sometimes they split into several smaller groups, repeatedly re-joining each other, separating again, joining again... constantly shifting, twisting and turning around, then swooping back together into one vast moving shape.

starling murmur at North Cave Wetlands - thanks to Liz Newton

Starlings are dark in colour and in such huge groups, look even darker; stunning when backlit by the setting sun and multiple layers of coloured clouds. Any murmuration is wonderful to watch, but this time I was closer than I have ever been to a large murmuration and the birds' movements were so fast as they swooshed over my head, I could feel the air displacement, and hear the sound of thousands of wings beating in unison.

I stood entranced as this continued for ten, fifteen minutes or more, until suddenly - how does this happen? - they simultaneously dropped down into the reedbed. There were so many, it took several seconds: it was as if they were being poured from above, liquidising themselves into the reedbed below.

Have a look at this video - thanks to Sandra Hobson

I hadn't wanted binoculars between me and the experience, but once the birds were all down, I used my bins to watch the reedheads dancing from side to side as the birds busied about, finding their preferred place for the night's roost. The photo below is a wonderful close up of the phenomenon - thanks to Nick Sharp for this one. And thanks to Nick too for naming this stage of the starling super-event "the murmuration endgame".  Though I do wonder if it actually is the endgame...? What happens during the long dark winter night? Are they still and silent, or is there constant movement? I occasionally stay out overnight on nature reserves at Midsummer, but Midwinter too much of a challenge for me!

Finally, as the sky darkened even further, I could no longer see individual birds or reedheads, but I could still hear their chatterings as they settled for the night. I walked home then, but it took me quite some time to settle myself after such an amazing spectacle.

There have been many fabulous photos on the NCW facebook page, and indeed in many other places - they are understandably a popular choice among wildlife photographers. Given the multiple shapes the murmurations can take, there are also some very amusing - though not always re-postable! - configurations, but I will re-post this one from one of last year's murmurations at the Lower Derwent Valley site: when he posted the photo, Richard Baines, the photographer, commented that because of all the starlings, he hadn't noticed the blue tit at first... 

Sea, Sun, Sand… and a thousand Seals

It may be almost November, but it’s a classic sea-side picture: the sky is blue, the sea is bluer, the sun is shining and the sand stretches into infinity. And beyond, of course.

But this is a special beach and a special time of year: there’s much more to this picture postcard view. Wherever I look, all around me, even immediately in front of me - so close I could reach out and touch them - are seals. These are Grey Seals (we also have Common Seals in the UK) and many of them are indeed grey, though others are brown, some almost black, and some quite spotty, as if they are wearing leopard skins.

The males are massive beasts, especially when they pull themselves up and rest on their front flippers when facing off another male, or approaching females to mate. The females are smaller, though still much bigger than I imagined them from photographs and wildlife documentaries.

These female seals have come to this special beach at Donna Nook in Lincolnshire to give birth to their young - pups as they are known - and here they are too: no grey, brown or black colours yet but cute round bundles of white fur. Some still so new they are smeared with blood and mucus from the birthing process. Some are curled up asleep, next to their mothers, some are feeding on her sixty percent fat milk (no semi-skimmed here, thank you very much), and some - perhaps the more independent, or slightly older ones - have ventured away from mum a little and are pressing up against the wooden fence posts separating the birthing beach from myself and the other human viewers on the dune footpath. These babies seem as curious about us as we are about them.

One pup in particular clearly wants me to take him home. His nose is pushed through the fence, whiskers twitching, watching me with those dark pools of eyes and a quizzical expression on his face. He seems fearless as I take a couple of steps closer and crouch down to be at his level. I so want to stroke his little white furry body, but I resist, knowing that his mother might reject him if I do. There are already a few small, white, still bodies lying on the beach and I don’t want to be responsible for increasing that number. I’d heard the mortality rate is high for these gorgeous creatures, and with no tide this high up the beach to wash them away, the sad little bodies remain to be picked at by gulls and crows.

There are also many large red slabs of what look like raw meat lying on the sand. One of the volunteers from the local wildlife trust who monitor this birthing beach tells me these are the remains of the new born seal placentas and birth cords, and they too make a tasty meal for birds, and insects.

I walk on further down the dune path, to put some distance between myself and the rest of the crowd who have come to view the seals. Away from the chatter of people, and the cries of human babies, I can hear more of the seal noises. Like human babies, the pups cry to be fed, and make contented snuffling noises when they are suckling. Mothers call out to pups who have wandered too far away. The sound is haunting, and yet also strangely human-like.

I notice a large bull seal homing in on another male who is getting too close to one of his females. At around a quarter of a ton, he looks cumbersome and ungainly - as most seals do out of water - but he moves fast nonetheless. I’ve seen this behaviour earlier on today, several times, and the intruding male usually moves away after a spot of mouth-gaping and a few derisory snorts, but this one is standing his ground. They both rise up towards each other, their chests almost touching. After some posturing like this, and much more snorting and grunting, the intruding male is still not going away, so war breaks out. They lunge at each other, biting at heads and necks, drawing blood. Their roars are loud, and a couple of females have to move away from the fracas. Sometimes the pups can’t move quickly enough and are squashed or suffocated by fighting males. 

I have the same mixed feelings I have watching a wildlife programme on tv: I’m curious about how the creatures I’m watching live out their lives, and I want to keep watching to learn more, but I hate seeing them fight, get injured, and sometimes die. It takes me a moment to realise this isn’t a tv programme: it’s happening right here, right now, right in front of me. 

I scan the length and breadth of the beach to take in as much as possible. I can only shake my head in wonderment as I fully appreciate what is happening in front of me: the cuteness of the seal pups; the bond between mother and feeding pup; the amorous adventures of mating pairs; but also the ‘nature red’ aspect: clotted remains of birthings; gulls fighting over the body of a pup; the blood-stained face and neck of the defeated bull. It’s all part of nature’s weave I guess… the warp and weft of light and shadow, love and pain, birth and death. Sometimes, it’s a fabric I find heavy to wear; sometimes, like today, it feels light about my shoulders, and I’m thrilled to wear it.

Link to Donna Nook

A Beautiful Beltane Day - with a sad event

A series of different nemeta today - and none of them traditionally regarded as such: a public park in the centre of York; the house of one of the participants (maybe sacred to them, but not to anyone else); and then a wide grass verge, close to the ancient city walls of York.

I’m with a small group of women spending time together as part of our Widening Emotional Resilience activities. We begin in Rowntree Park with some climate focused work, based on Joanna Macy’s The Work that Reconnects. We’re in the Sensory Garden part of the park, and although it’s a busy sunny Saturday, with a variety of people engaged in a variety of activities around us, there’s a sense of containment, and a level of privacy. It helps that the garden is sectioned off, albeit with just a low hedge, but there is a gate to open and close for access, and we use it intentionally to ‘enter’ for the work, rather than the previous moments of social connection; and then again for ‘re-entry’ to the ordinary world when we’re finished.

After a lunch break, we reconvene at someone’s house for a therapeutically focused space. It’s a small room when seven of us are encircled in it, but it’s clearly a loved and homely space, and there is a sense of sacredness, both from the work we are doing and from the four walls containing us.

Our day ends with a short ritual celebrating Beltane: one of the four major fire festivals of the Celtic calendar. With the two equinoxes and two solstices, these eight sacred points of the year form a suitable structure for those wanting to mark the seasons in the nature-focused way practised by the ancestors of this landmass called Britain*. 

We move back outdoors for this ritual, this time of “Bright Fire”, which above all else celebrates the growing power of the sun, and fertility in all its manifestations. We cast our circle on a patch of grass with people walking the York City Walls on one side of us, and a residential road, and traffic passing, on the other. Even closer, on the wide grass verge itself, dog walkers pass by: one woman having to almost step into the Circle to collect her dog who’d obviously picked up the scent of our food offerings! And yet, still that sense of sacredness - other-worldliness, perhaps? - of that particular patch of grass.

We are disturbed though, mid-ritual, by something indeed disturbing. Nothing to do with loose dogs, noisy traffic, people doing people things, but by a loud and unrecognisable cracking sound. I don’t see its cause, but do see the shocked faces of the women opposite me in the Circle. 

“What’s happened?” I ask, scarcely daring to turn around.

“A tree has fallen down" someone answers; astonishment in her voice.

We break the Circle and go to investigate. A huge ash tree - not totally fallen, but a massive branch split off and now spread on the grass beneath, and onto the road. Thankfully - and amazingly, considering the number of people about - no-one is hurt.

But the tree is most definitely hurt. Not even thinking it might be dangerous to be near the tree, I step over the low wall, go to the tree and encircle what I can of its trunk with my body. I can just reach the bottom edge of the great split, and put my right hand into the exposed yellow crevice of the inner trunk. I expect cool and perhaps even damp, but it feels dry and the same temperature as my hand… is this why it has split off? Has it not been able to get enough water in these recent rainless weeks? Has wind caused it? There’s only a breeze today, nothing strong enough surely for such a thing to happen, and no sign of ash die-back, though I’m not an expert…

In my left hand, I’m still carrying an offering to the elements - a sprig of elder - I was about to gift to the Circle. I place it in the wounded crevice of the tree and I don’t hold back the tears. In the trunk of my own body, pressed to the trunk of the tree, I feel a pain I can only describe as my insides being gouged out with some great implement. If my internal energy is being taken by, or put into, the tree, to help it in its distress, then I’m only grateful I can do that.

I stay a few moments, but I’m aware we’re in the middle of a sacred ritual, which I’m supposed to be holding. As we walk back to our nemeton, I’m aware of the tree behind me. A couple of our group live close by, so I’ve asked them to let me know what happens to the tree. 

We finish our ritual, and celebrate with Beltane Bannock and the medieval drink known as Caudle, made by one of our group. In such rituals, any food and drink should be offered to the elemental guardians and spirits before we partake, and as I crumble a little Bannock onto the ground, I ask the guardians to help the tree, along with all the other jobs they have to do - especially in these troubling times for the natural world.

I’m away for a week from tomorrow, but I’ll visit the tree as soon as I return. Even writing this, 24 hours after the event, I’m conscious of the tree and from 25 miles distant, send it some energy and encircle it in its own sacred space. More for my need, I’m sure, than the tree’s. That will just get on with being a tree, even a broken one.

Healthy Ash buds

Healthy Ash buds opening

*There is scholarly debate about whether any one ancestral group actually did combine these eight festivals together, but there’s plenty of evidence that different peoples of ancient Britain (indigenous or [im]migrant: eg Neolithics, Insular Celts, Gaels, Anglo-Saxons, Vikings) did mark selections of these times for a variety of food-gathering, food-production, social, climactic, astronomical and spiritual or religious purposes.

An early morning Moment

 The warm early Spring weekend just past has lulled me into a false sense of security. This early Monday morning is barely above freezing. I regret my choice of light-weight walking trousers rather than my winter fleeced-lined ones. And that just last evening, sorting clothes from laundry activities, I’d put away gloves and scarves for two seasons. I tut and remind myself of “Cast ne’er a clout til may is out”. It’s only just March, for goodness sake. (Although ‘may’ in the old adage refers to the flowering may blossom of the hawthorn tree, which can appear at the end of April.)

But even though it’s colder than I expected, or like, I love it that I’m not only actually up, dressed, and walking about outside at 6.30am, but I’m probably the first and only person on the reserve. The vehicle gate is not yet unlocked, but I can access via the small pedestrian opening and meander down the wide lane that over both weekend days was car-lined all the way. This morning, criss-crossing from the reedbeds on one side and the woodland-edged lake on the other, it’s just me and what I call the ‘little birds’. 

little bird, loud noise. Wren, courtesy of Liz Newton

On the few hundred yards walk down car-park lane - without counting the waterfowl I can hear but not see through the early morning mist - I clock twenty species. Many are ‘ordinary’ (though is there such a thing?) garden birds such as robins, dunnocks, blackbirds, tits and finches etc, but there are some specialities like the reed bunting - the males sporting their new breeding plumage - and the Cetti’s warbler: like the wren, small in size but loud in voice. 

To reach twenty species, I have to cheat slightly to count two birds that aren’t in my ‘little’ category, but their crossing of the lane is quantitatively and qualitatively significant. Numbers-wise (and noise-wise!) it’s the black-headed gulls making their harsh karring and kekking sounds - both as they fly above me and on the breeding rafts on the lake. The breeding rafts are supposed to be for terns, but the gulls didn’t get the memo, and anyway, the terns aren’t back yet from wintering in Africa. 

Black-headed gulls prospecting for nesting spaces

As ever on my nature wanders, the whole experience is enjoyable, the whole event an adventure, but often there are special moments. And today, the moment - the qualitative experience - is a two-heron event. Having just found the first blackthorn blossom of the year, and taken a photo, I’m standing close to the hedge, sniffing the delicate blackthorn flowers, when I hear and feel the air displacement of wings: a heron crosses low over the hedgetops from the reedbed to the lake - and very low over my head. It was probably unaware of my presence. 

early morning mist, early blackthorn blossom

As I remain there - shocked into immobility by such a close encounter - another heron follows. So low I could reach up and touch it. I love birds so much I can enjoy watching them perched high up in trees, flying far away in the sky, or bobbing on distant stretches of water, but there is nothing to beat proximity: so rarely achieved with birds, and usually - even when it happens - like this event, so brief.

Perhaps that’s one of the reasons for my attraction to nature’s fauna: in most cases, if a species is truly wild, proximity is hard to achieve. And certainly the opportunity for easy proximity is one of the reasons for my attraction to nature’s flora: I love getting down and dirty for a close inspection of tiny plants; or smelling blossom, nibbling berries, or running my hands over the bark of trees. Climbing high into the branches of trees too, hiding among the leaves, though I rather think those days are behind me now. 

But even with the just-out-of-reachness of most birds and beasties, there’s still plenty to enjoy in the nemeta of the natural world: so my wanders and adventures will continue. Hopefully, too, those moments.