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.

Widening Emotional Resilience: experiencing Abundance

A current project as part of my wider Nemetona work is facilitating a group of women looking at ways to widen their emotional resilience - particularly in the current chaotic environmental and political times in which we live. 

Something that I learned very early on in my facilitation career (useful in life generally too, I think) was to never ask participants to do an activity I had not done myself. So, as my plan was to encourage an 'audit' of how they experienced their current state of 'tools in the emotional resilience toolbox' to be - with a view to setting goals and intentions for gaining new ones, should they wish to -  I recently completed an audit for myself.

I use a two part structure for this: the first to include the emotional resilience skills we might call inherent... ie, those we believe ourselves to hold already - whether via nature or nurture, genetic predisposition, or simply learning from the accumulation of life experiences. As Friedrich Nietzsche said way back in 1888, "Out of life's school of war - what doesn't kill me, makes me stronger".  Telling others what doesn't kill them makes them stronger has become a bit of cliche, and can appear to be dismissive of truly challenging situations, but some recent psychological research has proved that many people do indeed feel "stronger", "inspired" or more "spiritual" after experiencing traumatic events. 

The second part of the audit is to consider what proven 'tips, tricks and handy hints' exist for gaining more emotional resilience. These might be activities I have never even thought about trying; or I might be aware of but not tried for various reasons; or I've tried and found helpful but use infrequently. The idea being that we need to increase, both quantitively and qualitatively, those activities we find helpful, and to experiment with those we've yet to try.

One of my personal favourites is to ensure that I feel resourced as much as I can be, as often as I can be, and one way to do that for me is via reading... I taught myself to read (apparently) before I went to school and have always read voraciously. Studying for a degree in English Literature helps you learn to read quickly too! I read books and journals relevant to my areas of interest, and nowadays of course enjoy the resources of the Internet too. I subscribe to many blogs, newsletters etc and Positive News is one of them. This week, there's a brilliant article about Abundance and they are asking for readers' experience of how abundance comes into their lives. I found this wonderful to muse on this morning during my abundance of proper coffee and toast (proper marmalade too - no orange-flavoured goo for me, thank you very much), and decided to write a short response. This is it:

We hear constantly about losses in the natural world, especially reduction in or total extinction of species. I do not want to minimise this real and dangerous situation - I have a lived experience of being a child, in the 1950's, out on my own, always wandering lanes, woodlands, and river banks and now, wandering those places again, weeping for the differences I see.

AND YET... I experience abundance most easily and most often in my life when I connect to the natural world, depleted as it may be. In the wilder places we do have left, and in places protected by appropriate agencies, there is a richness of habitats and species to wonder at and to enjoy, as well as plenty of clean fresh air to breathe. And even in the busiest, most overcrowded, most polluted places, nature survives, or attempts to. A bee collects nectar from a dandelion growing through a crack in the pavement. Peregrines nest and successfully breed in tall city structures. Across the globe, myriad insects, birds and many mammals survive - even thrive - on human detritus. The other-than-human has an abundant capacity for endurance, whatever we humans do to endanger that. Such 'endurance abundance' enables me to survive - even thrive - also. 

An Abundance of Sweet Honesty: zoom in - each black dot is the seed of a new plant

I hope you can enjoy reflecting on your own experiences of Abundance. I really think it deserves a capital letter.

A favourite kind of Abundance

Imbolc, 2025

In the island nemeton that is Albion (the ancient name for the landmass of Scotland, Wales and England), we’re lucky to have seasons: and I love them all. But I have to admit I do struggle a little sometimes with the colder and shorter days of winter. And by now, the end of January, I’ve had enough, and search for signs of Spring. 

hazel catkins, North Cave Wetlands

But Imbolc (the ancient Celtic celebration heralding the Spring) is upon us, and the hazel catkins are beginning to flower: one of the key phenological markers for the citizen science project, Nature’s Calendar. 

I walked the reserve at North Cave Wetlands today, in glorious sunshine, looking for signs of Spring. It was wonderful to see that all the ice has melted - even with a previous night’s light frost - and to see and hear so many busy birds. During the very cold spell, the partially frozen lakes and frosted vegetation at the reserve were a beautiful sight

but it was discomforting to see so few waterfowl - and those that were there, struggling to break through ice, and find food. On one very open lake, completely frozen, there were no birds at all except a single pied wagtail walking about on the ice, no doubt thinking he’d found a new car park.

My interest is in all of nature, not just birds, and I’ve never been a serious ‘lister’, but now, given my proximity and regular visits to the reserve, one of my fun 2025 projects is to see as many of its birds as I can. There is an all-time list of species for the reserve, starting from when it first became a reserve from the leavings of the quarry industry, and this list contains every species ever seen there, even if only once, or only passing through. There are 250 on the list, which given the full British list is 640, is a good percentage - and will be a challenge for me with my limited ID skills and even more limited vision! 

But even though it feels a little nerdy and train spotter-y to be ticking birds off a list, I will not be forgetting the more significant reasons that I’m visiting the reserve. And indeed, not forgetting the importance of the birds themselves: for what they bring us homo sapiens and what their presence (or sadly, increasing absence) means for the wider environment.

So, on this beautiful cold, sunny day I added three birds to my NCW list: common gull, oystercatcher, and a type of duck called a shoveler. Common gull not particularly so - one of several misnomers in the ‘birding industry’! - but none of the three are classed as rarities or are red-listed. The rarity label I do not care about. I’m not a ‘twitcher’, chasing rarities - birds that often shouldn’t be where they are and may not be able to survive -  but I do want to acknowledge more formally my wonderful experiences of seeing the species of my personal nemeton, as well as the nemeton of Albion generally.

This photograph is not the bird I saw at the Wetlands, but my ‘lifer’ (the birders’ word for the first time to see that species anywhere, ever) which was on a wildlife holiday trip to the fabulous Shetland Islands.

courtesy of islamacleod.com

But back to Imbolc: I love the four ancient Celtic festivals (Imbolc, Beltane, Lughnassa, Samhain) and the solstices and equinoxes between them as a way of marking, celebrating, and giving thanks for special times, and changing seasons… a process both sacred and pragmatic to the early Britons. Together, these eight special times form what contemporary celebrants call the Celtic Wheel of the Year and although I’ve marked those festivals in some way for several years now, I’m emphasising them more this year, as part of my environmental ‘innervism’, as well as my celebration of sacred spaces and sacred times.

An owlsome experience at North Cave Wetlands: a very special Nemeton

I’ve written blogposts for the Yorkshire Wildlife Trust about their reserves at Askham Bog and Spurn Point, but now, recently moved to North Cave, I’ll be focusing my writing around their North Cave Wetlands site.

In preparation, today, I was lucky enough to meet up with Paul, the Reserve Assistant at the Wetlands, to discover more about his work there - especially his owl-monitoring procedures. Not least of which includes checking out the nest boxes for tawny, barn and little owls: a fantastic opportunity for me!

The Little Owls will let you in...

I was very excited: not only do I love owls, but since moving to the village I’ve seen little owls on the reserve, and I’ve heard tawny owls calling several times now. Once, when watching from the open window of my flat with all the lights off, I was lucky enough to spot two dark shapes flying between the trees. It’s been just too cold recently to be watching from open windows, but I still love to lie in bed listening to their calls as they stake out their territories.

First up, Paul showed me around his ‘den’: actually the site maintenance building where all the reserve’s equipment is stored: not least all the techy gizmos required for watching activity from the nest box cameras. It all looked very impressive, but as a non-techy person, I won’t attempt to describe it. In any case, I put all the successful little videos down to owl magic. Courtesy of those magic owls, you can see footage of the little owl pair here and footage of the tawny pair here (do have your sound on - such cute little noises from the tawnies: they’re not just horror film tuwit-tuwoo-ers).

Paul’s list of jobs to do, whether related to surveying and monitoring, or to general maintenance on the reserve, seemed endless, and we discussed the need for more volunteers: more about that in a later blog. For today, we at last set off for our walk round the reserve, including into areas off-limits to ordinary visitors. More excitement for me: love a little light transgression on a Tuesday morning.

First, we headed for where the tawny boxes are hidden in a wooded clearing well off the beaten track. On the way, we passed through a tree-shrouded pond area where Paul has seen a female kingfisher investigating a small bank: a future possible kingfisher breeding area? Yes please, Mrs Kingfisher.

At the tawny owl box area we were rewarded with a sighting: the owl sat in a nearby tree, motionless, in full view, facing towards us, checking us out. Paul believes the pair is acclimatised to him, as they allow him to get quite close before flying off. Apparently, today, I was allowed too, as the owl didn’t move, even as we moved closer. When I looked at the owl through my binoculars, I was shocked by its size. I appreciate that the point of bins is to make creatures look bigger, and I know from bird books that tawny owls can be up to 40 cms tall, but having only ever seen them with my naked eye and in dusky light, I was surprised by both its height, and its beautiful sun-flecked plumage. 

Tawny Owl, North Cave Wetlands

We went to the tree where the box is sited so that Paul could check inside (via one of those owl-magic little mobile screens he plugged into leads dangling down the tree trunk). As the inside of the box appeared on the screen, Paul was not happy to see two squirrel eyes looking up at him. 

“I’ll have to come back later and clear it out again,” he grumbled. “They fill the box full of leaves and food items and there’s no room for the tawny to nest build and lay eggs…” He explained later that once the owl has ‘taken possession’, squirrels won’t enter the box, but at this early stage of the breeding process, it’s first come, first served.

As we headed off to the little owl nest box area, Paul noticed a heap of earth he hadn’t seen before. We investigated. There were signs of fresh digging around a too-big-for-a-rabbit hole in the bank, with broken vegetation indicating the recent presence of something. Most exciting of all: fresh animal footprints in the newly dug out earth. Paul said he’d install a monitoring camera, and took a photo of the prints for checking out later, but we were both thinking the same… badger?

Near the little owl box tree, Paul checked inside via his mobile screen: no-one at home. This particular box is visible to visitors on the reserve, many of them know where it is and have seen the little owl pair,  and many of the photographers who post on the NCW’s facebook page have taken wonderful shots of the owls who love to perch on or around their box, especially when the sun is shining. I’ve even found one of them myself, perusing me from a fork in the nearby oak tree, and I’m not known for my spotting skills. Paul soon found one of them in another nearby tree and we spent a few moments watching it, watching us. This time, looking through my bins, I was shocked by how small the bird was! Clue in its title, of course (a mere 23 cms) but such a stark difference in both height and bulk between the two birds. I was also struck once more by the similarity of owls and cats: both species seem able to sit, motionless, for hours: sometimes eyes open, sometimes eyes closed, but otherwise, zero going on. Apparently. Maybe there’s a lesson for our frantic species to learn there?

So, finally, before Paul had to return to his million-and-one tasks, he showed me where the barn owl box was placed. Brand new, and as yet, no apparent activity, inside or out, but barnies are seen frequently (not by me, but hopefully also ‘as yet’) around the reserve and are known to breed in nearby farm buildings, so there is every chance they might take occupation of the box.

Beautiful Barnie (with lunch)

But the barn owl non-sighting wasn’t quite my final experience after all: in a downstairs window of the old farm house building, newly acquired by the Yorkshire Wildlife Trust, sits a stuffed toy barn owl. It’s an ancient trick known as ‘sympathetic magic’ - don’t say I didn’t warn you…

Thank you Paul Wray, North Cave Wetlands Reserve Assistant, for photos and videos.