Heavy snow and ice has brought much of central and southern Britain to a surprised halt, with night time temperatures dipping well below zero. Here on the Somerset Levels we have a beautiful dusting. Several centimetres of the white stuff was enough to close our schools and make many roads treacherous. Further West, there were tales of great kindness and generosity as travellers were stranded on Bodmin Moor.
I love the names of the moons.
This month we have a super blood wolf moon. It is a super moon because it is at its closest point to the Earth and appears bigger and brighter than normal. And passing through the Earth's shadow, the beautiful, fat moon glows coppery red, hence 'blood' moon. The 'wolf' bit of the name is less clear but probably stems from ancient native American observations. There is a delicious chill in the sound of the howl of the wolf in the night, resonating with tales of faraway and long ago. Of course, there are none here now. The last wolves disappeared from the UK hundreds of years ago.
But I shall keep an eye on Bill to see if he is drawn to the night sky this week!
So, we have feasted. We have brought winter evergreens into the house and decorated with twinkling lights, spruce and mistletoe. We have sung carols, listened to ancient truths and prayed our prayers. We have lit tall, ivory altar candles and advent wreaths and we have stretched out in front of the fire to play games, exchange gifts and create shared stories. There have been long muddy walks, hugs, dogs, laughter, tears and new resolve.
And now, with the freshening of the year, I am sweeping up the pine needles and the wood ash. The house is newly quiet. Wrapping paper (non-metallic) has been sorted and recycled. Christmas letters have been put ready for reply, new addresses and family news safely noted. I tie up this year's cards and pack them away with the decorations - to be brought out next December, at card-writing time! We have chopped the branches off the Christmas trees; they make a dry layer in the chicken run, lifting the ladies' feet out of the mud. The trunks are ready to chop and stack in the log pile. They are good fuel once they are seasoned.
In the new year, I always make a list for my 'Christmas-self next year'. As well as notes about recipes that did (or didn't) work etc, there are always more philosophical wishes too. For Christmas 2019 I want to: buy less, shop local, invest in people, invite friends, keep it simple, have time ...
Autumn creeps on!
We ran up the drove road across Aller Moor this morning. The just-rising sun was beginning to paint ice cream colours in the sky but night was reluctant to let go. Big flocks of starlings were arrowing low across the meadows, half a thousand at a time. They had risen in clouds from their reedy roosts and were now hungry. Rooks, flying higher, were heading for their feeding grounds too. They need soft pasture where they can plunge those great beaks deep into the ground. The croak of raven was tossed on the breeze and the trumpet bray of the cranes echoed across the top of the heavens as they launched themselves from their secret strongholds.
Ahead of us, along the rhynes, the willows and thorns were full of bright thrushes. The fieldfares, winter visitors from the North, are back! They are beautiful: cinnamon and slate with white underparts. Their chuckling cry is a true herald of autumn.
Happy new year! September always feels like a time for fresh starts, new resolve and good intentions, shiny shoes and shiny conkers. There used to be the pleasure of crisp, new notepads and exercise books. Sadness that the summer was over was always tempered by the thrill of the new. What did you do during the summer? Which classroom have we got, which teachers? It is a long time since I was a schoolgirl, but my life continues to be ruled by the rhythms of the academic year and I spend more time than I should in stationery shops, picking pens and pencils, getting organised and preparing for the year ahead. The clamour of the playground reminds me of standing in line and waiting for my own tousled headed boys to burst through the door at the end of the day, clutching drippy art work and usually wearing mismatched shoes and all the wrong clothes. Our walk to school in the morning took far too long as we stopped to examine all the signs of autumn. We gathered beech mast, old man's beard and conkers in their prickly cases. Shiny rook feathers and clusters of hips and haws were carefully transported to the nature corner, or taken home to be copydexed on to shoe boxes or toilet roll tubes in precious compositions.
With their schooldays long behind them, I gradually morphed into a teacher. And this year I am a new girl all over again, with a new job in a new school. As I dragged my brand new books and pads and pens from the car and opened the classroom door, I carefully found a place for the bunch of hedgerow berries and leaves. And I pinned the rook feathers onto the noticeboard. Let the new year begin!
It is a hushed, waiting time on the tracks and trails now. The shifting Gulf Stream finally brought a return to recognisable weather and it has rained. 'Usable rain', I heard it called on the radio. The grass has greened but it will take a long time before the great cracks across the land are healed. Levels on our Somerset reserves and waterways remain low. The garden has suffered in the brittle, dry heat. I tipped the contents of several old hanging baskets into the chicken run and they rushed to scratch through it, breaking up the roots and scavenging the bugs and mini beasts inside. Lettuces have gone to seed and the large white butterflies (pieris brassicae) have devastated the cabbages. There are so many this year and their yellow and black caterpillars have feasted.
We went into the mothy night to listen for owls. There was no moon and our dark, Somerset sky was full of stars. The last of the Perseid meteors, debris from an ancient comet, fireworked across the sky. Bilbo started an urgent, familiar dance and under the hedge we found his spiky prey. He is good at leaving them alone, but would so love to investigate! We have seen several hedgehogs in the garden, including a couple of young ones. How lovely that they have bred here this year. Get fat now guys, feed up before the long sleep.
The hedgerows and reserves are quiet. The swifts have disappeared from our skies. Suddenly they are gone, screaming south before the wind changes. There are still swallows and martens in good numbers. House martens are visiting the eaves of the old farmhouse opposite, perhaps there is a (too) late brood in there? The warblers are quiet and even the rooks have cackled off to feeding grounds afar. Robin and blackbird are silent.
Along the canal, moorhen families fuss quietly in the reeds and young coots practise flexing their long, green toes. The kingfishers continue to patrol their stretch of water. They fly low and sit still and it is easy to miss them.
Hedgerow harvests are looking rich and full already. Dark clusters of elderberries are bending the branches low. Hips and haws are shining with the fire of autumn. Sloes glow fierce and blue, but they are small this year. The lime globes of mistletoe are looking fat and plentiful. And on the path behind the church, a tangle of hazel and hawthorn is draped with soft, frilly hop bines (humulus lupulus). Brambles are loaded. We picked them for a hedgerow crumble, with windfall apples scrumped from next door. Today, I found a plump pair of green hazlenuts (Corylus avellana) on the tow-path. They will be ripe when the soft leaves of the trees turn colour. But by then they will have been gathered up by the squirrels, wood mice, jays, wood pigeons and nuthatches, providing a high calorie feast at the changing of the season.
Heavy snow and ice has brought much of central and southern Britain to a surprised halt, with night time temperatures dipping well below zero. Here on the Somerset Levels we have a beautiful dusting. Several centimetres of the white stuff was enough to close our schools and make many roads treacherous. Further West, there were tales of great kindness and generosity as travellers were stranded on Bodmin Moor.
