As a boy, growing up in Bedfordshire countryside, an awe and wonder grew in my heart and mind, and it has not diminished since. It is perhaps the same wonder and awe that led to ancient ancestors making gods and objects of worship out of wildlife and nature. Every season of the year in the rural village was a different world, each with its own climate and inhabitants.
In winter, Christmas and New Year were the highlights of the season. Partly because there was a couple of weeks respite from the teachers and bullies at school. But also, there was something about getting off the school bus and, in the pitch black of the village's unlighted lane, seeing the coloured lights in the window of our home. It was something wholesome that lifted me up a little. The various lights, burning brighter than stars, signalled the beginning of a holiday that was all about comfort, family, and striving to goodness.
Mostly, winter was spent indoors. Venturing outdoors meant jumping into a cold bite. Still, there was something pleasant, when dressed for the unforgiving temperatures, in the crinkle and crunch of ice and frost underfoot. Testing icy ground and frozen puddles with a foot just to see what nature can do. Over the fields around our home, the screaming call of a fox (Vulpes vulpes) might be heard. Or the calls of a tawny owl (Strix aluco) or two. When I was older, when my dog was with me and we had snow, she was fascinated by the pristine white blanket. She would run through it and if the snow was still falling she ran around, snapping at the snowflakes, trying to catch them in her mouth.
It bit and was testing, but winter had its charms.
Spring though was easier to love. It promised the long days of summer that were coming, but it also brought life. Trees that were bare in the colder months became heavy with green leaves and birdsong. Verges and woodland that had been dormant came to buzzing life. The blackbirds, robins, and corvids were joined by visitors from other lands.
Spring intensified, growing and blooming until it burst into summer. The heat of the sun coaxed forth the scents of trees and flowers in the village and, in the long days of the school holidays, I took to the countryside paths that wound through fields and woodland. The paths were baked and dusty. From the grasses came the songs of grasshoppers, and from the trees came the songs of birds that I was too stupid to recognise by their song alone. I am better at this now.
I remember stumbling gracelessly along the countryside paths, exploring them with a sense of adventure and discovery, and disturbing deer and foxes now and then. They would turn and jump into woodland or hedgerow, and I would see the flick of a tail and a backside disappearing most of the time. Then it would be quiet again.
I didn't have to go far to see wildlife though. I could spot wild animals from the windows of my childhood home! I have seen red kite, foxes, deer, hedgehogs, rabbits, sparrowhawks and other wildlife from the windows of that house. My parents still live there and, when I visit, I still stop and stare out the windows. If nothing else visits, there are always butterflies there in the summertime.
When I was quite young, house martins (Delichon urbicum) would nest under the eaves of the house. Their little nest made of mud was fixed to the house, close to the bathroom window. When I could, I remember standing at the bathroom window, open so that I could see the nest, watching just to see the parents flying back and forth. Or a little black head, with shining eyes, at the hole, waiting and watching.
House martins don't nest there anymore.
For me, autumn was the loss of summer and readying for winter. The days were getting shorter again, plants and other life were retreating, and temperatures were dropping. No streetlights lined the roads of the village, and when the days drew shorter darkness reclaimed the evenings. Still, I would have resented the presence of lights with their sick yellow luminescence robbing the birds of the night. I hope that the village remains dark at night for a long time yet.
If I hadn't grown up in the countryside, surrounded by nature and wildlife, maybe I wouldn't care for it all quite as much. Maybe I wouldn't read about it and watch documentaries and blog about it and join social media groups and follow people and organisations that work for it . . . I don't know. I can only tell you what is. And, from growing up in a little rural Bedfordshire village, surrounded by examples of nature and wildlife, I can tell you that I have been gifted with a love and appreciation for our nature. It does lift me when I am down. Because it reconnects me with memories that I have from my younger years, but also for the beauty and strength and fragility of it in itself. There is a lot to wonder at in a bird that can fit comfortably in your hand but that faces death and struggle undertaking journeys the likes of which we will never know.
Thank you for reading. Writing is both easy and incredibly difficult. It takes time and consideration, and I hope that I deliver something worth reading. If you would like to support my writing, you can buy me a coffee on ko-fi.com - it's pretty gosh darn hard to make money from writing and all support is much appreciated.
Don't forget, the RSPB Big Garden Birdwatch is coming! You can sign up to take part here!
(This blog is not affiliated with RSPB, I just think the Birdwatch is a fun and worthy activity)
No comments:
Post a Comment