Winter is a time when it is all too easy to bury oneself behind a scarf and turned up collar, face to the ground and thoughts upon getting to the end of the walk. However, to take the time to look up at the natural world around you is to realise that even in the depths of winter you are surrounded by signs of the spring to come. Everywhere, trees are sporting the buds that will burst open with fresh green leaves, from the green, scaly buds of the sycamore, to the dark sticky buds of horse chestnut, to the small red buds of hawthorn to the tiny green buds of white beam that seem impossibly small for the size of leaf they will give way to.
The early morning cloud clears to leave the sight of an intensely bright full moon slowly dipping towards the distant tree line against a backdrop of indigo blue smudged with reddish brushstrokes of thin, feathery cloud. Despite it being nearly mid-January the temperature remains unseasonably mild, as though, after the harshness of last year, winter has decided to be kind. It is a perfect day for wandering through the woods to see what impact this unusual season is having upon our natural environment. Winter is a time when it is all too easy to bury oneself behind a scarf and turned up collar, face to the ground and thoughts upon getting to the end of the walk. However, to take the time to look up at the natural world around you is to realise that even in the depths of winter you are surrounded by signs of the spring to come. Everywhere, trees are sporting the buds that will burst open with fresh green leaves, from the green, scaly buds of the sycamore, to the dark sticky buds of horse chestnut, to the small red buds of hawthorn to the tiny green buds of white beam that seem impossibly small for the size of leaf they will give way to. A squirrel scampers noisily through the dry coppery beech leaf litter and it is only then that realise that this part of the wood is alive with at least half a dozen of these mischievous grey furry invaders, rooting around to find the stash they have only recently buried, scampering up trunks and leaping acrobatically through the canopy chattering as they go, as though verbalising their displeasure to nobody in particular. Blackbirds, their orange beaks bright against their black feathers, rustle amongst the leaves, flipping them over and tilting their heads to one side to inspect underneath. Robins, great tits, blue tits and chaffinches fill the air with their song and the sudden flutter of wings, their flight easier to follow through the bare branches. It seems that every step triggers an eruption of tiny winged bodies that leave the relative seclusion of dense brambles to take to the air, where they alight on overhead branches to discover the cause of the sudden panic. The last to take laboriously to the air are the wood pigeons, their wings struggling to lift their bulk like some over-laden air transporter. A magpie stops its intense investigation of a rotten trunk to look up at me with intelligent eyes before deciding that we have little interest in each other. I can never see one of these magnificent birds without quietly reciting the lines of the well-known rhyme: one for sorrow, two for joy... Just like the grey squirrel they are much maligned, although they are just doing what nature intended them to do. The magpie gets a bad press for raiding bird nests, while domestic cats, which kill far more birds each year, have a far easier time of things. The limbs of a giant beech are revealed in all their structural majesty, towering above, dwarfing the neighbouring sycamore, ash, hazel, hawthorn and dogwood, all of which appear scrawny in comparison. The thick, smooth grey trunk divides into three limbs, any one of which would make a respectable tree. These divide again and again, the branches reaching up and out before gently curving under the tremendous weight; only the larger limbs continue their relentless push upwards towards the light. Its pointed spear-like buds, although mostly narrow and small are here and there beginning to show signs of plumping up as though getting ready to burst open. Meanwhile, elder buds have been unable to contain themselves and many have already given way to fresh green leaves. Yew tree branches end in tight clusters of unfolding needles. Plump hazel buds are also showing signs of preparing to awaken, while many catkins have already started to open to deposit their pollen, although I am unable to find a single tiny scarlet flower that will combine with the pollen to produce the nuts so loved by the endlessly foraging squirrels. The sluggish ash show no such intention of joining in with the general air of expectation, their sooty buds determinedly refusing to be fooled by the mild temperature into thinking that spring is here. However, amongst the carpet of leaves, a miniature forest of ash saplings are rising in massed ranks. And amongst them the narrow fresh green shoots of bluebells are full of the promise of the mesmerising display to come. Last year they flowered and set seed earlier than usual; I wonder if this year they will do so even earlier. Despite all these signs of the approaching spring, we are still very much in winter and the midday sun still struggles to rise itself above the level of the trees at this time of year. Maybe the ash is wise to keep itself firmly tucked up in the knowledge that there is still plenty of time for the harsh weather to put in an appearance.
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AuthorDespite being raised in London I have been a lover of the countryside all my life. Over the past few years I have been priviledged to be able to work as a countryside management volunteer, picking up new skills and knowledge along the way and seeing the countryside in a way I never had before. The Urban Countryman is my personal view of that countryside, the seasons and the work that goes on to protect and manage this wonderful environment. Archives
January 2019
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