Left under a photograph on Substack…

Poem for Michael Young

We leave our little red hearts behind:
but isn’t that being just a little unkind… –
shouldn’t we say what moved us that way:
a “Beautiful!!!” or a simple “Grade A”…?

Unless a man starts afresh about things…

Loweswater at dawn, frozen in time

My first walk of the new year: and to a location now – as it will be forever – so very near to the centre of my heart and melded so very closely with my mind. Yet, on Saturday, it was clothed so tightly in frost, and held so singularly still, that its icebound enchantment freshly conjured even more enthralling memories to be layered, interlaced, with those soothing ones already possessed. Not just visual – such as the moon-glinted mint-white of the fields below fells of dry-cured bacon; and audible – the rushing becks, the joyful birds; but also, of course, sensual – the ice tightening my face like Botox; the frozen, sogged soil crunching beneath my boots, spongily, surprisingly, bearing my weight… – along with the absolute astonishing absence of Aeolus or his team of Anemoi: their breaths apparently held abnormally tightly, or at least currently (although Eurus would soon awaken: his lazy easterly breeze drawing disappointing clouds to mask the valley from the sun – whose rise I had come to witness, of course… – as well as stinging my eyes on my return…). The place looked and felt new-made: its birth accompanied by nature’s gently twinkling fanfarades!

The soul that sees beauty…

Sunday
There is a hierarchy, it seems, to Tysoe’s with-sun-rising birds. As the first sodium-bright slash of dawn slices the horizon, the barn owl – its wings the shade of the night-mourning sky it haunts – yet circles the windmill: peeved, perhaps, that my presence has quiesced the small creatures in the verges, trembling umbellifers, ruffling daisies. The hedges here serenade me with the river-runs of goldfinch; the gossip of sparrows; the bossy robin; the caution of blackbirds. The crops, a sea of skylarks: effervescent; ubiquitous. But none yet leave their roosts. It is the raptors which rise pre-eminently on the cool air: a lone buzzard, one lazy, subtle flap of its wings propelling it yet higher. A glint-eyed kestrel shearing across my path; grasping the dead branch of a wayside oak from which to study me. There is nothing here to interest such a hunter; but yet he waits until I have passed before busy wings pull him beyond my sight.

A male pheasant, paranoid, dull-witted, staggers away from me: its drunken pose and anguished cacophonies aimed at naught; only rendering it more manifest. Thirty paces I tail this manic meandering, before remembrance of cover emerges between those frenzied eyes.

Faith, I’ll bear no base mind…

It is seven months and six days since I last donned my fervent walking boots and headed out of the front door in search of the spiritual nourishment only nature can provide – the act of doing so more psychologically and physiologically strenuous than I had initially envisaged. But such challenges are there for us to subjugate… if we are to be alive to our values (and alive for them). Should we let either external constraints or internally-driven apprehensions suppress (or even oppress) our compelling predilections and true-hearted desires, then surely our very identities and individualities are at risk of corruption or cessation.

(Minus) eight degrees of reparation…

Although my head felt a little like Trotsky’s must have – or even because my head felt like that… – just before sunup (a little past eight o’clock, this morning), I headed towards Windmill Hill to watch the curtain rise on a new day. I was not to be disappointed.

Frozen into the crusted, sodden ground was evidence of those who went before me: deep tractor tyres (looking like a dinosaur had passed by, wearing wellingtons); sturdy-soled boots; the clawed stamps of walked pets – mixed in with those diamond dog‑prints so familiar around here: perhaps lured by the many rabbits visible in last night’s headlights… – and a bonus trail of crisp cleft deer impressions heading away from the footpath.

Very little sound, though – the odd chattering blue tit, and belligerent robin, against a background of commuting cars – and very little movement: even the fluffed kestrel I passed, highlighted by the first rays, was content just to gaze from its perch on the power-lines.

Eventually, the low, undulant cloud would overwhelm the brightness; sap the colour from the sky – bringing rook calls and repeated pheasant crowing – but my timing was perfect: a hearty, cold breath of pale ice-blue; then a blaze of rose-gold, charming the frosted stalks and leaves, warming my soul.

This may not be alpine Buttermere – here is a different kind of beautiful; a daily delight – but it still embraces me as only home can: the rolling layers of hill, fog, light, tilth and rime, cordial companions; the cereal crunch beneath my feet, affectionate assurance: earthing me in nature… yet again.

The long and winding road…

After a day trapped inside, ambushed by the deepest, dankest monsoon, Sunday’s dawning brought with it a spectacularly clear sky: and only the northern Pennines, morphing into the majestic Howgill Fells, just waking, to my right – constant, lumbering, reclining colossi – were still snugly covered beneath the cotton-wool-drifted quilt of rising dawn moisture, softening their sharp bulk.

Leaving the motorway, and arriving in the Lake District proper: as I passed Scales on the main road, those majestic mountains reared up in front of me – Blencathra almost friendly, welcoming – glowing a glorious rich russet; with their own topping wisps of remaining cloud floating away, lazily and gently, on the surprisingly lethargic breeze.

All the way, I had followed the sentinel just-past-full moon – a guardian and a guide – the low, bright lunar globe leading me to the turning I wanted at Braithwaite; before descending to its own long orbiting sleep behind the north-western summits.

Hugging the Derwent Fells, the familiar narrow road leads to a small, ancient bridge just before Birkrigg – but mouldered now into the grown-riverlike Rigg Beck beneath – the first vestige of the struggles I had, thus far, only seen in the news. Fortunately, the gushing ford that ran next to the footbridge was passable – but only with immense care and forethought. Had I not a vehicle designed to conquer such challenging terrain (and the knowledge to go with it), I would have mourned my annual return to “the lake by the dairy pastures”; but, surely, in this small paradise, readily found another delightful destination. (Cartmel – which my iPad’s autocorrect decided should be “Caramel” – which seems apposite – Priory, again, maybe; or “old man’s mountain” Gummer’s How – surely, on such a glorious day, one of the Lake District’s more achievable, and far-seeing, vantage points? (In August, visibility had been minimal; the ascent and descent treacherous; the weather then damp, belligerent, and bitter.))

Having waded through this first obstacle, still I went on with deep trepidation. At points – especially the final descent, beyond Newlands Hause – torrents of water rendered the 25% inclines deceptive, untrustworthy waterways. Landslips had mostly been cleared; but the surface of the road was littered with debris: mud, wrack, tangled branches, scree. My 4x4 was as sure-footed as a mountain goat, though: enabling me to concentrate with long-held breaths, and steer slowly and cautiously to my morning’s destination.

I was the second to arrive at Buttermere: chatting for a while with the seasoned, hardy soul about to set off to reconquer Haystacks and the ridge along Seat, High Crag, High Stile, Red Pike, before returning via Dodd and Old Burtness.

His love for the mountains was obvious: as was his preparedness. He, too, had arrived via challenges and setbacks – but also would not be thwarted in his goal!

I parked next to Mill Beck, which feeds into Crummock Water. It bubbled and frothed with a rabid anger that had not only destroyed the fences which usually ran alongside, but filled me with a foreboding that I would not be able to complete my planned circuit.

No snow remained: although torrents poured down from every crevice. Water, water everywhere – turning roads and paths into rivers, streams, and sometime waterfalls.

The walk itself was more hazardous than in previous years: well-trodden ways now well under water; sodden ground; routes blocked by serried, toppled, shallow-rooted pines. At one point, I had to scramble along a short rockface: hunting with amazed joy (and the memories of long-forgotten youthful climbing) for hand- and foot-holds – true crag-hopping (albeit in extreme slow-motion) – before descending to the remains of the eroded, slate-pebble-dashed path below. (My damaged body will take weeks to recover from this punishment, I know. But my mind will leap forever with joy at each similar memory.)

Conditions could have been so much worse: recent wrack-marks demonstrated how much higher the mere had lapped – obliterating any chance of traversing its shoreline.

Just past the obstacle course of fallen trees, I encountered a toddler (with justifiably proud mum) entranced with my reflective sunglasses, bush-hat and fingerless gloves. This was one happy child – with an even better outfit than mine! – determined and communicative; and aiming to complete the circuit with a big grin that warmed the heart. I truly hope they succeeded. They deserved to on such a day; and with such spirit.

But, of course, everyone I encountered said hello. Some stopped to chat, as well; and there was a comradely courtesy – holding gates open; advising about obstacles ahead; suggesting diversions… – but all of us glorying in the sunshine hovering above us.

At this time of year – even when all the sun can do is paint the sky a vivid cobalt, and tint the surrounding, cradling peaks with gold flames, without ever reaching the mere itself – this remains such a beautiful, yet sometimes harrowing, place: the true definition of the ‘picturesque’.

I must have been born without the traditional-English-stiff-upper-lip gene: and, as a result, there is a direct line drawn from external, ineffable beauty – whether that be music, art, poetry, sculpture, landscape… – to the core of my creative, sensitive, romantic soul.

Standing once again on Peggy’s Bridge, at the entrance to the Scarth Gap (I expected orcs), gazing back towards my starting point below High House Crag – Haystacks and Fleetwith Pike glowering menacingly dark behind me…… – dear reader, I admit that, silently, I cried.

The overwhelming assault of magnificence flooded my senses. (There was no room, today, for music.) Truly, this is a place where there is a surfeit of glory and grandeur – enough to emotionally sustain one for a lifetime.

I do not believe in any deity – yet this felt like an epiphany, a conversion (albeit on the path to Gatesgarth Farm).

As I returned to the sanctuary of my car, I was rewarded with one of my favourite sights: four keen Border Collies, expertly controlled with the subtlest of commands, manoeuvring a small flock of muddy Herdwicks to less waterlogged pastures.

Such skill; such innate teamwork; corralling them seamlessly and cohesively through a series of gates along narrow tracks. The oldest dog had a withered rear leg – but this was no impediment – this was an independent, sharp spirit, tugging at the boundaries of control, and obviously gleeful in its well-earned freedom.

Later, with such perfect weather for wandering – although, returning to my hotel, I would discover that my cheeks and forehead had been sanded rough and raw by the prevailing wind – the car park behind the Fish Inn grew full; and the paths and roads around the mere grew busy with companion walkers and cyclists. (Last Christmas, I departed as only the second car of the day arrived – such was its peace.) Such busy-ness, this time, made the place safer, though – essential when each turn of a corner presented unexpected vistas and occasional risks.

Not wanting to repeat my morning’s daring adventures, I returned to the A66 via the Honister Pass (which I had been told by my earlier associate was clear and dry) – pausing below the rugged, stunning Seatoller Fell to wonder at the surrounding might. Beautiful Borrowdale (I expected hobbits) glowed golden and welcoming, below, bathed in a beautiful, warm, umber light. But, beyond, yet more stark evidence – an almost infinite sea, where Derwent Water had once lain peacefully: at some points reaching out to stroke the road’s edge. In Keswick, the worst-affected households were marked by cairns of damaged white goods and furniture – and yet the town was very much buzzing with life.

This had been Buttermere at its very best: not as placid and tranquil as perhaps it can be (and is often imagined). But the Lake District as a whole is still struggling: and needs as many visitors, as much help – along with Lancashire, Calderdale, etc. – as it can get. Go visit! Cumbria is open! (But please – with Storm Frank on the way – be careful out there.)

So good they named it thrice: a photo essay…

While the surface may be interpreted as Victorian in character, Charlecote Park is a layered landscape, belonging to all of history, and to every visitor that has ever been and has yet to visit.

     Landscape, rooted as much in the desire of what is to come as what has already been, is transient and ever changing.

– Eduard Krakhmalnikov: More than a Park: A Landscape History of Charlecote Park

A month or so ago, I wandered around my beloved West Park (which I had to myself) at Charlecote: and even then I could sense the change.

Ahead of the annual rut – which is now underway – the more senior fallow bucks were beginning to claim advantageous (and traditional) corners of the parkland for themselves.

The breeding herd was also a lot more skittish than normal: running and pronking away in series – often at the behest of one of those larger ‘master’ bucks – when, during the rest of the year, they would mostly ignore you, and treat your clicking shutter with utter disdain.

“Call me Beyoncé! I’ve been photographed more times than the Queen, you know. Yawn. Here we go again, Gladys.”

On Saturday, I was fortunate enough to be part of a small party observing the deer at daybreak – arriving at Charlecote before 06:30 (for first light at 07:12, and sun-up at 07:47).

However, a couple of hours later, we were rewarded with strong coffee (here served by volunteer – and supreme – photographer, Jana Eastwood) and bacon baguettes: so there was more than enough compensation for the early rising!

And, although – as Adam Maher, ranger (and genial educational genius) explained – it was really too warm (a balmy 10°C, as I parked the Bardmobile) for us to witness the rut in full swing. In fact, there was only one real brief-but-memorable moment of antler-on-antler action.

Nevertheless, throughout the stroll, we were so well-entrenched in the natural world (my boots still smell of deer) – “It may be fenced, but this is truly wild…” – that only a professional churl could have been in any way let-down.

The echoizing call and return of tawny owls accompanied our dark walk to the parkland; and, as the crack of dawn widened (and our pupils similarly adapted), it became obvious that, whilst we meandered between the serried lime-trees, we were being silently policed by a sparse cloud of bats, gracefully skimming the air just above our heads (another indication of a mild dawn, we were told).

Throughout, a sporadic, confrontational soundtrack of groaning, deep-belching bucks – a noise also redolent to my failing ears of a wooden ruler being repeatedly vibrated against an old school-desk: establishing and reinforcing hierarchy, as well as having a go at (but not always succeeding in) impressing the ladies, of course – scatter-gunned across the park.

One of the many fascinating facts of Adam’s that I will never forget is that the trees’ canopy in the park is a uniform and signature 1.7 metres from the ground – a true mark of the herd’s ability to gobble up tree-shoots and flail the bark; and cause major damage, if not carefully managed.

This is not helped at this time of year, firstly, by the incessant antler-rubbing – removing any remaining velvet before the rut; as well as then gathering ‘decorations’ of leaves or grass – and finally the scent-marking of branches, using glands above the bucks’ eyes.

However, if your palmate antlers aren’t symmetrical – like this poor guy I stumbled upon, pretending he wasn’t there, hiding in the grass – you may find that all this is for naught: as the does are less attracted to you. It seems that it’s not just human beings that are fussy about these things!

West Park had undergone a transformation since I was last there. Huge, dark stands stained the ground (which, in turn, besmears the bucks: who cover themselves in their own urine in the way we might use aftershave…) – strategically placed and constructed “to attract sufficient does to herd them into a harem” – although the leks (“a gathering of males engaging in competitive display to attract potential mates”) morphed lazily, this morning, as the younger bucks somewhat lethargically challenged and withdrew.

Occasionally, a doe would make a treacherous bid for freedom: and only then would the energy of the deer become apparent: as the master bucks dashed away to corral the errant female.

“You can see why the bucks can lose 40% of their body-weight during the rut,” commented Adam (who does a mean doe imitation call: a sort of whistled, feline mew, or squeak). And I thought to myself how much hard work it must be… (without drawing any parallels whatsoever, this time – please note – between creature and human…).

So – following a sleepless night; and a deep frost – I decided Sunday’s dawning might bring forth a little more “action”. In one way, it did: the sunrise was glorious. However, the majority of the deer – apart from one lone master buck: groaning and corralling his increasing harem – were extremely somnolent.

This ‘time-out’ allowed the other bucks to grab a bite to eat; preen; practice their stances and belches – half-heartedly, it has to be said – and then ruminate on their stands. “Nothing to see here.”

So, after well over two hours of well-layered and gloved perseverance – silent standing, mixed in with a little slow-motion strolling along the public footpath in West Park (the only access at this time of year); as the mist crept in hesitantly from the River Dene – I left the deer to it. No doubt, as soon as I left, they all went berserk – finally stuck in a rut….

Although my galleries are in desperate need of an update, my earlier deer photos can be found here – as part of my larger Charlecote collection: which also includes the many wonderful trees of West Park.