writing, not drowning

Singing in landscape

I had planned to write a bookish sort of blogpost but I was sidetracked after spending the day singing at nearby Coombe Farm: 100 acres of steep-sided, wooded and semi-wild Devon. A rather joyful way to spend a Sunday. 

In the morning, we sang in a circle inside an African tent, while taking occasional glances outside at the intermittent sun, rain, cloud and grey skies. The weather gods were kind to us and the sun came out for our al fresco vegetarian lunch, three delicious courses, all prepared the night before by our choir leader, Claire Anstee. (So talented!)

And the sun stayed out all afternoon, as we walked round the farm

stopping under various ancient trees to sing, taking in views across the Exe Valley en route

and thinking about all the wild creatures who share this land and live here in complete safety: badgers, foxes, Exmoor's red deer and, with a nod in the direction of Edward Thomas, all the birds of Devonshire.

Most visitors and holidaymakers head for Devon's south or north coast but the county's heartland has a quiet, timeless quality, which is perfect for people who want to withdraw from the world, even if only for a short while. For those of us who live here, today was a reminder of what drew us to this place and how fortunate we are to wake up to this landscape each morning.

The highlight of our walk - apart from the singing and the food and the views - was this old beech avenue. Trees planted long before any of us walked the earth and that will outlive us all. Who planted this avenue, we wondered, and why . . . ?

We did our best to tread lightly on the ground . . .

and I began to think how satisfying it would be to run a 'writing in landscape' day in this special place. Maybe, just maybe, next summer?

Starry, starry night

There are many reasons to recommend living on or very close to Exmoor, not least its stunning landscape - a combination of moorland, woodland, fields, and sea - and the wildlife. Those of us who live here would add the night sky, which is swathe of ebony velvet, studded with stars.

The first night I spent in this house was New Year's Eve 1997 and my daughter and I invited a group of friends to celebrate my long-planned escape to the country. At midnight, we went out into the garden, looked up at the sky and gasped. Living in London, as I had almost all my life, I had rarely glanced upwards at night because there was so little to see. Here I can gaze at the Milky Way, meteors and stars galore. According to this recent article in the Daily Telegraph, city dwellers are lucky if they can see 200 stars; look up to a dark sky and it is more like 7,000 . . .

To see a night sky in its full beauty, you need an absence of artificial light - and, thankfully, Exmoor has that absence. This has now been officially recognised: Exmoor National Park has been designated an International Dark-Sky Reserve, only the second place in the world to receive this accolade. (The first was Mont Métignac in Canada.) Read more about it here. 

A recent move on the part of a few neighbours to have more artificial lights installed in the village (so that they wouldn't have to carry torches when they walked to the village hall . . . ) was roundly defeated by a sizeable majority. Most of us wanted less artificial light, not more. Meanwhile, as a carbon reduction measure our local authority is switching off street lighting in most areas between the hours of 12.30 and 5.30am, so now we can enjoy Exmoor's night sky at full strength. 

I find all this quite thrilling and, unsurprisingly perhaps, have had this song in my head for days:

This video may not change your life . . .

. . . but it will help to start your week on an uplifting note and offers a reminder, if one were needed, that we are all connected. Including seals.

The video first appeared on the internet at the beginning of this year but then the original was taken down. Now it's back.

A tourist visiting Gold Harbour, South Georgia* is sitting on the beach, watching seals and penguins. And then, one of the elephant seals is drawn to her, snuggles up and appears to flirt with her. (Don't worry, it's not an X-rated video.) The tourist remains remarkably composed, given that an elephant seal can weigh up to 6,000 pounds. Someone, thankfully, managed to capture the whole thing.

*According to the notes that accompanied the video's arrival with this morning's emails - thank you, Friend in New Zealand - Gold Harbour is located in a sub-arctic region, 1,100 miles east of the southern tip of Latin America. it is a small bay, five miles S-SW of Cape Charlotte, with Bertrab Glacier at its head, along the east end of South Georgia Island. The west end of the beach, where a glacial stream flows, is a breeding ground for various types of penguins and large seals. You can read more about South Georgia here. Don't miss the webcams, including this one.

Apologies and why I turn to Yeats

I realise that I have let far too many days lapse since I last wrote a blogpost. I started several and discarded them as it seemed pointless to be writing about the minutiae of one woman's life in these turbulent and dangerous times, with North Africa and the Middle East in turmoil, and the forces of nature in wild tumult on the other side of the world.

So I missed the opportunity of telling you about the pleasure of being involved in World Book Night and giving away 48 copies of the wondrous Half of a Yellow Sun by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie to young and adult students at my local further education college.

And I missed the opportunity to  tell you that Christmas Holly made an almost instant and seemingly complete recovery from her stroke. I too am recovering, slowly and gradually, albeit at not quite such a remarkable rate but then I'm not a dog.

And I also missed the opportunity to tell you what a joy Griff Rhys Jones's television programme on the history of Indian textiles was. Celebrity presenters can often be intensely irritating but Hidden Treasures of Indian Art - one of a series on tribal art - was exquisitely shot and thoughtfully presented by someone with due respect for the subject. UK viewers can still catch this and other programmes in the series on BBC iPlayer - although not for long. If textiles, especially embroidery, are your thing, you will be salivating.

But these, inevitably, were small oases in weeks dominated by coverage of the cataclysmic events happening in New Zealand and Japan, especially Japan. As a representative of Save the Children in Sendai reflected, nothing in the aid organisation's previous experience of working in disaster zones could have prepared staff for dealing with an earthquake, followed by a tsunami, rising radiation levels and a potential nuclear meltdown.

So, we have watched these ghastly events with growing disbelief, finding compassion in our hearts but wondering what, sensibly and practically, to do with it. And while all this has been happening half a world away, people close to me have been going through hard and painful times. My dear friend, the Only Other Blonde in the Village, lost her much-loved mum last week; her mother had a long life, had lived for her family, and died peacefully in her sleep, aged 100. But a mum is a mum and irreplaceable; their passing leaves a deep wound.

Today someone I love very dearly rang me with sad and distressing news and I have been wandering around in that place of ice and lead where shock dwells. The Only Other Blonde and I had to do much mutual comforting on this morning's dog walk; thank goodness for the balm of friendship. 

As is so often the case in times of disaster and enormous upheaval, poets can express individual and collective feelings far better than most of us, as we grapple to find a word, a phrase, a sentence that doesn't smack of mawkishness or cliché. It must be more than 40 years since I first read The Second Coming by W B Yeats but it has stayed with me ever since.  Other bloggers have quoted these lines in recent days but they bear repetition:

Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;

Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,

The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere

The ceremony of innocence is drowned . . .

I was thinking about these words when an email arrived from my Friend in New Zealand following her most recent visit to Christchurch, where she holds a monthly homeopathic clinic. She described the scenes of devastation and the experience of aftershocks, which were continuing, and sent thoughful, sensitive photos. This was one of them:

Opawa, Christchurch Photo: © Jane Parkin

One of those random acts of kindness that reminds us of what it is to be human.

Up close and personal

He arrived out of the blue, suddenly, a couple of days ago. I spotted him (and I've assumed that he's a male, unless someone more knowledgeable about these matters can tell us otherwise) on one of the table feeders  - a newly fledged yellowfinch*.  And all he has wanted to do ever since is scoff for England. He has a gargantuan appetite and is down at the feeders repeatedly from early morning until sunset.  

Yesterday, he was more adventurous and worked his way round the tube feeders, helping himself to mixed feed, nigella seed and peanuts (from, yes, the right sort of peanut feeder - can't have baby birds choking before they're barely fledged).

In fact he had eaten so much yesterday that, by the evening, his parents - who had begun to hop about anxiously - nipped down to the table feeder to keep an eye on him. I managed to get a shot of Mr and Mrs and Junior through the kitchen window, using the zoom.

  

And then, early this morning, when I was out on the terrace, he was back again, just inches away from me. He didn't bat an eyelid as I moved quietly around the feeder; he just carried on scoffing. Indeed, so laid back is this baby finch that I was able to go into the house, pick up my camera, go back to the feeders and take a series of close-up shots. And he just kept on feeding.

I'm unsure if this sort of fearlessness -or maybe it's recklessness - is a good or a foolish thing in such a tiny, wild creature. Or maybe, in his innocence, he has not yet realised that this can be a big, bad world. He made my morning.

 

 

 

 

*As you'll see from the comments, Rattling On thinks the fledgling is a siskin. She's probably right. So . . . that'll be 0/10 for nature study for me!