Knowing the territory

Ever since I was a girl I've enjoyed being able to name things in the natural world. Walking the woods and waste grounds of my childhood I would feel a flush of recognition and pride if I came across a tree or a wild flower that I knew. I don't know that there were a huge number that I recognised -  wild garlic in the spring, the oak tree and the bluebell were perhaps the only names that came easily to mind - but even this basic knowledge helped me feel part of that landscape. I felt I knew my neighbours.

There were all the usual special places and secret spots - up in the trees or in tangled dens beneath them - long summers were lived in these semi-wilds. I loved them without thinking and when one little patch of woodland was threatened by someone extending their garden, I was angry and grieved for the lost trees when they were gone.

In his book Last Child in the Woods, Richard Louv talks about the need for children to be familiar with their own natural neighbourhood and the occupants of it before they can be expected to care about the earth on a grander, more abstract scale. Faced with the entire planet to worry about, we can be forgiven for feeling overwhelmed. When so much of our natural world faces extinction it makes sense to start with what we know and can name; learning to care about 'the environment' comes as a result of learning to care about our own backyard.

All this feels particularly pertinent in the light of the threat to ash trees. Having read this heartbreaking piece about ash die back, in which the writer gives the bleak view that most people are oblivious to the tragedy happening in our woodlands, this seems more true than ever. If it is the case that 'many people couldn't identify an ash' then what hope is there that they would feel any sadness for its loss? If the general feeling is that one tree is after all much like another, how can we hope to truly be of use to our ailing planet? Diversity is what makes this world go round. The exquisite uniqueness of literally every living thing on or under the surface of this spinning rock is what provides the wonder and magic of our existence.

My naturalist knowledge hasn't improved a massive amount since my early days scrabbling through tatty woods, but I continue to be an earnest learner and I'm trying to encourage a similar curiosity in my children.

This year, as Monty's legs have grown a little longer, we have spent more time walking, looking and gathering than ever before. Eli has become a keen spotter of wild foods and ash saplings and Monty has fully immersed himself in any berry-picking activities he's been involved in. They have become connoisseurs of dramatic skies and Eli often urges me to 'take a picture!' of a lovely view or a striking flower.

Helping them to know and love the play of light in the woodland, the eerie silence and bleak beauty of the moor, the brooding Pennine skies and the capricious moods of our Northern weather is a constant pleasure. Forging a connection with this place is the key to connection with all natural places, helping us to understand that 'the environment' is something immediate and necessary. No need for worksheets, a pair of sturdy shoes is all that's required. Together we map the seasons of our own backyard,

Nurture Photography Finale

This autumn has been a season of many photographs. Taking part in the Nurture Photography Challenge has prompted me to take my camera with me whenever I leave the house and to really discover beauty in the detail. A a result of all that looking I've got a fairly comprehensive record of this moment in our lives.

From the early stirrings of the season at Equinox to the bare trees and bleak skies that are the accompanying features of our current wanderings, each mood is captured. The light and landscape have changed, low winter sun now slants louchely through almost naked branches, illuminating surviving vegetation in a random and magical manner. Temperatures have dropped, there's a sniff of Christmas in the air.

The boys and I have walked widely during our autumn adventures and re-visited many favourite spots. If I'm honest, it will be harder for us to find the enthusiasm to get ourselves out there when the world looks barren and wet from our window, but I know we'll find a rhythm and joy with our winter explorations eventually. Promises of hot chocolate upon returning to the house will help to encourage us to pull on our boots and brave the elements. No doubt I will take my camera and continue my lessons in looking.

 

I'm incredibly grateful to Bumbles and Light and Live and Love out loud for this opportunity to share a season with others and for providing inspiration and focus for my (very amateur!) photography. It's been a real treat to browse through such delicious pictures and see how other bloggers have documented the changing year.

Here's to the next challenge...

Dark and sweet

In those times of tension brought on by the strains of family life, I often forget what is available to me outside my door. When Rob is around and I know I need to quickly grab some time and space for myself I panic a bit. What to do? A run, a bike ride, some projects that have been waiting to be completed for a long time? I had such a moment on Saturday. I was looking outside at the bright equinox day, unsure about how to best use my time when I heard the woods calling me.

The woods run right up to the back of our house and as soon as I remembered them I knew this was what I  needed. I was quickly out of doors with camera in hand and crossed the yard. Slipping into that dark familiar embrace brought deep and immediate relief. The air smelled sweet and damp, the soft mud of a million fallen leaves squelched deliciously as I walked gratefully up the path. Illuminated leaves shone against the dark, and I was rapt.

There is so much relief and refuge to be found beneath a leafy canopy; these woods are mostly birch, airy and full of life. Ferns and grasses cover the floor, cobwebs stretch across pathways with their spiders dangling from threads, performing aerial tricks and small furry creatures scurry towards hidden dens.

Underneath these kindly boughs seemed to be the perfect place to contemplate the closing of the summer. Where light and dark produce such perfectly balanced beauty, where sharp air fills the lungs and clears the head. It's a good time to take stock of the harvest, both personal and edible, to look at the seeds that were sown last Autumn, see what has come to fruition in our lives and be thankful for our gifts. Here, with the sun playing amongst the translucent forms of the wood, I am thankful for the rest and regeneration that is constantly open to me through connection with the land.

The pagan year is drawing to a close. In a few weeks Samhain will celebrate the new year and welcome in the dark, cold, wet and barren months. No doubt there will be challenging days ahead and I am hoping that, if I can ready myself, perhaps I can weather the winter with a little more grace and patience than usual. Walk, when I can, with the falling leaves and the keen wind, say soft goodbyes to the fading green, remembering that it will return.

Soon, the trees will be stripped to their bare bones and will stand like ranks of skeletons across these hills. But they, like us, will only be resting; putting their energy into their roots, reaching down into the earth for strength and sustenance; ready to emerge next year, into the light once more.

Sylvan wanderings

On last week's walk to and from Kindergarten we noticed an Autumnal nip in the air, enough for Monty to put on his hat. A few fallen birch leaves on the pavement inspired some early season kicking and scrunching. The sun cast its light in the spaces between shadows and the boys ran eagerly into the morning. Instead of taking our usual path across the field and alongside the river Monty asked if we could go on an adventure through the beech wood. The trees on this hillside are tall and bewitching, I am hushed each time I wander beneath their dark boughs.

On this day I noticed nature's details: the colours of decay amongst the green, criss-crossed threads of a spider's silky den and diaphanous canopies high above

After dropping off a confident and happy youngest son, Eli and I carried on our quiet way, stopping off at deserted tennis courts once part of the Cragg Hall estate, their overgrown and crumbling grandeur at odds with the little clubhouse kitchen.

We meandered down to the river where Eli climbed across branchess that hung over the river while I sat with the late summer sun on my eyelids and wondered at this tiny window of harmony we had stumbled upon.

Summer is heaving her last sigh, may we all hold on tightly to these final golden days.

Berried treasure

At this time of the year, in this part of the world, we are lucky enough to have our hillsides covered in bilberry bushes. It's not the easiest berry to pick but is arguably the most rewarding. This is maybe our fourth year of searching for these elusive little blue fruits, so I think we can call it a family tradition by now. There are photographs from the picking expedition of three years ago in which I am a couple of days away from giving birth to Monty, a huge and heavy presence in the undergrowth, walking and bending in an effort to get labour started.

In an effort to keep everyone happy I suggested the boys just ate what they found rather than having to put some in the pot. Instant gratification is really the only motivation for berry picking when you're three and five respectively. The two of them rolled and laughed together whilst picking, giving me a couple of hours reprieve from the almost constant bickering they're engaged in a lot of the time just now. It was great to see them at peace and enjoying each others company so much. They gorged themselves on berries and, when they tired of that, they climbed trees and made houses in the brush. All very wholesome and idyllic...

Bilberries, if you've never come across them before, are a lot like blueberries but smaller and tastier. They've got some lovely alternative names like windberry, whinberry and huckleberry, and the traditional way to eat them around these parts, so I'm told, is in a 'mucky mouth pie'. They're delicious in muffins and full of vitamin C so definitely worth the very fiddly and time-consuming process of getting enough to carry home. Finding them can be sometimes difficult - particularly if the deer have got to them first - but when you lift up a branch and discover a cluster of little blue orbs it really does feel like finding treasure.

Visiting nature's larder, rather than the local supermarket, is immensely satisfying. It can be an ethical minefield choosing and purchasing food for the family and if you're trying to make sure everyone's getting a good range of fruit and veggies it's pricey too. A punnet of blueberries is likely to have been flown halfway across the world and costs us a pretty penny at the end of its journey. Gathering one tub and two bellyfuls of bilberries from up the road costs us and the earth nothing and yet has given us more than just mucky mouths - it's given us a morning of outdoor fun and a little bit of family harmony, just when we needed it most.

Do you have bilberries near you? What do you make with them? What other wild foods do you and your family like to gather?

Community

A sense of community, being connected to those around me in meaningful ways, is essential for my spiritual and mental well-being. I am hugely thankful, therefore, that I live in a place that seems to ooze connectedness on so many levels. Today was rich with the sense of belonging, from many meetings and greetings at the market, through celebrations in the village park, to our Wednesday communal meal with friends.

Our little village boasts three totally different schools - a primary, a Montessori and a Steiner school and all three were involved in today's grand unveiling of a new sculpture in the park. Many of the children have contributed in some way to the little space next to the woods, suggesting designs for the play equipment and the giant wood carving, planting in the little garden or making wind chimes to hang in the trees. Prizes were given out for special contributions and all the children were treated to a bouncy castle and piles of cup cakes, whilst the adults were treated to pasties and cava. Whilst we were there, the trees were further adorned with little clay goblins, this is Eli's happy chap...

It felt good to be standing in the rain together, admiring park art and watching our children mingle in the mud.

We then zoomed to consume yet more food and communal spirit at our mid-week meet-up at Holme St. I took along some bunting bits...

A few of us decided in the depths of winter that it would be really helpful for us to gather and share a meal in the middle of the week. Any parent who is going it alone, or who has a partner at work full-time, knows just how long the weeks can sometimes feel . It can also get a little lonely unless there are opportunities to share the journey with other families; this Wednesday afternoon get-together helps us do just that. The children play and we prepare food whilst trading tales and news. It also eases the pressure of the daily 'what are we going to eat tonight?' angst. Some weeks I might manage a more elaborate meal but other weeks i might just take a plate of chopped carrots. It doesn't matter, we always have enough between us. 

Eli and Monty love coming here, I think it might be the highlight of their week. It seems such a beautiful and simple way for us parents to receive and offer support while giving our children's friendships space to deepen. It would be great to see our group and others grow, not just for families and friends, but for whole communities. In an increasingly isolating time for many people, creating ways to find each other, helping everyone feel like they're a part of something and valued can only be a good thing. Allowing each one of us, however we're feeling, to find strength and hope in the simple act of coming together.