Shades

These pictures are a couple of weeks old now - taken around Beltane, they captured for me the moment when spring finally happened. I had been watching desperately for it, through cold bare days of baited breath  and suffocated growth, at times wondering if it would ever come; wondering if perhaps our apocalypse would sneak up on us in the guise of everlasting winter. But come it did, and for a few sparkling days the earth glowed and sang.

I honestly know of no greater joy than to witness things growing. I am eagle-eyed at this time of year, watching earth and branch almost hourly - seeing birch buds, starting as no more than pin pricks, gradually uncurling like tiny scrolls giving the woods a greeny sheen. Beech leaves too, opening like folded paper fans, translucent with newness. Palmy fronds of rowan emerging, waving in the sun

The empty ground starts to sprout a spreading carpet of wild greens and seeded weeds; nettles and dandelions familiar amongst the delicate scatterings of wind-sown unknowns. In my slow, haphazard way I have been cultivating the land about me - some begged, some borrowed - planting bits and pieces here and there. I watch my small efforts eagerly for signs of life, rejoicing when the perennials appear as if by magic - bare earth giving birth to shoots forgotten since autumn; astilbe, astrantia, aquilegia - I hover like a nervous mother over their slug injuries and frost bites.

And those sycamores, their swollen buds bursting at the seams, releasing leaves too long confined, so glad to be free, shaking the sun along their veins and spreading a canopy of golden green glory...

The transformation is almost complete, I type to a window of fully clothed hillsides. It is raining, and cloud hovers in the valley, the greening is settling down from limes and acids, to emeralds and olives, maturing and solidifying with the aging season. I miss the sun, the way it dances between the branches with the newly minted leaves, casting shimmering shadows on the floors where I walk.

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,

A harvest...of sorts

This year on the allotment has been rather a disappointment on the whole. It's been a summer of strange and unsettling weather which has left many growers frustrated with their harvests. On our community allotment project it appeared that many people had just given up after the floods. For us, the biggest problem has probably been the expanding slug population, this year has brought them just the conditions they love. I've seen some absolutely enormous ones in people's compost bins - truly montrous.

Almost all the things I planted: courgettes, lettuce, radish, chard, beetroot, peas, had been cruelly chomped before they'd even got going and even my humble potato harvest had many casualties due to the merciless beasts. Having said that, I do have some potatoes...and that is a small triumph. Digging them up with excited children by my side and now cooking up them up are two of life's little pleasures. There weren't many so they won't last us long, but they are my own harvest and they are beautiful for that.

A slightly dark butterfly tale

I've been struggling to post here for the last couple of weeks. Generally I'd say I've been lacking in the joy and sparkle department of late.

My mood was mirrored by our hatched-in-captivity butterflies. When I ordered those teeny weeny caterpillars I'd imagined us being a part of a joyful journey of growth and transformation...but the experience fell short of magical. It was pretty impressive how quickly those little critters grew but I was perturbed by their food solution. They were certainly not on a natural diet of wild greens, and their plastic pen didn't allow them much room as they grew. They got bigger and bigger and bigger again. The chrysalis forming stage was incredible - definitely awe-inspiring - but as the slower developing caterpillars came along trying to find a space to hang from, their jostling knocked down one of the already formed chrysalides. I was worried...We transferred the butterflies-in-waiting to the hatchery, pinning the hanging cocoons to the netted side and placing the loose one gently on the floor as advised. We eagerly awaited the moment of birth...

They emerged unseen. One by one we missed the births; we discovered the empty shells of the chrysalides first, then searched for the bedraggled new-borns clinging to the sides of their temporary home. The fallen chrysalis lay unopened. The freshly-hatched butterflies did not flutter like wishes on the wind, they flapped and fell clumsily onto their backs and then scrabbled desperately up onto the walls once more to tremble fearfully. They did not eat the fruit nor the sugar water we provided for them but seemed more and more subdued. We couldn't release them because of the ceaseless rain, so for days they sat silently with folded wings. They became an oppressive presence.

It was disturbing to have these creatures in our house. They didn't seem to know how to fly, they didn't seem to know how to eat, their wings didn't look right; I associate butterflies with weightlessness and freedom and the whole business was starting to get to me. I decided that at the first break in the rain we would release them. Oh, but the wrongness didn't stop there! Our stunted butterflies fell from our fingers and flopped into puddles the wrong way up; they jumped from the flowers and leaves we put them on into tangled undergrowth and became ensnared. It was not the release I had hoped for.

They are, however, now with nature come what may. Perhaps the whole butterfly rearing experiment would have been more wholesome had we been able to release them much sooner on the warm winds of more welcoming weather...

I'm not sure where all of this is going, except to say that perhaps that some of us need the sun much more than others...

Upwards

Whilst we've been going about our lives these last few weeks, big things have been going on for the boys and I. It may not be obvious to the casual observer; but quietly, inwardly, we are shifting and growing.

Eli and I are making our aquaintance with Fear. Eli has met it head-on whereas I am feeling around the edges; trying to discover its shape, resisting the urge to run away.

I'm not sure that I've been fully aware, in the moment, of my eldest boy's achievements. Growing up alongside a grab-life-by-the-throat brother and some wonderfully fearless friends means that sometimes his own little triumphs perhaps go unheralded.

Whilst we were at a climbing centre, trying some bigger climbs with ropes; Eli's very good friend scrambled with exquisite agility to the top of the wall, twice. I suspected that my boy would find the challenge more daunting. And he did. But despite momentary reluctance, he gave it a go. His whole body was tense and I guessed that he was getting very wobbly legs and very sweaty palms. He stayed up on those ropes though, tried a couple of climbs and swung about a bit - trying very hard to learn to trust that the harness was keeping him safe. I'm hoping that next time, he'll climb a little higher and feel a little braver, but if he doesn't that's fine too.

Only a few days later and we were swimming. Monty independently and joyfully doggy-paddling about. Eli blue, shivering, stiff with anxiety and swallowing many mouthfuls of pool water. Again though, he kept pushing his comfort; breathing deeply in an effort to relax, trying to trust this time that his arm-bands were keeping him safe. He kept lifting his feet up and willing himself forward despite his worry.

Our children teach us so much don't they? We're not always aware of the lessons we're being taught, but the learning is happening all the time.

My own fears are about making big decisions for our future, facing difficulties and doubts - can I do this? Do I have the strength? As Eli is showing me; sometimes we need to just take the plunge, step out of our comfort zone and find out what we're really capable of.

Allotmenteering

Spurred on by the late afternoon sun, we had a lovely couple of hours at our half-allotment in the middle of last week. Our little plot is part of the very exciting Redacre community growing project, which I hope to be able to post more about as the growing season slowly kicks in. Last year I slowly and painstakingly dug over half of the scrubby, stony soil and pondered that with two children in tow, there must be an easier way...There is! I saw this video and decided permaculture was the way to go, or my version of it. So instead of digging, swearing and sweating I have merely forked over some manure, chucked on a load of straw and cardboard, and will be planting my potatoes on these un-dug beds.

The boys enjoyed rolling around in the straw for a time but soon found plenty to distract them on our neighbouring plots.

I managed to plant a couple of strawberry plants but have already lost their labels and so have no idea of the variety.

 

They also took full advantage of the climbing/swinging construction erected by our friend and Redacre director Phil, who built this death-trap whilst looking after several children and a dog.

 

And here is the frog that Eli told me I'd trodden on. The very thought made me feel rather odd so I denied it heartily.

Loving those long late afternoon shadows...

Potatoes

Hopefully, there'll be some potatoes on show now. These fine specimens were purchased at the annual local potato day - a clutch of first earlies and an indecisive collection of maincrops.

There's something hugely gratifying about growing potatoes. They're big and sturdy enough to be handled with a certain amount of carelessness, easy enough to be planted out with justified hope by the less experienced grower yet are rewarding in almost every sense. Digging up those golden nuggets is a heart-thumpingly thrilling affair for all - particularly the youngest amongst us. Buried treasure never tasted so good.

These potatoes also have something of a metaphorical purpose of course...

The growing season is almost upon us...what yields might this year bring?