Birthday Gratitude

Today is my 38th birthday. Outside, the sun is shining on the tops of the hills and cloud is hanging in the valley It is a perfect morning for taking photographs, for gazing out of the window, for smiling at birthday messages. It is a day for being grateful.


Happy getting older everyone xx

Adventures in Winter Foraging

If you had asked me whether there was much decent foraging to be had in the midst of January before last Sunday, I in my ignorance would have probably guessed at not much. I certainly wouldn't have predicted a basket full almost to the brim with edible mushrooms. But that, apparently, is just what you'll get if you know where to look and have a knowledgeable guide to point you in the right direction.





Rob, the boys and I were invited along on a walk lead by our friend Jesper Launder for the Manchester-based Cracking Good Food group who offer courses for passionate foodies as well as working with local community groups. As soon as we arrived at Fletcher Moss Park in Didsbury the children frantically started searching under fallen trees and logs, with Jesper and Sam's daughter Leonie leading the pack. Fortunately, the crowd on the walk were very tolerant of being pushed aside by enthusiastic little people looking for wild treasure.

Many logs were inspected and children ran about in no particular direction whilst shouting loudly but eventually, after some crazed thrashing about in boggy terrain, Jesper confidently led us to the gold. The treasure in this case was a log covered in Velvet Shanks, yellowy brown mushrooms with velvety stems. Eager hands plucked excitedly and the basket quickly filled.

Velvet shank

We went on to discover mushrooms I had never seen nor heard of before - striking Scarlet Elf Cups, Glistening Inkcaps and the medicinally useful Turkey Tail mushroom. The basket also held a lovely big Oyster mushroom discovered earlier by one of the group.  There were herbs too to provide contrasting colour and flavour - three cornered leeks for an allium tang, peppery hot large bittercress, and pretty young cow parsley leaves. It seemed so strange to me that these fungi and herbs should be growing in such abundance in a city park. Largely overlooked by its regular visitors, here was good food and delicate beauty growing in almost complete secrecy.

Scarlet elf cup

Glistening inkcap

Turkey Tail

A box of Oyster and Wood Blewit mushrooms that Jesper had 'collected earlier'!

It was a bitterly cold day and as we came to the end of the walk people sensibly hurried into the warmth of a nearby pub to thaw out a little before the finale. The gathered mushrooms were cleaned, chopped and cooked in a pond of butter together with some of the greens. Next to a main road while we stamped the cold out of our feet and blew into our hands, a rather special sort of omelette was created and shared. The portions may have not have been kingly, but it satisfied in every way possible. As fresh, ethical and local as you could wish for, gathered by our own frozen hands; wild and truly wonderful food.

Down to the water

Whilst walking in Hardcastle Crags and the vale of Callis Water last weekend, I came to a somewhat obvious realisation that water is a constant presence in these valleys. Any Calder Valley dwellers reading this may well immediately think of the rain and general wetness at this point, but I'm also talking about   watercourses. Tumbling and  trickling from high ground to low or rumbling along valley floors, the streams and rivers of this place are never far from sight or earshot.

I mused that most long walks here will, sooner or later, bring you within sight or sound of moving water. These waterways are the veins and arteries of the map and being beside them stirs our own blood in kinship; the pounding of water on rock quickening the pulse. In the Crags and I'm guessing elsewhere, many of these walks have changed of late; heavy rainfall has made stream beds of the paths, some of which are now no more than deep stony scars, treacherous for little legs and tired ankles. The destructive power of water is clearly evident across this landscape.

Throughout our beloved valleys,  fragile walls have slipped and fallen in great hunks of earth and root, leaving brutally sheared ground and gritty stalagmites. Seemingly immovable trees have toppled like skittles and lie across the land like vanquished nobility, unsettling in their revealed vulnerability. I heard one of these great capitulations in the night at the start of winter, the sound was like the cracking of rock followed by the breaking of a thousand branches. Listening in the dark I felt more than just fear and shock, there was foreboding too - a sense of the natural world shifting in unnatural ways.

All this serves to remind us that water ever was and is an unstoppable agent of change. Heavy rainfall, dramatic floods and tidal waves or simply the constant call of 'onwards'. Rivers and streams pulsing ever on and out, dragging with them all that comes too close to their edges; particles pulled on an involuntary journey of transformation.

I wonder what this means for those of us surrounded by constant moving water. It seems that we too are pulled to and along it; awed and comforted in equal measure by our watery companions. I know that I have sought solace and peace by the side of the river, casting troubles and wishes onto its indifference, but I've also found strength and renewed energy  from its tireless journeying.

On the day pictured here I was drawn to the light that was reflected on the surface of the water; down at the very bottom of this dark valley was the sky, with some new silvery quality that I had missed. The tops of the trees were there too, proudly framed like photographs. This is what has stayed with me, this was the river's parting gift - the reminder to look up and look out but do remember to watch where you're going.

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,

And the land waits with us

It is fully the season of decay. We've passed through the mellowness of late summer, the splendour of mid-autumn and arrived at the gate of winter. The trees are almost bare, a few fluttering leaves cling to otherwise empty branches. The ground is mud and mulch, waterproof shoes are no longer optional. Smoke spirals upwards from houses where the inhabitants of these valleys shut out the growing darkness and seek comfort in hearth and home.

Evenings are long and daylight scarce. The night-time frolics of Hallowe'en and Bonfire Night have been and gone. We make our peace with the months ahead. In these dark days we plan for the return of the light. We sow our seeds and nurture them, turning them over in our minds, watching them grow in our dreams, ready for the first licks of a clean spring wind.

We walk. To remind us that the land waits with us, to smell the rot and taste the damp. To feel the solidity beneath the soil, the great vastness of the earth under our feet. In this dark womb roots gather goodness to feed the growth of the future. We are supported, we are nourished.

The Big Smoke

There's something about the idea of so many people living in one place, closely packed together but largely unconnected, that makes me feel overwhelmed. Just the logistics of how all of those people move around the city every day without large amounts of disaster and trauma baffles me.

I can get quite anxious when I start to think about the consumption that happens here. I don't just mean the unrelenting temptation to spend money, but the simple things like a carton of milk...how on earth are dairy farmers managing to produce enough milk for all those millions of people? What is happening to all that plastic? Is it even possible to feed this many people ethically? My ideas and beliefs about how we need to live smaller, closer to the land and to each other seem somewhat naive in the face of such complexity and scale.

Because of this, I generally approach visits to London with some trepidation. One of my oldest friends lives here with her family and seeing them is reason enough to brave the journey but since having children I have found little pleasure in the city's other offerings. It always seems to take an age to get anywhere, a long walk at best, an assortment of buses and undergrounds at worst. The boys are usually exhausted and emotional before lunchtime, and by the end of the day I've joined them in a chorus of despair.

But this time, something different happened. Something surprising and affirming. Maybe it was because the boys were a little older; maybe it was because they had their scooters so that long walks became fast and fun; maybe it was managing a significant trip across town with the boys on my own with no tears; maybe it was the sunshine; or perhaps it was just a growing sense of familiarity...but I genuinely enjoyed my stay.

I'm starting to understand that without big cities, there's no big architecture, big mass gatherings of people, or really big ambitious, seemingly impossible, ideas. It's been said before but London really is the universe in a nutshell; pavements full of the pounding feet of people from all nationalities, ages and social backgrounds, buildings that beggar belief, movement and action, history and knowledge. I am so grateful that my children will be familiar with this place, confident with the mayhem and the scale

And this time, on the way to Highbury play park - I realised that London's parks are everywhere. From the wide sweeping vistas of Hyde Park to the little greens hidden at the hearts of the various villages that make up this city. These parks are full of incredibly old and noble trees; their branches filling the sky whilst their relinquished leaves fill up the pavements. Places to stop and breath, to rest the eyes and restore the spirit.

As my two very energetic children will also attest, London's parks surely contain the very best play equipment in the land.

I have a feeling this could be the start of a beautiful friendship.