Come with me.
We’ll leave the house after breakfast, travel further in spirit than on foot, lose ourselves for a while. Wrap up warm, we’ll walk slowly, let this place seep into us.
(4 hours later)
Well, this isn’t the walk that I had in mind for you. Forecast checked, I envisaged a little early mist, a covering of frost, soft pastel skies and a winter sunrise but the cold damp air has persisted. Even at midday there is little sign of it clearing. Mist, I hear you say? How great. But somehow it sits heavily upon me and my mood. Let’s hope a walk will change things: all it takes is one small moment of magic.
It’s a different type of cold this afternoon, bone chilling, and it’s only when I find a large sheet of ice that I both tune out and in. I’ve already been down the path, through the fir, over the ditch, between the pines, skirted the moss and hit the main wood. It’s been too cold to fully engage and think about photography, but the ice makes for curiousity.
It’s a new discovery to find that the ground holds water here; a surprisingly deep hollow, the water frozen at its base. The hole wears a tilted skirt of sunken ice that marks high water and traces the contours of its retreat. Within it lie air bubbles, enveloped grass, stuck leaves, the ubiquitous lichen and moss; they offer an opportunity to forget the cold for a while.
Here on the edge of the wood you can look out across the pasture to sentinel pines and imagine the hills hidden beyond the vaporous shroud. The cold is penetrating. Above lurks a teasingly blue sky; there’s a hint of sun just out of reach. It’s time to move on, yet the half-frosted pine at the field edge calls to be noticed.
And then the steely winter light on the assembled birch... and after that the tangle of branches; lichen on larch, elegantly draped. In the company of trees it is easy to linger too long. On the verge of jumping around to get warm, there really is a reason to pull away. Each time there is another little tangle, a bit of luminosity, a palette of colour: plum birch, bottle green pine, grey lichen.
Finally the edge beckons, a clearing populated with favourite alder that have had room to breathe and to grow broad. They carry copious amounts of lichen that swirls to the music of their lines. There is still frost on the broom and the pine, and ice in the puddles; I'm starting to feel that I may soon join them in torpor.
Every time the mist seems to be on the point of clearing the sun is snatched away. Two small birds feed on the path in the soft deer-disturbed soil; they are always just too far away to make out what they are and this will remain a mystery.
Shortly after three in the afternoon the pond is frozen. The mist is unmasked as freezing fog, playing hide and seek with the land. Catch a glimpse of the sun, an incomplete circle of brightness, at the point of slipping down behind the Grampian Hills; watch the play of light and colour in the sky behind the silhouettes of naked trees.
It isn’t just the fog that is freezing now: it’s time to pick up the pace and follow the long grassed track back below the old kennels. Each step has a soundtrack, the leaves crisp once more. The roe buck barks. A glance back across the field shows the sky now clear.
Accelerate through the chill. The moss is free of mist and sunlight touches the far hills. Hop across the ditch to get a closer look and startle two more roe deer; turning back a frosted cobweb snags the eye.
It is now - frustratingly - bell clear yet the atmosphere of the day has been down to the wrap of mist and fog. Through the last stand of pine the wind is audibly picking up; it’s going to be another chilly night.
Last week’s snow was… a bit ‘meh’. I hope that translates. It was too wet to be much fun and quickly turned to slush, and then ice. This week is still very cold but the birds definitely think spring is on the way and have begun their search for nesting materials. They still eat a foot of peanut splits each day, however; it’s hungry business.
After 5 weeks of encouragement from Rob, Ian and my fellow travellers (thank you all) my jottings are numerous and freeform, the images and words becoming more closely interwined. I’ve reached a point where the writing is as important as the visual; I couldn’t have anticipated this twelve months ago, or that I would be sharing a weekly blog. While I corral my thoughts into something coherent and as I draw breath, the walk shared above comes from mid-January. To be honest, as I write this, the day is not so different: a little more visibility, but no sun to lift the temperature. It all seemed so different on Monday and Tuesday, so I’ll end with a dose of colour and sunlight and a final invitation to pause.
Overhead a swan honks, circling in blue, undecided whether to join the pair in the pond.
Celandine are leafing, shadows strengthening, bird song is amplified. The year is approaching its reset yet we persist in counting it from the depths of winter. How much happier might we be if we began from Spring? Among the trees the noise of the breeze retreats, the moment is warmer, the place calmer. Breathe in, hold onto it, close your eyes, let all else slip away. Rest for while.
A flutter of pigeons breaks the spell as they fall out of moated trees, an island in arable.
Echoes fill the ditches and pools, the February sun reaching in to places that it will soon neglect.
Raise a hand in greeting, greet the morning, grieve the day; climb into the sun, drop into shadow, ride the rollercoaster that lies ahead, but remember the moment.
Thank you for again joining me and for reading this. If you’ve enjoyed it, a like or a comment, a recommendation for FLOW, a restack or share would all be greatly appreciated. There is an option to become a paid subscriber if you would care to support my writing here.
You’ll find more image rich writing in previous posts on FLOW’s home page.
My photography and mixed media art live here on my website.
I loved going on your very misty chilly walk and the soft colours at the end give a hint of spring on the way. Here in Tasmania the summer days are slowly coming to an end. There’s a chill in the morning air. Very soft colours, greys, violets, pale gold as I look out across the river to O’Possum Bay.
Wonderful photographs and your writing goes along so well with them!