April showers bring Spring greens and birdsong

A welcome mat for avian visitors; earth awakes in the Northern hemisphere

For extra tranquility, try listening to this letter—I record ambient sounds so you get to feel this place.

No sooner do I write about how dry it is than low pressure returns. The grass is greener, the plants perky and the air again carries chill. For the briefest moment I felt the breaking buds hesitate. The only thing that continues apace is the bird song: louder, ever louder. And last Friday the first cuckoo; I hadn’t expected to hear one before May.

With clouds back, I have filled pages of my sketchbook with graphite and ink, delighting in the variability of muse and material alike. The way that moisture softly drapes the hill, merging land and sky. The brief highlights on far fields.

After a night of heavy rain, the dots and cedillas of green call me back to look at birch again. Even gravity seems to be briefly arrested while sun and water combine.

There is much to delight the eye, and detain the mind. Old mingles with new: lime green buds against plum purple branches; an old orange leaf dangles in front of green-spotted youngsters. Look closely and there is grey-green lichen, palest buff grass, silver and copper flaking bark. I experiment with multiple exposures in an attempt to share this intermingling with you.

Onwards. Old ash line neatly harrowed and rolled fields. It’s hard to imagine that a year ago the land was so wet that farmers could not plough it. The clusters of fattening black buds seem to echo the deep holes in their trunks and the empty windows of the old farmhouse.

On an east-facing hillside as white black thorn fades the birch are already in leaf. Hawthorn are vivid green, flowers tightly budded. The walls of old outbuildings have succumbed to gravity and ground elder. I step inside and find a warm microclimate and a large stone to sit on and look over the fields to the hills beyond.

Beside the adjoining house daffodils, egg yolk on pale lemon, flower profusely. The burn is edged with meadow sweet, dark green leaves on red stems. Fresh parasols of lime green decorate an old larch. Yellow gorse fringes the lane and dresses the hill.

My walks this week have been punctuated by encounters:

Along the lane a hare runs
Across the glade a hare runs
Through the woods a hare runs

Wood sorrel wearing knee pads

A slow growth, grey
Silent progress, northwards from the mountains

Patience, a possibility
First: across and down the valley, veiled and obscure
Second: spots on the paving, quietly confident
As the rain came I headed in, and out. Sketchbook, graphite, determination.

Rain falls through sun warmed air, the first showers not to chill the skin
Rich aroma of petrichor rising

I become impervious to liquid, mingle with vapour
Clouds tower monstrous, shading to gunmetal, rising to lustrous pearl
and already fragmenting as if forgetting themselves and their business here, 
drying their tears briefly before the next, soft, shower falls and wets a new page.

Cloud breaking after rain

Greylag geese announced their arrival loudly. I’m slow to start recording as the pair land in the field over the fence from me. I know that if I try to photograph them as they edge ever closer that will be the end of it. It feels like a private conversation; I wonder what they are saying to each other. As I watch quietly I hear for the second time a cuckoo. When the geese take flight, their departure is equally noisy. I am pleased that they remained seemingly oblivious to my presence.

Left, right, through the heather, a hare runs.

For once I wish the birds wouldn’t sing so loudly. I’m trying to record the grasshopper warbler, a frustrating process as it stays just ahead of me however quietly I walk. I’ve never seen it and I doubt I will, but perseverance brings a recording that will do for now.

Thank you for your kind comments on last week’s letter In the Woods, Beauty is Small and Intimate which definitely gave me a warm fuzzy feeling! As has this—so often on the outside looking in, I’m truly thrilled to get a mention in the latest Outdoor Photography: thank you Claire Blow. Congratulations to my fellow travellers

Finn Hopson

,

Gill Moon Photography

and Giles Thurston

The Photographer’s Eye

. I realise there are many others on Substack equally worthy of a mention.

Until next week, when I will perhaps manage to record the cuckoos,

A small donation is a lovely ‘thank you’ and much appreciated recognition for the time spent writing and recording these letters

PostScript

Read

Leslie Rasmussen

’s post Tuning Out the Noise. I love the idea of quiet as a presence; you may too. (Click if you don’t see the photo and post link).

Watch

Bird Migration Sweeps the Hemisphere in Stunning Visualization

A beautiful glimpse, based on real observations, that is also rather humbling. I’m off to see if I can find a visualisation for Europe.

All words and images are copyright © Michela Griffith 2025 except where otherwise noted