Embers
Hello, and welcome. This week I moved a little beyond my comfort zone. It’s nearly two years since we moved here, and I’ve spent much of my time in the woods that surround the moss. I can attribute this to autumn colour, uncertainty over shooting locales, winter weather, plantar fasciitis… but mostly there has been so much to engage and inspire me that I have seldom ventured up the hillside. This year with a healed foot I had good intentions, but experimentation and working in the garden have further anchored me. But finally on Sunday I decided I would do something I hadn’t done before and climb up one of my local hills. I’m conscious of being distinctly unadventurous in comparison to many of my peers, but as I wrote last week I tend to become rooted to a place, and it’s usually a small place.
Thank you for your comments in response to last week’s post; I’m thrilled to hear that you’re enjoying reading my writing.
Up the Hill
Sunday: I wake to blue sky. A still large moon hangs over the hills, witness to the mist inside the windows.
Pot roast on, I head out and up. It’s unseasonably warm, even with a breeze. I listen to the birds and watch individual leaves pirouette down to the ground. Each tree and leaf has their own characteristic routine.
Up past the fallen and felled shelterbelts.
Through the mature beech trees that still stand along the drive.
Past the harvest of barley, the now ploughed fields.
The road steepens. I pause at the turning and look back across the valley. Three turbines turn on the far ridge, metronomes of wind.
The black eyes of Old Town watch me across a harrowed field. The once grand stables are marked with water stains; rusty rosebay willow herb sprout from one turret. The still slated roofs of outhouses pitch and yaw like a rolling sea, and lean on the garden wall for support. The gardeners cottage windows are now boarded but surely held a view once loved. I can’t help but walk here without feeling sad.
The breeze tickles hairs on the back of my neck.
I climb through the last farm fields. Two young rams lie fast asleep beside the track, apart from their ewes. They fail to stir after their labour, markers strapped to their broad chests like medals.
In marked contrast my passage on up the track creates an explosion of pheasants, temporarily safe - October sees shooting begin on the estate. Autumn lines the banks to either side - faded heather, ruddy blaeberry.
And then my narrative falters as I greedily drink in the views.
The track becomes grass as it climbs through a young plantation of Scots pine. Beyond the deer gate it abruptly disappears until I spot two lines of shadow amid the heather. The warmth and the gradient prompt me to stop frequently to enjoy the valley I’m heading away from.
Miniature gardens arrange themselves around bleached tree stumps. Blaeberry leaves in orange and red contrast with the silver grey sinuousity of old heather. In places they are still dotted with purple fruit. Shocking pink flowers on late blooming heather clash with the warm tones of the Vaccinium myrtillus. I spot white frilled cowberry blooms (Vaccinium vitis-idaea) and later on I’ll find Christmas red fruit. Summer and autumn seem to be in competition.
I climb past the rusting metal rings of sunken grouse butts and above a last isolated strip of larch.
Beyond lies bleakness, treeless hillside burned for game birds and grazed by red deer, squeezed between the map line of the Cairngorm National Park and the isolation of The Cabrach. The only lines on the ground are tracks and burns.
It takes me a while to realise that the bellowing I can hear is that of a red deer stag, out of sight but carrying on the warm wind.
My lunch stop is brief, as cloud is building. The route down looks to be functional if mundane, but I’ve underestimated the effect of seasonal colour in further decorating the return view. I’ve enjoyed this outing so much that I vow to return soon.
Fully Immersed
Wednesday. A grey, dark and wet start to the day. Vaporous cloud hangs low over the moss.
I’ve begun to put together a presentation for Doug Chinnery and Valda Bailey’s FYV.art community. My working title is “Fully Immersed: Finding flow through curiosity, connection and creative process”.
I’m much more comfortable behind a camera, but I think I will have plenty to talk about. I began selecting images to accompany my notes yesterday.
It’s not really registered until now just how richly productive a time these past two years have been. I’m quietly excited about the body of work that is developing, and wonder where another year of immersion in this place will take me.
Thank you for reading FLOW.
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Until next week,
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Beautiful. I feel like I am there, in Scotland's beauty. A place where I want to discover more of.
Always a joy and inspiration to read! I have to ask though, what are grouse butts? My curiosity is piqued!