Erratic
A digest of observations and inspiration from the week
I have a growing list of writing prompts, but I haven’t reached them yet such is the assault on my senses of the changes unfolding in front of me. I feel a little like a boulder, perched in this broad valley amid the rolling contours of glacial moraine and punctuated by wet hollows, so I’ve adopted ‘Erratic’ for this week’s title. Reading it back I find I’ve been pre-occupied by making memories.
Wednesday
A V - no a tick- of geese; they have yet to get their act together
Swallows and house martins soar
Roe deer graze the moss
Black notes on two lines of music: the chatter of those about to depart decorates the telephone wires
Warmth radiates up from the path; the mower and the crickets compete
White noise of breeze in birch mixed with motorbike
Onto the heath, the first yellow leaves crackle on the ground and dot the ling
Thursday
One week in the early morning whispers September though the day subsequently pretends to be summer. Wraiths of mist drift slowly. Thistles hang heavy with dew and down. Birds call to the distant hum of work traffic. The first two hours of my day are occupied by image making, visual notes to remember the year by.
Saturday
Rinse and repeat. I’m still chasing the season as well as the light.
Sunday
This time round, I’m pretty certain this is the end of summer. Instead of moping at home I go out for a second walk. I feel better as soon as I step into the wood. The earth itself smells warm today. As I skirt the moss, the ground still gives beneath my feet but everything is so much drier.
Sunlight soft through the trees. A new carpet of yellow birch leaves, scattered like confetti, is slowly coming into being. I stop every so often to brush my trousers, slightly freaked by the number of deer tick nymphs that I encountered at one point yesterday. It didn’t help that one emerged from the leather when I pulled on my walking boots this morning. Crafty little blighters.
Just a walk I said. I even left the camera at home. But I’m so easily distracted, and I have my phone. Silver coats the top of every blaeberry leaf, a wealth of treasure. Solo leaves arrange themselves seductively over lichened bark on fallen trees. What will I keep with me as comfort for the coming months? What will I remember?
As I reach the old carriage drive, the heat intensifies.
Yet the journey south has already begun; I stop by the pond to watch. Geese bob and duck, cleansing their feathers of dust. I envy them their bond with both air and water. After a moment, I realise that an impromptu flying display is courtesy of ten lapwings.
Gold has begun to cascade down from the top of a large beech tree; it looks almost fluid.
The stream at first seems silent but on closer inspection continues to chatter. I stop and listen and look, watching the light play on its surface. I let it wash away the busyness of my mind. Long before I began to photograph water - just over 11 years ago - I always used to stop to listen when crossing a stream. Perhaps I’ve always been under water’s spell.
I’m finding as my eyes become comfortable with this place, my ears become sharper. I’ve taken to collecting snatches of sound as well as palettes of colour. Today I hear liquid in the leaves of the lime trees that line the drive. Even the fissures - a cracked and arid plain cast in vertical form - that mark the surface of the bark on a monumental fir tree seem fluid despite their drought.
I pass fields of ripe barley; each stalk either hangs its head as if in shame, or looks away.
The breeze is picking up. I watch the leaves lift and swirl and they too are beginning to migrate. Even the butterflies now seem to have somewhere else to be. Time to pick up the pace and head home before the rain arrives. This time I doubt there will be a reprieve. Autumn has begun.
Tuesday
I emerge from a rabbit hole of my own making. I’d had it in mind to enter The Society of Scottish Artists’ ‘Viewpoint’ moving image open call and with the submission deadline looming I’ve needed to get my act together. Me being me, there are a few things that I might have tweaked further, but overall I’m pleased with my little video. I’ll share it later (submissions are judged anonymously) but here is a still from it. I’ve enjoyed putting the images together with sounds from the summer.
An email arrived from Bookshop.org. At first I wasn’t sure the book was my thing, but then I read this:
“I want this book to encourage people to see the pots they use every day in a new light, like a simple mug. Every morning I drink my coffee from a cup that was crafted by an old friend in Japan, whom I don’t see nearly as much as I’d like, and it enriches that process and adds meaning to those quiet moments of my life. By using a mug made by his hands, I’m able to feel the throwing rings left by his knuckle, the grooves in the back of the handle left by his thumb and even his fingerprints, subtly cast in clay, imprinted in stoneware that was once soft. I’m suddenly reunited with him.”
The potter is Florian Gadsby and his book “By My Hands” is now on my wish list. It’s a list that’s growing long and longing.
Wednesday
What is this strange white stuff in front of me? The leaves on the osier droop and remind me of a Japanese print, artful and elegant but I fail to compose it satisfactorily.
The deer are back on the moss grazing sugar dusted heather. I push my fingers further into my too thin pockets.
Birch trees quietly drip. A cloud of vapour follows me around. I’m joined by the heather which is also smoking in the sunlight.
It’s funny how in the end, it’s the smallest things that engage you. I’ve been watching a russet patch of drying grass beneath the birch for a while but it’s only today that I’ve bent down and looked at it properly with the sun behind.
And then it is the grasses that occupy me. The grace of line, the dot of dew. I forget the discomfort of the low pose, the incipient ache in my back. Every so often I straighten and stretch, the sun now warm on my face. This is something I will return to and remember.
Bees quietly buzz finding their own sugar in the heather. The start to the day was cold but sweet.
I hope your day turns out to be sweet too. With best wishes,
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I loved reading this! So many thoughts come to mind about how much I enjoy all those simple pleasures too- taking everything in with the senses and bathing in the warm feelings when I get myself into the forest for a nice long walk. Thank you for sharing and inspiring! Ps: must do some collecting for the Gelli plate :)