Everyday enchantment: Nature's early morning beauty
Silk and crystal: the riches at our feet
For extra tranquility, why not listen to this letter? I record outdoors, and may add a little something to the words below.
British Summer Time may have stolen an hour of sleep on Sunday, but it also ushered in high pressure here. It is a joy to have the extra hour in the morning, and to be reminded of the way that the first light falls on the far hills, broadening the palette of colours and highlighting the dark stains of recent muirburn. There is little trace below of the weekend’s rain, though Monday did bring a gift of glistening sheet webs on a favourite patch of heath. In the end, I never made it as far as the moss.
This is a small area of higher ground that initially drew me with its profusion of birch: mature trees with lichen as well as dense patches of regeneration. A series of discoveries followed the trees: the heather; grasses and sedge; lichen and moss. And webs. There is invariably something to photograph in the morning, and sometimes in the afternoon when the sun is low.
Join me for a walk
Early light turns the hills to softest aubergine. Land as vegetable, ripe for picking.
A pair of oyster catchers have matching puddles, his and hers, either side of the rutted track.
Merlin finds my bird of the day five minutes out: European siskin. It’s at the precise moment I stop to watch a blackcap sitting in the willow.
The air is chill, but the frost lies lightly and is already disappearing in the sunlight, leaving its pale bruise in the shadows. Coal tit, song thrush and scolding of tiny wren; traffic rumbles in the distance. 1, 2, 3 roe deer browsing heather. A fourth just a periscope of big ears and watchful eyes; the fifth in the distance choosing sun. Fine strands of silk collect on my face as I walk between the trees.
Cool blue air pricks the inside of my lungs. I try to walk quietly, slowly, as I pull in sounds for you: birdsong, hammer of woodpecker, decorations for the 1st of the month.
Small webs adorn clumps of ling; it’s the first morning they’ve been noticeable. Bend low and they become a dividing line between earth and sky, strings of crystal micro beads. I loiter awhile.
Two greylag geese, stragglers from the line that went before. After they’ve passed the regular song continues. New mothers anxiously call to their young lambs in far fields. A curlew calls, flute of melancholy. The first dots and dashes of green on birch buds. Another straggler greylag calls “wait for me”.
Flicker in a clump of heather, too light, too fast, to be anything other than a common lizard.
I return along the edge of the wood, the wren and robin still trying to out sing each other. In the background a meadow pipit which makes me think the cuckoo may not be far behind. As I turn, I find myself being watched by one of the roe deer, now on the path, a second just to the side. We regard each other carefully. Typically, I left the camera with the zoom at home this morning.
Back in the garden I sit, sip mint tea, and listen to the birds. These include the pair of oyster catchers.
After all this small beauty, noticed, the highlight of the day turns out to be watching a blackbird bathe in the dish I have cleaned and refilled.
A Re-Introduction
Last week I introduced you to the moss. I’ve since rewritten my ‘about’ page to better explain what you can expect from my weekly letters, and the benefits of subscribing to FLOW: Letters from the Moss.
Thank you once again for your comments, and for letting me know that you enjoy these letters. They are available to everyone so feel free to pass this onto someone you think may enjoy it. If you enjoy reading and listening, a small tip is a lovely ‘thank you’, and much appreciated.
In March 2024 I published a first book of writing and images from the moss. I have 3 copies left from the limited edition print run, and you can buy one here.
Until next week,
PostScript
1.
The perfectly imperfect daffodil outlasted its conventionally beautiful cousins in the vase, and drew my eye and my lens once again as March drew to a close.
2.
This week’s share is an essay from
who I had the pleasure of interviewing for On Landscape magazine a while back. Read it, even if you think it’s not your cup of tea; it’s eloquent and worth your time. And Andrew is an excellent photographer and master printmaker, and another welcome addition to Substack.
All words and images are copyright © Michela Griffith 2025 except where otherwise noted
Beautiful images, Michela! I love how the light glints off the spider webs, highlighting the tiny dew drops on them.
Another week of wonder Michela, apologies for being so far behind. That first picture is just beautiful 👏