Nature's new artistry: hypnotic light and ice

Winter comes to party. A rollercoaster ride of wondrous weather this week - the transformational effects of temperature and light in a shifting landscape.

Greetings from the moss. As I listen to their morning song, I wonder—do the birds think it is spring? Yesterday saw 15^oC locally, a stark contrast to Friday night’s -17^oC. As I stood in the supermarket car park, I briefly basked, all the while knowing that this isn’t as it should be.

I have ridden a rollercoaster of weather this week, not for once of wind and precipitation, but the transformation of the landscape with temperature and light, and the effect this has on mood. I hope you will enjoy sharing something of this in word and image.

Thursday. After sending my last letter to you, I go for a walk along the lanes. A continental shift has taken place, landform alien, colour intense blue on blinding white.

Vagrant. The snow is still restless, still shifting underfoot and on the wind as if the land too exhales breath in the cold air. Finer than caster, flour, dust… The lightest of touches makes it airborne. Drifts spin lures. Water as smoke.

Later, as the sky begins to bruise with sunset, I stand under a birch tree and watch the redpolls feast. A few flakes of snow fall on my upturned face.

Friday. I am lucky with the light, sky clearing as I reach the wood. The night’s new snowfall adds emphasis; I edge out along deer trails for a clearer view. This is an afternoon to savour, to bank, even before the mist begins to form. And then, in the cold, it is beguiling.

I watch the mist develop as the sun readies herself for bed.

Saturday. So good, I go out both morning and afternoon. Ice crystals impress after -17.7C, even on the most mundane path-side. Words elude me as I try to preserve something of this before they are gone. Unusually, they persist through the day, even in the sun, a sign of just how cold it is.

Nettles

Chicken wire

Sunday. Yesterday’s colour is today’s monochrome, a day muted and mild. The sky alternately warm gold and cold grey as the sun fails to break through the cloud. Around the edges of the moss, Scots pine bow under their burden of white. I love these trees too, partner to birch here, yet distilling their essence so often eludes me.

Across the pale desert flats the trees take on the appearance of a woodcut or etching, dark just gaining the edge over white.

The woods are full of deer, roe and red, trails aplenty and disturbed ground from their foraging. Shattered ling flowers, fragments of candy, bid me bend down to look more closely. The moss is trampled, disturbed, by hoof and mouth, the white a canvas for disarray.

In darkness the snow begins to slide off the roof, a scraping of slate that ends in a thump. Water drips from the gutter and before daylight it is 8^oC.

Monday. I will miss it. The powder dry snow that squeaks underfoot. That failed to turn to slush or glassy ice over 12 days, an oh so small taste of what a Nordic winter might be like. That allowed me to follow the deer a little deeper, finding a new way to edge and then cross the moss, keeping to the company of pine, avoiding the expanses of white that mark the reduced levels of old peat cuttings. I notice too that while the roe deer cut corners, the much heavier red deer skirt around these wetter parts.

As the snow melts, as this spell of winter departs, it will take a piece of me with it.

Memories are banked, photographs taken to reinforce them.

Later I go out with a different hat: sketchbook and soft pencils. It liberates me from the messiness that marks a thaw, and frees me to notice new things. As well as my sketches, I find mountain ranges in the ice of a quiet track.

Tuesday. Another afternoon sketching, this time around the moss. This helps me to list the elements of this place, perhaps approaching a distillation.

Big sky ~ very big sky ~ fluid contours of the mountains hills and lower folds ~ flatness of the valley moss and moor ~ purple birch bruised damson ~ vertical lines, sticks, of pine bottle brush green ~ wiriness of ling ~ rusting springs of cotton grass ~ soft sphagnum ~ water ~ lines of ditches cutting across the natural flow ~ reflections ~ distortion

Wednesday. I ponder that the recipe of this place, the essential sketch, stems from the large open scale of it. My photography celebrates the smallest detail. It’s an interesting contrast, juxtaposition, realisation. It’s taken these sketches to recognise this, and reminds me that in another place the camera failed to offer a satisfactory interpretation of the wider landscape, the panorama of view. Perhaps art is the key to this, simple elements, graphic mark-making.

Travelling east, on a day that reaches 15C, more ingredients:

Purple birches underlying pine green, hills beyond

Blue sky, big

Curves of geese

Lenticular clouds

Spring in mid-winter. Period. Or ellipsis… We shall see.

Thank you to all of you who visit the moss with me each week. This time there is nothing in the post settings to restrict who can leave a comment, and I’d love to hear from you if you enjoy this letter. How has your January been so far?

For those of you who enjoy listening—I have just run short of time to add a voiceover in recent weeks. Back soon!

Until next time,

This week’s encore: meet the neighbours

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