Caerlaverock 2 

24hr Eden

In the farmhouse: silence – outside, the rim of the earth across dark stretches of water – far lights echoed in the tide – complete night beyond – we are in here with the full knowledge of the animals without, they present themselves readily by day but now they are aspects of place waiting to repeat their routines at dawn. Occasional airborne silhouettes make their way to the safer ground down by the estuary cross the last pale variants of sky and give the final hints as to their movement –

up in the adjacent tower a set of giant viewing glasses bring many things near (the orange row of lights on the coast road lining the opposite shore; the slow spinning wind turbines at Workington where the land dissolves; the far stretches of silver mud where the sea-water and land shimmer together) adding to our knowledge of the remote – by day the tower reveals the close flight of Martins over the farmyard, and being exactly at their prime altitude one is filled with a rare sense of proximity as they twitter and urge each other on to greater aerial feats, so they become familiar rather than merely tantalising –

at dusk, Curlews call from the mud-flats and in the local fields – their pairings camouflaged and delicate except where they stand in long grass and reveal their slow, loping walk and almost ludicrous beak – but theirs is the evocative music of dusk, the one and only sound of place tonight – an aching heart sound, bittersweet, definite and long-lasting – who would want to escape the enchantment of Caerlaverock?

We are witness to young Roe Deer; to gently patient Herons; to the nervous power of a Sparrowhawk; and to the solitary Osprey at the water’s edge, motionless for hours on a vantage post before twilight’s signal gives him grace to move and he flies, matching the waterline East –


WWT Caerlaverock, Dumfries & Galloway 27/8/06 – 28/8/06

Caerlaverock 

At Loweswater

Until today, I cannot say I’ve experienced the Lake District as it might have been before the constant thrum of tourism overtook it. Or understood it’s potency.

Immediately stricken by the silence; the lack of humanity here at Loweswater.

The darkening woodland (Holme Wood) above, fair full of cross tracks and ancient oak and yew. The chip-chip of animals hidden in the upper branches, feasting. Apparently coffins were borne this way toward consecrated ground at St. Bee’s nearly twenty miles away.

The mesmerising calm of the lake water and sudden drama of nearby fells – Haystacks for example, like a sugar loaf mount. The lee end.

A report of a dying sheep.

Small boats mid-stream.

A lone Kite – ‘that’s not a kite, that’s a bird’ the writer says, punning into the sunset.

The yew tree that Coleridge and Wordsworth stood and gazed at, describing in their journals - a legend still proving life.

All this is fast, a mere snapshot (pardon the pun).


Loweswater, Cumbria 24/8/06

Sweet Powfoot?

Lapwings and Oystercatchers in the nearby mud, silhouettes of Cormorants basking and the countless Common and Herring and Black-Headed gulls skimming the dividing line between earth and water – the landscape holds similarities with places I’ve been before, recent places that infected me so much: open estuaries used for radio transmission or listening – dark mud flats ripe in rain and become caustic silver plateaus in the acute post-storm light. Behind, only metres in land the hollow thwack of golf balls on the tee and an odd shaped wooden cross, a kind of Celtic bear without a head and only arms outstretched, each in a curve.

The river estuaries are good enough. I am among genesis there.

Powfoot, Dumfries & Galloway – 19/8/06

Quotation

From an article by Wael Hmaidan in The Guardian 16/8/06:

‘Four weeks ago an Israeli air raid in the Jiyeh power plant, south of Beirut, caused a 15,000-tonne oil spill into the Mediterranean Sea. . . . now affecting more than 100km of the Lebanese coast. Syria has reported oil hitting its shores, while huge oil carpets now moving towards Turkey may also hit Cyprus and Greece if winds and currents are unfavourable. The UN Environment Programme has labelled this spill as serious as the infamous 1989 Exxon-Valdez incident. . . . Almost a month after the start of the spill, no clean up operations have been started. . . .the oil settles deeper into the sand, rocks and seabed. . . . this will increase the damage to the environment exponentially. The clean-up operations have not begun because of the ongoing siege and daily bombings by Israel. But the situation cannot wait any longer. The oil is highly toxic and will kill all marine life in the vicinity. Several spawning and nursery areas of coastal fish have been decimated. . . . At this time of year, turtle eggs start to hatch, and all baby turtles will need to reach deep waters as fast as possible. . .if they are hampered by oil they will surely die.’

Halcyon Deliverance

Watching Swallows perform in the meadow at Ullock. Perhaps the largest I have seen; evidently feasting well close to the river here. And they come close, very close. Approaching fast and low to the ground; weaving erratic and sudden flight paths mere centimetres above the grass, then accelerating and climbing rapidly before us, squealing and chattering as they go. These birds at least give some concession back to the fact that summer has not quite left yet. The skip of youthful days in the belly.

In the walled garden, closer to the farm, two fledgling Spotted Flycatchers dither aimlessly on the garden table; the adults are not far away, overlooking the inaugural flight of these two diminutive creatures and occasionally darting out to catch bugs and flies. Giving themselves away.

Days don’t come much better than this. Seemingly endless.

Cumbria 13/8/06

Visitation 4 - Mr Fearless

I am up at Green Gables overlooking Cat Bells and the north end of the lake – I’ve been up here for days on end, clearing a large garden for a friend: pollarding yew trees and removing undergrowth and all through the recent heat wave and into this one’s driving rain and oppressive cloud cover. The rowan berries are coming through, a sure sign summer is already on its way out.

I’m not alone however, despite the back-breaking work. A juvenile Robin has taken to watching my every move and feasting on the grubs and lice I uncover as I work my way through. Over the past seven days he has become accustomed to my presence and is now to be found no more than a few feet from me, impatiently waiting the opportunity when I cease tilling or cutting for a moment so he can flit down and feed; which he will do only inches away if I keep still. The intensity of his gaze gets to me, the intimacy of his presence and the comfort with which we co-habit the same space is magical. And incredibly peaceful.

I’ve christened him ‘Fearless’.

There are remnants of his ‘gape’ left at the very corners of his mouth, and the feathers on his back are still downy and not quite mature, as are some his flight feathers. But what is a joy is seeing his red breast develop as I’ve got to know him. At first, ten days ago, there was the merest signature of one coming through: a tiny tuft of rufous orange at the tips amid the mottled browns of the young plumage. But as the days have passed the distinctive feature has rapidly developed. At the moment he looks a little comical as his breast reflects a kind of tartan effect, the red getting stronger and more present but in clear patches. And in this he is still quiet, still timid in the wider world beyond his small but ever-increasing territory.

A robin, I think then, has to acquire his breast before he can truly say what he is to the world.

I wonder if I have even come close to getting mine yet?

Cumbria 4/8/06