Winter's Tear

   Yuletide chimes and plays of nativity have now passed and winter's tear will soon reach the great magical lands of the marsh. Fen tigers will once more behold her freezing breath that casts white coats of ice upon the dark soil, coal black soil, those acres of jet carpet that feed so many will lay warm beneath awaiting springs arrival.
   Great water birds still fly the cold wide skies as reed beds of the East sleep in the shallow waters that quench the thirst of ancient Willows and the woodpeckers that rule the apple orchards still feed on the grasses that lay beneath those aged grey barked trees, home of worm and grub alike.
   Now the years end is upon us we remember those seasons passed, bright fresh spring mornings with late frosts steaming in the sun, long summer days when wheat and barley danced in fen breeze while natures theatre gave yet another award winning performance and those bonfire filled autumn evenings as nights drew in and mole catchers homes were warmed by bog oak and peat, once more we welcome the fresh winter snows to clean away the old and ready these flat lands for the new.
 

Morning Of Souls

   Winter tree lines wear no jewellery this morning, the mighty Oak and Ash stand naked of leaf and the early winter winds clear the last autumn dust from their bark.
   The fen chill settles in sheets of fine haunting mist that stand above that rich black soil and rises like walking grey souls from river and dyke where banks of dew covered sedge and reed dance their morning jig. Could Dickens make up such a mystic atmosphere where mole catcher and waterman wake at dawn in dark fenland cottage with damp floors of stone and stove that slept the night with amber glow from peat and bog oak, maybe only the magic of this mysterious land of the marsh can do such things and will continue to do so long after his pages are gone from our world.
   As the months of ice and snow draw closer and the tigers of the fen face their hard season, a season when natures larder bares no salads but only peppered herb and festive game to fill their stomach, there sits a change in the flatlands, a strange quiet presence, maybe the spirit of winter settles upon the garden of the east, her bitter cold breath still to appear.

Day Of Rest

Day Of Rest

    The first day of worship in this the month of October and still the summer sun lights the fenland sky, bright happy sunshine that would warm the back of any eel catcher checking his basket traps or reed cutters who spend their only day of rest tending their gardens.

   That dark fen soil now turned by stainless ploughshare lay rich and black, coal black, shining like a carpet of jet across the open acres while cool waters snake off towards the tidal rivers of the wash and morning dew steam rises from gate timbers and cobble path.

   Autumn chill still rides the early mornings and leaves of gold start falling upon the marshland paths that skirt dyke and drove.

My Daily Ramble

   

   My daily walk was one of interest today, after the first half hour pounding tarmac and concrete at last the atmosphere changed and my footsteps are suddenly absorbed by the narrow farm track with lush cut grass forming my centre eye line for the next mile or so.

   Still the fen breeze blows strong and direct, reeds rustling in the deep farm dyke and what seems like every leaf in tiny orchards tremble. A green woodpecker gives flight as he senses my arrival into his world, his pale green body riding that roller coaster flight of his, up and down he travels until a loud screech signals his arrival in one of an avenue of high poplar trees.

   On my right is around ten or twelve acres of stubble, not crisp new freshly cut wheat or barley, but rain soaked weathered stubble that was cut a couple of weeks past and still cradles those long lines of cut straw, now too wet to bale. On my left sit several parcels of private land, maybe just over an acre in size, some home of small orchards, some set with flowers for cutting, some with regimental lines of vegetables, carrots, beans and leeks and one piece of this rich dark soil left wild, home to an amazing array of birds, I feel so lucky and free from work and the crazy world in which we live, even if for only an hour.

   As I walked I did wonder what backs had bent working the hoe on this stone free black soil a hundred years ago, how cold were these open spaces that produced the food of kings and were their lunches spent like this one, free from noise and among natures summer theatre?

   There are still extensive areas of reed in the fenlands and the same is found here around Upwell which is encouraged by some and frowned upon by others, to me it can only be a great addition to the natural habitat that wildlife need here and let’s be honest, how strange would this magical world of marsh look without the reed beds.

   As I neared the end of my walk a grey heron took off from this hunting stance in the far end of the dyke, his look one of disapproval and disgust, but soon I’d be gone and he would return.

Late Summer Signs

Seasons Change

Big wide clear blue sky here this morning, the perfect late summer morning, blackberries hang with that slight coating of dew from bramble and a gentle breeze places a hint of chill in the air, the seasons again change and nights draw in as yet again those thoughts of winter and colder months entre my day dreams.

Wet Sunday

  Wet Sunday

 My Sunday morning walk was today one of damp air and cooling rains, Baptist Road was no more layered in hot tar but this morning the rains wash harvest straw from the verge and run to farm dyke which surrounds a small two acre field of dark rich fen soil that holds potatoes still green in tops.

   The regular deaf fen tiger who walks his chocolate lab and tells of Upwell past, was this morning noticeable by his absence and the whisker faced farmer with face that drops to one side after stroke stood watching the drizzle fall upon his half cut harvest from the doorway of his tractor shed, a nod of his head and shrug of the shoulders explained his disappointment.

   Two young pheasants glean the stubble along the north headland, their feathers dishevelled yet still their beaks pick and peck the damp grain and the smell of rain and wet straw filled the fenland air.

   Yet again the apple orchards were full of green woodpeckers, the wet weather bringing the worms they desire to the surface, the odd Jay flew from tree to tree and as ever I felt close to nature albeit soaked to the skin!

All Creatures Great And Small

Spring Love


   Nest building, courtship dance and songs of love fill the magical fenland countryside, waters deep and clear run through river and drain while the blue wide skies hold mighty waterfowl and great birds of prey.
   Alive the hedgerows on this Sunday of March, no more the gales will thrash the lone eel catchers cottage, no more will willows bend on reed clad river banks, just sun filled mornings will greet us now.

Spring Monday

Sunshine, Birdsong and Fresh Spring Breeze

   Those hints of spring stand green and sounds of a fresh new summer arrive in our ears, fen folk spot those young green reed shoots that point to a summer of wide blue skies and fierce hot sun that will dry the dark soil into dust. Great water birds will gather nesting materials and the deep drains will once more hold young shoal of Roach and Perch, Heron bills again will rule the river banks and spear through clear waters has great willows kiss the mirrored current that heads to the mighty wash, alive the magical lands of the East this morning are.

A Damp Fen Morning

Rain Filled Skies And Tired Eyes


   A grey morning welcomes us on this day of worship, cries from the tall manor tree rookery ring out like those calling bells that fill church towers all over this garden of the east, while men of the land and ladies in fine silk drop coin from gloved hands in stone temples this bead maker once more enjoys a day at his flame.
   No ice does lay over the dark soil just the green young wild rape seed that self set in autumn mildness, rich green they stand with game birds walking their shallow paths and broken wet stubble rotting beneath their young leaves.
   Where is that winter we fear, the snows and freezing winds of the north that wrap these flat lands in white soft coat and form ice on dyke and river through every black night, all that shows this fresh year is the rains from the west, great storms that bully our coast and burst our rivers banks and still cold damp mornings such as this, we wait and watch those great open skies that rush over us, we wait.  

Rain, Winds And Dark Mornings.

How Wet This New Year Of Ours

   While single streams of white smoke lift from the terracotta chimney pots that rest on those low roofed fen cottages where dirt floors had flooded in years past and fen lend has since played with their upright appearance, the rains once more soak the rich garden of the east. Those huge wide skies form deep dark cloaks that sail high above the hard people of the fens while they work the reed beds and farmland, to these folk of the marsh this is just another part of life in their magical world.
   For this bead hermit it's a day of cleaning beads, while the wild winds blow away the remains of the old year, natures fresh start and one I hope will be good for all of us.

New Year Dawns

The Fresh Year Is Upon Us

   With fen winds blowing cold fresh air over the flat world of marsh and drain and the damp rain sodden dark rich soil sticking to the feet of fen tigers, we welcome the new year once more. A new year in which the seasons will again test us and make us smile and cry, a year in which we will turn many corners and favour those days when our spirits are high.
   Once more we will watch those great hunting birds in the wide skies and see fish hover over shingle filled river beds while great Willows bend and kiss the water. Eel traps will sit nestled in reed and sedge while winter plays his harsh game and spring will once more put smiles on weather beaten faces as she always does.
   So much to come while this bead maker plays with his flame and learns more molten magic tricks, another year in which he will watch and learn from natures lesson's, yet again he will live the simple life he enjoys and new faces he will meet, we welcome you 2014.