Winter Sun

   Fresh breeze, blue sky and glorious winter sun that places a lustrous sheen upon the great willows do welcome me this weekend morning. Goldfinch feed on seed and the wicked talk of the magpie does echo through the conifer wood, the home of jay and sparrow hawk, where dappled stars of light cut through the hanging mist.

   Cock pheasant struts from hadgerow to open headland, the sun lighting his rainbow chest like polished glass while brambles rest from frost and ice for just one day. For this bead maker a day of fresh air will be enjoyed and the pen too will enjoy freedom, for it's words will bring memories and opinions that none can erase.

Winter Coat

   With snow white frost nestled under shade and Egrets searching the ice filled dykes that line every jet black acre, the cold north west winds sweep the fenland on this day of rest like winter's own besom broom. The blackbird rambles like a drunken sailor through the berry clad branches while those of baptist faith entre cold chapels where brick and timber house great words of priphets and disciples.
   My mind dreams of the past souls who stood in this cold fen air, breath rising from every word as fingers bare the winter coat that we all wear, a coat that colours the cheeks and fills the lungs, with coldness, but one that keeps us healthy and fen tigers strong.
 

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.