Summer Walk
September is here and with it the first dewy mornings and noticeably shorter days. But that doesn’t mean that we can’t savour the warmth of late summer afternoons, or the promise of an Indian Summer.
An opportunity to be outdoors
I’m writing this at 2pm on one such afternoon. I’ve walked from home to my favourite writing spot on the edge of a wood where I can look out across farm fields to the River Dee below and Cheshire Plain beyond. It’s a vista, but I can’t see as much as usual; the sun is low and blinding. But it doesn’t yet have its autumn glow or winter brilliance. But its rays are bright. I wish I’d brought sunglasses with me - or a hat.
My impromptu walk is a last-gasp opportunity to savour some ‘home country’ before I travel further afield. My day job is taking me away for a while, so I’m keen to immerse myself in natural sights, sounds and sensations before I’m trust into a world of airports and city lights.
So, keen to capture and share all that is real, I’m sharing these words with you.
What can I see?
I see that the soil is still dry, even though we’ve recently had rain. It seems that the oaks and birch trees are sucking up the water from the soil quicker than the clouds can deliver it. Roadside grasses are dry and seedless - empty fronds swaying in the gentle breeze.
The oaks overhead are heavy with acorns; the hedgerows are thick with haws, sloes and blackberries. Never would I have expected such a heavy crop after such a dry summer. But there they are, sending squirrels and blackbirds into frenzy.
Nettles appear thin-stalked and sparsely-leaved. They’ve had a harder time than their deep-rooted cousins the hogweed and meadowsweet. But their stems are a lovely purple colour - perfect for making nettle cordage. Their fibres will be strong, even if the nodes are closer together than usual.
In the fields beyond the lane, hedge and wood, I can see flocks of sheep; the lambs all grown up and ready for slaughter. This seems a cruel observation, but it’s a fact of country life. If we weren’t going to eat them, it’s unlikely they would have been born. Such finite gift of life in return for an ominous fate.
What can I hear?
The sheep are quiet. Their bleating won’t resume until feeding time, so the afternoon air carries with it the rustling of leaves, cooing and ‘churring’ of wood pigeons (which are ever so broody at present), the ‘cheeeeeeep’ of a fledgling robin and the clicking of wrens. Oh, and the sound of a writer breathing deeply as he takes in the fresh air.
What can I smell?
The air is filled with the marzipan-like perfume of meadowsweet, mingled with the dusty scents of wheat still to be harvested. Other than the meadowsweet and some late willow herb, there’s not much blossom about. So one has to get close to something before the palettes of scent in one’s nostrils change noticeably. It will be different later, when the sun dips and the soil begins to breathe. Then we’ll get the musky, humus-rich scents of woodland, the delicate perfume of honeysuckle, and the pungent musk of ivy.
What can I feel?
The grass stalks around me are brittle, and the leaves in the hedgerows and trees are leathery. There’s defiance in these textures, as though they’re hanging on beyond their time - or bracing themselves for what is to come. Jack Frost is still several hundred miles away in the north, but will soon be sinking into the landscape - turning into a silvery sea. But today, everything feels alive.
What can I sense?
I sense that this scene will be different when I return from my travels. I’ll only be gone for a few weeks, but a few weeks during the transition from summer to autumn can bring large changes. So I’m going to sit here for as long as possible, drinking in all the senses so that they sustain me while I’m away.
This is a lingering summer. I hope that the memory of it will stay with us long into the winter months.
If you like this blog, you'll like Fennel's book The Quiet Fields.
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