Ramblings

In every walk with nature, one receives far more than he seeks. 

John Muir

I love a good walk. I run regularly because I appreciate the health benefits it brings but given the opportunity to put one foot in front of the other at a more leisurely pace, I’m first in the queue. For me, it’s such a simple, lovely activity that fulfils my fidgety need to be outdoors and moving . Of course it’s interesting to set personal challenges but there’s no need to be bagging Wainwrights or marching up Monros; it’s always fun to explore new places but in all honestly, there is a deep pleasure and quiet joy to be had by going through the door, choosing a direction and wandering around locally. To immerse myself totally in nature and watch the seasons unfolding in tiny detail is a privilege I will never take for granted.

Human beings are designed to move so it goes without saying that walking is good for us, both physically and mentally. I was fascinated and delighted to read recently that GPs in the Shetland Isles have started prescribing ‘nature’ to help their patients. What a truly wonderful and inspired idea that is. No surprise that it is based on a Scandinavian tradition; let’s face it – our northern cousins excel when it comes to understanding the true benefits of time spent outdoors and how much better if walking in fresh air and communing with nature proves a more successful remedy than medication.

I suspect there is an element of ‘prescribed nature’ here already. Walking is a huge Asturian pastime and plenty of people pass through the village on their daily jaunt, many of them very elderly; we often see a lady who walks literally miles on crutches and a chap who carries an oxygen bottle over his shoulder as he goes. There’s no such thing as bad weather stopping play, either – just take your brolly and carry on! I can’t be sure but a big part of me thinks there may well be a connection between this happy walking habit and the astonishing longevity in our valley.

Although I am happy to wander in solitude, there is something very special about walking with others, too. It came as no great surprise when downloading the photos from our recent trip away to find most of them had been taken on walks. I love walking with our grandchildren; there is something so precious about feeling a warm, trusting little hand in mine, now tugging me along (‘Come on, Granny!’) impatient to be off with a hop, skip and jump, now dragging backwards to look at things, poke with sticks, splash in puddles.

What an amazing thing it is, this opportunity to see the world once again through the eyes of a child, with their astounding capacity for observation, curiosity and wonder.

A long walk is a much-loved tradition whenever we get together with Sam and Adrienne, usually punctuated with large quantities of delicious home-cooked food! This time was no exception: a hearty breakfast of all-too-moorish pain aux raisins set us up for a walk along the River Ouse to Lewes. So many of our walks in West (and East) Sussex seem to have a literary connection and this time it was the turn of Virginia Woolf, passing the pretty house in Rodmell where she lived before tragically taking her own life in the river. The waters were turbulently tidal, the banks seaweed- strewn and studded with gulls; the view drew our eye constantly towards Lewes in the distance, dominated by its formidable Norman castle.

There is something about this landscape which always imbues me with an overwhelming sense of history; the very spirit of the rolling hills, chalk streams, swathes of woodland, richly fertile land and wide, far-reaching skies seems to whisper of the successive peoples who came and made it their own. 

Lewes has a very colourful history, one of the legacies being the lively Bonfire Night celebration; preparations were well underway for this year’s event as we entered the town. We sat in the peaceful grounds of the Priory, eating our picnic (ah yes, more delicious home baking!) and enjoyed the play of sunlight on the autumn colours.

What a place this must have been before its inevitable destruction during the Dissolution of the Monasteries: the Priory church alone was longer than Chichester Cathedral. I was fascinated by the Battle Memorial and as a passionate gardener, thought the medicinal and kitchen gardens were a wonderful touch. We wandered through the pretty streets up to the castle, then back along the river once more. 



Home again in Asturias and no surprise that to celebrate my birthday this week, another walk was on the cards. My first idea had been to wander from home and climb the mountain behind the house in a seven-mile loop of forest and stunning scenery. However, the need for a post office and butter (we hadn’t taken account of birthday baking needs when we last shopped!) suggested a long stroll along the coast path near Luarca might be a better idea. I love this stretch between the beautiful sweeping sands of Playa de Barayo and the pretty harbour town of Puerto de Vega, it is a place I never tire of.


For me, this is exactly how a coast path should be: lots of ups and downs along the clifftops, ins and outs around headlands and hidden coves, far-reaching views along the coastline, carpets of wildflowers, flurries of birdlife and that deliciously intoxicating sea air. I much prefer the seaside away from the hectic summer months, there is something fantastically wild and untamed and invigorating about it in December . . . although quite honestly, the weather was so beautifully warm and the air so soft and butterfly-laden, it felt just like summer! 

Immersion in nature here is complete. Apart from a few solitary silhouetted fisherman perched on rocky outcrops, motionless as herons, we saw no-one. In the soft sunshine and low light of the season, colour spooled across the landscape like bold brushstrokes on canvas and with every step and every breath I felt an intense awareness of the four elements at play. Fire. Water. Earth. Air. What greater way to mark the anniversary of my birth than in such a joyful celebration of the natural world and my connection with all things in the worldwide web of life? Good medicine, indeed.

To round off a perfect day – before cooking a lovely meal together –  a glass of bubbly in the garden, faces turned to the warmth of the evening sunshine. Nature, it seemed, hadn’t quite finished with us . . . 

Ah, John Muir certainly knew what he was talking about. Here’s to him! 🙂

Sensing Spring

Communicate: share or exchange information, news, or ideas.

Commune: share one’s intimate thoughts or feelings with (someone), especially on a spiritual level.

One of the blessings of our lifestyle here is having proper time to communicate with others; I love to keep in touch with a wide circle of family and friends, to catch up with what they are doing, to share their stories and thoughts as well as exchange little snippets and tales of what we are up to ourselves. In a rush, it’s so easy just to touch on the superficial, but with time and effort it’s possible to go beyond the facts – the who or what or when – and engage at a deeper level of interest, of sharing, celebrating or commiserating. What a wonderful gift to give someone, our full, unhindered, focused attention, listening with a quiet mind and open heart. It’s a precious thing indeed.

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I suppose it is about moving from ‘communication’ to ‘communing’ and the same is true of time spent in nature. To explore the world like a young child is not childish but childlike; there is a world of difference. As adults in the hustle and bustle of modern society, our auditory and visual senses are bombarded and overloaded, day in, day out; how often do we allow ourselves to indulge all our senses playfully, without bias or preconception, opening our hearts and minds to new experiences and possibilities? How would a child respond to the jewelled flutter of a butterfly, the delicate fragility of a robin’s egg, the scratchy wingbeat of a crow, the secrets hidden in a tulip’s cavern, the arcing iridescence of a rainbow? When we give ourselves permission to stop and listen and feel and smell and taste as if everything were a brand new shiny experience, then even the simplest or most mundane thing can seem like a minor miracle.

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So, when spring came bounding up the steps and hammered breathlessly on the door this week – ‘Come out and play! See what I’ve found!’  – I didn’t need asking twice. Senses engaged, I let myself be led by the hand. Budburst started here some time ago; the warm-up act of hazel, willow and birch is already in full verdant splendour, fluffing and puffing up the woodlands with streaks of brilliance like the joyful sweep of a child’s paintbrush. Lime. Chartreuse. Pea.

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Now the nuttery adds its voice: oak and chestnut and walnut leaves unfurling like uncurling fingers, arms akimbo, in a seam of coppery gold that echoes the iron-rich rocks below.

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In between, pooled like silver moonlight, a confection of graceful cherries whisper and shiver in delicate white. I am reminded of Housman’s celebrated lines: loveliest of trees, the cherry now is hung with bloom along the bough. Shropshire poetry, Shropshire roots, a Shropshire lass. Some things run very deep.

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It’s not all about trees, of course. Beneath the emerging canopy is a burgeoning, bustling, stretching busyness led by fern and foxglove, followed by a jostling crowd of others, some brash and extravagant, others quiet and diminutive.

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What a feast for the eye, all this shape and shade and shimmer, but try seeing it differently for a change . . . Is it a shepherd’s crook? A seahorse? A question mark?

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In this world of waking and stretching, of rising sap and soft, silky leaf-lets, of the rich mineral smell of moss and bark and boulder, I need no more than the green. The lush, fresh, newness of it all is enough to feed my soul. So many shades and tints, how could I name them all? More poetry springs to mind, this time from W.H Davies: I also love a quiet place that’s green, away from all mankind.

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Ah, but I don’t get away with that one easily: just look at this frolicsome floral dance! Such a brazen parade of flirtatious fluttering and wiggling of petal and pollen, of saucy colour and come hither looks. Who could fail to fall under their seductive charms?

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There is so much that I can’t capture in photographs, so many moments where an image is not enough and words seem hopelessly inadequate: the melodious cadence of blackbird; the harmonious warbling of robin and blackcap; the shouting echo of songthrush; the twitter and curse of tit and wren; the chiffchaff and cuckoo calling their own names. How do I share the velvety buzz of the busy bumbles, the sulphuric flash of yellow butterflies, the dash and zip of sun-warmed lizards, the furry flit and whirr of a dusky bat? The shifting shapes of feathery clouds, the play of sunlight across the valley, the electric crackle of a retreating storm, the deep, ancient, fecund smell of the earth after rain?

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No matter: it’s about being in the moment, feeling, experiencing, living. Memories and records can wait. Stories can be shaped and shared later. This is communication at its very best. Thank you, spring – what a lovely chat we’ve had! What a wonderful time we’ve shared!

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