English Settlement

There is a certain type of day that just seems entirely of its place- when, temperature, light and the  ether combine to produce a day of pure presence. An existential silence- no matter what events happen within it. Some people seem to find that space quite often- but for the rest of us it always seems like a miracle when they come along. An addict once told me his attraction to heroin was rooted in the sense that it made him feel as if God had let go of his neck- which might be the same thing. Animals are probably closer to that space and one in particular seems an emblem of it to me. The owl. The last couple of weeks we have heard a good number- but I have only seen a few- mainly Tawny owls. But I did see one Barn Owl,  or may be I did.  They appear to me to move within an envelope of stillness- like frozen moments hang off their wings.  A true shapeshifter, whenever I see one a minute later I am never sure if I saw it or not- they exist somewhere between a memory and a dream immediately they are gone from sight. A deeply wondrous talent.. anyways- today was one of those days of convergence- a dreamtime of a wood in autumn.  Here are some pics..hope they convey a bit of it..........

This morning I had a final rummage through the fruit patch and along the hedgerow- the crop hasn't been helped by a poor summer and a dry September, so its been a bit thin through the back end. But there are a few stragglers left emergent..and their tardiness and hardiness in the face of the pigeon onslaught makes them all the more special...so it was raspberries and blackberries at mid- morning. Just a mouthful or two- enough to remind me of why the best are always last.

 Late afternoon when the bills had been paid it was time for a wander. The days are drawing in quickly now and the activity in the wood is frenzied. The squirrels are incessant, amassing acorns and chestnuts for the darkness coming. Ethel Pup seems to know every dray across the hundreds of acres here- and spends her time either frozen, listening for the paper shuffle of squirrel on leaf or scanning the thinning canopy for  movement. Doesn't really matter what the wind is doing, she can decipher the undulation of rodent from that of the air with an uncanny accuracy. This tree is a particular obsession- a mid -size beech that seems home to an extended family of her favourite delicacy. Pup is really quite an amazing animal- and far better equipped to live here than any other member of the crew. She has never had any training for hunting but is a total natural- her cells compel her to hunt. She once spent almost an hour on point at a woodcock less than a metre in front of her-  frozen by her DNA. Her Sire reputedly swam across the Swale between Sheppey and Faversham to retrieve a shot goose, and was given up as lost until he was seen on the beach at Seasalter two days later, a greylag at his feet. Probably a tale, but it's a good one. And Pup has squirrels wired- she knows how territorial they are, and she exploits their fear of their own species with ruthless persistence. Squirrels would rather, it seems, chance it with Pup and Big Sid in a ground level sprint between trees than  shelter in  the tree of another squirrel until the canine storm has passed.  Which sort of levels the playing field.

Counting Squirrels

Six Beeches. Pig Heaven.

The Golden Bough