I want to be where snowflakes fall
December's notes - week 1
Dear Friends,
Once again—you have been surprising in your number—to a much appreciated flurry of new subscribers, welcome to A Hill and I. I hope the week has been the kind of wintery week that makes you excited like a child at the sight of snow falling. It hasn’t here but I am ever hopeful!
Do you remember me telling you about journal prompts from my phone? You do, fantastic! I have been using it religiously through December and because I am short of time—disorganised scatterbrain that I am—I thought I’d share each day for the next month the notes I write. Not so different from my normal ramblings which are generally taken from journal notes anyway except, I will add a sort of ‘photo-of-the-day’ to each and of course, because of the damned time issue they will be shorter vignettes.
So as not to bombard you daily I will keep them to roughly seven days at a time…
Allez, on y va!
Here are the first seven…
December 1 - The small herd of cattle that roam the hill is huddled in the warmth of each others breath, they know where to wait for the first rays of sun, they know the sheltered spots on the hill, they are calm and comfortable, warming themselves as the first sunlight slices through frosty air. I walk past them wrapped in my layers of wool. Soon they will be gathered into winter barns, field conversations will be halted until spring; I will miss their curious looks, as I always do. I will miss their warm kind eyes and soft noses, their breath leaving their bodies in puffs at dawn.
December 2 - The temperature drops below zero for a third day. When I reach classes the school yard has two perfect circles of leaves below the Tilleul Lime trees. All the leaves have fallen from their branches overnight and when I return home in the evening my tiny patch of woodland is carpeted in ash leaves in banana skin colourings, bare branches shimmer in evening light, I search high up within for the Tawny owl, wait for his call. When it arrives it is from a direction I don’t anticipate; I turn but see only the great span of wings disappearing silently as it swoops into woodland below me.
December 3 - The air is charged with the feeling of snow, despite a lack of frost, the air is cold, the wind bitter. I hear an unmistakable sound of avian wings; a small flock of Canada geese fly above the house as they head south, to Portugal perhaps, or maybe further…
It is the first time in two years they have flown over the hill. I wish them bonne route, tell them I have enough grain for them all but they are in a hurry, they honk as they fly on ‘we have many miles to go before we can rest’. I understand their haste.
December 4 - The frost returns, it is so heavy this morning when I take the bucket of nuts down through the woodland to my sheep, the ash leaves are crunching underfoot, the sheep field is as white they are; their backs are covered in frosted black wool.
I return from classes and walk into the now much warmer air of the afternoon, along the lane that leads down through the neighbours farm, through bare woodland where the sun catches on the patchwork of branches and muddy tracks are coloured by previous days of leaf fall, silence follows me—siesta silence—the forest is resting along with the farmer, there is no sound other than the river at the bottom of the valley; I gather from its upbeat melody that it is still running fast, that I will not be crossing over this evening.
December 5 - I am woken by a mouse. It is just before 5 am, sleep is as unlikely to return as the mouse is of halting whatever it is doing to sound like there are at least one hundred of him. I successfully sweet talk stove into flaming action, dress and make myself coffee. I tap the Substack application on my phone and read the first post at the top of my inbox entitled Audience with a Peckerwood Queen by
, I am smiling as I arrive at the last extraordinary photograph—Davids photographs are all always extraordinary—and know that my day, no matter how tired I am, will be distracted by dreams of constructing an elaborate troll for my tiny patch of woodland!A Troll for the owls and woodpeckers... for the mice so they vacate my attic!
December 6 - Once again I am woken horribly early by something that sounds huge and numerous which is actually one very tiny mouse either rehearsing for a part in ‘T’was the night before Christmas’ or simply just being extremely annoying! I begrudgingly rise from my cosy bed, dress quickly because between bed and warmth is the sitting room which is always freezer-like in temperature, spend 35 minutes coercing stove into anything even vaguely resembling heated action and make coffee. I am grateful for its steaming bitterness, its warmth and stimulation as another long day awakens.
In front of me, closed for the final time is The Overstory - I will never forget this book.
December 7 - Dawn light; a vicious wind in the tree tops blows the few remaining leaves onto the lane, they float down in flurries—I wish they were snowflakes. Wolfie doesn’t care, leaves, butterflies, birds, snowflakes, all are simply a game.
I want to be where snowflakes fall…
The day is taken up almost entirely by Roger’s needs. I find him smiling and welcoming as always, but his home is cold, his heating, another stove, well behaved when fed, is out. He has no fuel left. I drive him to the village and I load up his car with enough to last two weeks and order two pallets to be delivered at a later date. He buys me a Christmas tree I don’t really want. But it is a gift given with love and who can say no to love?
I want to be where snowflakes fall…
I want to be where snowflakes fall…
With love in hope of snow…
Susie x
Something I have loved this week;
writes weekly posts packed with French delights and more than just food!
I cannot leave without mentioning once again
and his Peckerwood Queen—and troll.
Susie, You always take me away to better, kinder, quieter place and I thank you for that. My mind is all a jumble lately. I find it hard to articulate why. I will read this again before I sleep tonight. Thank you.
Stunning photos Susie.
I also loved David's Peckerwood post.
Mice - I could never go back to sleep! I'm terrified.
I love most of all that this community is full of people who notice the beauty in the little things. Didn't I learn somewhere recently the word for that is a "philocalist"...😉 💛