The joy that is...
sun on my face, earth on my hands, everything bursting with life!
Dearest friends, how are you? I hope you’ve been blessed with as many beautiful days as I have during the last week? As always, I am delighted and grateful for your company, thank you so much for joining me.
I have been frantic! Holidays are like that…
Les vacances d’hiver, are a delirium of dizzy days using every dry hour possible to clear away the remains of the last four seasons debris, all in the hope of being ready for that rare moment when the moon and the weather and an afternoon off coincide. The garden(s) and fields and my cheekily adopted woodland were all in dire need and I have been gifted many of those dry hours in the first week making progress visible; the aches and pains from unaccustomed physical efforts less so but ouch… they are there. I try not to complain. Though I do wonder, with frightening frequency, how many more years my already abused body will take such intense demands? A worry I cast aside.
For the foreseeable days regardless of grumbling muscle and bone, I am capable and that is enough.
The days pass too quickly, mostly in buckets of weeds and dust, oh but the joy that is holidays!
It is decided—without discussion as to when such a disruption should take place—that Seth is in need of a bedroom more equipped to his ever increasing height and accumulation of obsessions. Le travail begins immediately. Immediately being the very first day of Les vacances d’hiver. My horror is as visible as the cascades of dust falling from above between exposed ceiling boards onto every inanimate object and surface in both kitchen and pantry.
‘How long before the dusty work is done?’ I call up to the source of the falling dust.
‘It will take as long as it takes?’ Comes the inevitable, non-comital reply and then, ‘I don’t make it on purpose!’
‘I know darling, I know…’ I shout back then with a deep sigh, more quietly, ‘but it’s my holiday…’
I am grateful to escape to my garden. Stay for a duration that forces a voice from the dust to enquire if lunch might be a possibility. The day is warm though, the earth on my hands purgative and rejuvenating as I turn in compost with quiet contemplation and hope, the air filled with an incessant joyful singing of birds—my company—transcending. Two long tailed tits are nesting in the cherry tree, a nuthatch whistles from the old ash. I ignore the first call from hungry man and boy, the second also but the third becomes a desperate plea I can no longer ignore.
On an afternoon that may have been a Sunday—every day is Sunday during holidays—Seth and I fill small back packs with water and clementines and rich, dark chocolate and a plan for adventure; to appease growing boredom—his—and a necessity to do something that wouldn’t cause every muscle and bone of me to cry out ‘please stop, you are hurting us’—mine. The day is warm, within minutes we are stripping off the too many layers of clothing baring arms to sunbeams as we walk. We stop at the high point where the lane meets three others to check direction. Looking over the valley and beyond there are small hamlets and farms, most have chimney smoke curling into the minutes of the afternoon. Amongst a vast stretch of woodland I have yet to wander—it isn’t my hill— the sunlight is glinting from something unidentifiable surrounded by buildings with the faintest line of a path leading up to it through the trees; our destination.
We take the lane southwards, quickly swap unforgiving asphalt for the softness of a wild path impassable in spring or summer but now, at the very end of winter when all growth is either dead or dormant, we wind our way down tripping only on the stubbornest of brambles and unearthed stones to the cool darkness of the shadowed valley below. We hop a hedge into a field, our intention simple; to reach a rickety bridge allowing us to cross deep and fast flowing river water without wetting our feet, in-so-doing avoiding a long detour via a lane to the more commonly used authorised bridge. As we traipse across wet pasture in deepest—which direction next?—dispute we bump straight into the owner, and, his many toothed grinning dog. Both are—mercifully—jovial and beaming with smiles verging on laughter when we explain amidst apologies the path we are searching for.
‘Tant que vous ne mangez pas l'herbe et que vous ne laissez pas mes portails ouvertes, vous pouvez vous promener où vous voulez, quand vous voulez !’1 He chuckles scratching the dogs head but offering no further advice.
Adding ‘Bon courage!’2 as he walks away. The dog gives us another toothy grin, tail wagging, presumably in agreement.
Relieved and delighted—not so much for his lack of expected admonition but for the inadvertent gaining of permission to walk a hill I don’t know—we thank him again, turning to continue along the edge of the field stooping often under the sweeping rows of hazel trees so laden with catkins their branches are too weighted to remain upright. We wobble over the dilapidated bridge, cross two more sodden fields to finally reach what was once the beginning of an ancient, cobbled road leading up into the forest. Much time, three ravines, at least a thousand fallen trees across the steep path later we are standing, breathless, in sight of the crumbling walls of the buildings at roughly the point we could see from the crossroads.
But nothing is glinting here. The air is dank, the stench of neglect danker, a chill breeze—ghostly—raises the fine hair on bare arms, we shiver. A whole hamlet has been abandoned to the ravages of natures wild will. It feels unearthly. A place where the world stopped breathing, where the clocks stopped ticking the day the last of the living left. Doors are left unlocked, windows hang open from rusted hinges, a saucepan is left on an outdoor cooker, there are the withered stalks of something once living in pots outside the door. We peep inside a once home touched by the shadows of owners from a not so distant past, clearly we are intruding. A thought wanders eerily and uninvited into my mind; perhaps they never left.
Spooked and shivering, we leave in haste taking the only path leading out. Back on a lane I recognise a huge sinking sun greets us as we make our way home again though in the gathering darkness it does little to appease a feeling of being followed.
Briefly; It is quite possible, one day, because birdsong and catkins and leaf-buds, that single brave blossom on a wild plum and a rare and impossibly pale blue sky are all happening above me, I will fall into a steep, dark ravine during the month of February, also in March.
In my garden I still have enough leeks, Cavelo Nero kale and roquette to fill a large shelf in two supermarkets, they are taking up much needed space but I love how they look when they flower so they stay.
He, my gentle hearted boy, tells me of the birthday gift he will make for his beloved, a gift that must remain as secret as the stories held by the hills we walk on, a gift that makes my heart glow with pride at his generosity of spirit.
Something I loved and lost immediately I read the words but cannot stop thinking about ‘there should never be competition - it is not possible to compete with differences’
I make a wish for the whole world at the top of the hill on a day when the sky is so luminous with light it feels possible I might levitate into its colour. I hope it comes true…
Woken by the screech of fox below my window in the lane at an unmentionable hour, I am startled to see radiant light from not one, but two moons. How have I never noticed that at a certain time of night, in a certain month of the year the moon is reflected in a mirror I have propped on the floor?
In the warmth of the afternoon sun on another day that feels like Sunday but probably isn’t I spy; one lizard basking, two scout ants possibly sent out to test air temperature, one bumble bee feasting on nectar from abundant pulmonaria and one Woodland brown butterfly. Joy.
With love and forever awe of spring arriving
Susie X
Something I have loved and should have shared a long time ago!
For almost ten years my beautiful friend Sarah, has been doing something truly and awesomely wonderful!
It was during a visit to the Kariega Game Reserve in 2016 that I encountered a remarkable rhino called Thandi. This was not just a wildlife sighting; for me it was a life-altering event.
Thandi was a living testament to survival. She had suffered a horrendous poaching attack, her face had been savagely disfigured to extract her horn. Despite the physical trauma, her indomitable spirit shone through. Not only did she survive the gruesome assault, Thandi has become a symbol of resilience, mothering five calves - Thumb, Colin, Mthertho, Siya and Zolani. The horribly scarred, yet serene Thandi, grazing quietly with her first 18 month old calf, Thembi was a turning point for me. I had to contribute, even if in some small way, to help fight this dark canvas of brutal poaching and support the incredible work so many do in rhino conservation…
And she did! Using her extensive knowledge of jewellery making she designed, created and launched Rhinotears. 100% of the profits from every piece Sarah makes go towards various anti-poaching and conservation projects across Africa, details of which you will find on her website here.
Rhino Tears Jewellery is a registered charity in the UK, if you wish to donate or buy a piece of her beautiful jewellery her shop is always open!
https://www.rhinotears.org and https://www.instagram.com/rhinotears?utm_source=ig_web_button_share_sheet&igsh=ZDNlZDc0MzIxNw==
'So long as you don't eat the grass, or leave the gates open you can walk where you like when you like!'
‘Good Luck!’
It must be three or four weeks away for us. The temperature has risen the last few days but the gales are blowing. The small crowd of birds still come at dusk to huddle together in the window frame that has a hole tucked in high up on the outside protected from the wind and rain.
We have abandoned villages of the past not far away, the most recent a small hamlet from when the local coal pit finally closed in the early 20thC; only detectable now by the resilient rhubarb patches. They had hung on to the last, but the earlier main exodus had been with horse and cart, Methodist banners flying, and a tale to be told.
I am transported again to hills and rivers and abandoned homes, I feel a shiver down my spine, I feel the warmth of the sun on my arms, I smell spring in the air and relief and excitement at permission at the potential to explore new hills with you dear Susie. I hope that the dust makers are done! The rhino tears are beautiful, thank you for sharing a little of your friend, Sarah’s story, and her beautiful creations. Much love xx