Spring

From the first stirrings of Spring and new growth to this time of burgeoning, I have been visiting Natureways and am slowly discovering the life cycle of this little patch of tranquillity.

Each week there is a new sign and a new sight. Each week there is a new task and a new thing to learn.

Over the course of that time I have sporadically logged what I have seen, heard and done on my personal road to recovery from depression. Below I share some of these thoughts.

Early march

The smell of smoke greets me as I enter the woodland from the farm lane. The campfire, circled by camping chairs and a tented shelter is our haven for the morning on this cold, still wintery day.

My attention this morning is drawn more to the fern I had spotted on my previous visit. This time I’ll take a photograph and see if I can find out what it is.

I have spent a great deal of my life learning about nature in one way or another, yet even at 62 years I seem to know so little.

My learning has been sporadic and selective. I know many wild flowers, a few trees and shrubs, the odd fungus. I can recognise a handful of bird songs too.

It isn’t until you try to learn a bird’s song that you realise how different an individual can sometimes be, even within its species.

The great tid call ‘teacher teacher’ and sometimes it is the most recognisable sound in the wood, but another bird, identical in appearance, might call ‘cher teat’ or some other variation less obvious.

Ferns have passed me by completely, and I am hoping to rectify that this morning with the delicate fronds by the fast running stream. I had hoped it would be a simple ‘Google Search’, rather than ploughing through books, but I don’t think Google is quite that good yet. I don’t trust its identification, and the mystery of its species is obscured in my mind by the mystery of the variety of creation that brought it to this place and time.

There are frogs everywhere, hopping, finding mates and spawning. The waterway we have diverted into a pond already has clumps of the pale pink berries of spawn.

The snowdrops in a secret space at the back of the wood have all gone. They are a casualty of sunshine and advancement.

The bluebells are yet unformed. Just poking through, but I can see they will carpet this place soon enough.

The jobs for the day are:

• Filling the feeders;

• Digging and channelling the stream

• Planting seeds

Each of the visitors gravitates to their own choice of task.

I am helping fill the feeders and getting a feel for the place still.

A few weeks later

There are camelias growing and flowering their socks off at the entrance to the wood. This was obviously a garden of some sort at one time.

A giant sequoia, a redwood, stands sentinel here at the very edge of the farm track and there are other signs of cultivation.

I am back again, and this time I am clearing bracken from the bank on the late so that the delicate flowers beneath have a shot at the sunlight.

It is simple, but satisfying work. Today I am working alone, and that is fine. The sun is shining even though it is still so early in the year and the bracken comes away easily for the most part. I am careful not to disturb the soil and the delicate roots beneath.

I am looking forward to seeing what will grow here.

Elsewhere others are doing other jobs and occasionally I hear their distant voices. Eventually one of our number comes and gets me for tea and a mindfulness session before we begin some crafting.

We carry the cut bracken with us.

One week later and I am back. Already the wildflowers are showing through on the bank and I experience the joy of a successful job.

There is creamy primrose. There are violets, delicate jewels, and wood anemones, the stars of this time.

Another flower I don’t recognise, a bit like a wild strawberry, but I think it’s the wrong time of year.

Julia suggests we get some wildlife books for this kind of situation and I have lots at home. I must remember to bring them along.

Back at the camp fire, and before the others have returned, I hear the voice of a marsh tit. It is a dainty bird, like a coal tit, but without the flash of white on the back of its head.