November, 2021
Saturday 13th
The afternoon is ablaze with low golden light; the red face of the fell and the wintry limbs of semi-stripped trees evoke seasonal bonfires—Guy Fawkes, a subterfuge for an old Celtic custom, Samhain, the festival of winter; its symbol, the blackthorn, courts winter’s kiss to sweeten its tart blue sloes.
All is yet unseasonal warmth. The path is a carpet of crunchy leaves in every shade of autumn: bronze, butterscotch, chestnut, chocolate, coffee, copper, flaxen, honey, mustard, ochre, sepia, sienna, tan, terracotta, umber. Hawthorns are intricate lattices of twig, hung with bountiful bunches of deep red berries. Tarns are periwinkle reflections studded with reeds of russet and straw-yellow. Clouds are wisps of woodsmoke, lined mauve as shadows lengthen.
The rumps of tupped ewes are bright with paint; a ram stands proud, harnessed with the raddle that marks his conquests.
The dying year has entered a triumphal parade, a final flourish of golden finery before fading into a long slumber, seeds lying dormant in the cold earth, or in the wombs of ewes, awaiting the burst of new life that comes with spring.
Sunday 28th
On the night of 26th/27th November, Storm Arwen hit the South Lakes, causing widespread damage and leaving many Cartmel Peninsula properties without power for several days.
After the ferocious gales that have downed the power, snow falls, rendering the world powder-white, berry-red, and russet-brown. Trees are intricate skeletons, the monochrome silhouettes of wood cuts, twisting into irregular arches, fine organic traceries of branch and twig.
The distant buzz of chainsaws tells of casualties. A magnificent old oak has been toppled, its upturned roots now a beautifully textured wall of rippling grains, deep hollows, and delicate filigrees: an impossibly detailed carving of swirling rivulets in every shade of brown and tan. Its fallen boughs form a shelter for sheep, their fleeces the colour of the snow, and their faces lit with the amber light of winter sun.
The stream is a shining sliver of onyx, lined with winter brown shrub, flamed yellow and red where limbs are kissed with incendiary sunbeams. In the golden hour of afternoon, the hedgerows radiate the colours of fire: of burning logs, glowing embers, and candlelight—all now essential sources of heat and light in our new Victorian homes, robbed of electric current by nature’s elemental force.
Thanks, George . . . Fortunate aren’t we, having stuff like that on our doorsteps. A lovely read.
Thank you, David. Yes we are very fortunate indeed.
A change of style, George, which is always worth doing to refresh yourself. At times, the intensity of the focus upon the leaves and flowers of the hedgerows was reminiscent of ‘The Wind in the Willows’.
That’s a mighty compliment, Martin. Thank you.
Well that was a treat. So many familiar faces from the New Forest when I was growing up. I’ve not heard that called witches butter, excellent name.
Thank you, Geoff. Delighted you enjoyed it. Witches’ butter is indeed an excellent name.
Brilliant – you are like a Lakeland Richard Jefferies.
Thank you so much, John.
Very nicely done, and informative as always.
Thank you, that’s very kind.
Really good article(s) ! Don’t think I ever heard of Lesser Celandine before. They are among my favorites of your photos. The forget-me-nots too. And the kid.
Thank you, Neil. The kid was adorable. Lesser celandine flower early which makes them a welcome sight. They are supposed to be natural barometers, unfurling their petals in good weather and closing up against the wind and rain. They’re all gone now. Replaced by buttercups or crowfoot, which they superficially resemble l.
I was looking for inspirational poetry in my books yesterday, but found it here in words and wonderful pictures.
Hanna
That’s a lovely thing to say. Thank you do much.
George, thank you for sharing such an enjoyable diary and processional, elegant writing and wonderful photos. The obvious sincerity of this paean to your corner of the earth is heartwarming, and even the intrusion of news from the Ukraine fits in, honest reporting, like becoming aware of ominous buzzing from a disturbed hornet nest. The colors may change and fade, but I will remain green with envy that this wealth of nature is available for your lunchtime strolls.
Thank you, Robert. That’s a wonderful compliment. I love the hornet nest image.
P.S. I’d wanted to comment on your Loweswater article, that the tale of supernatural death has prompted me to add to my List of Dangerous Things to Avoid, Even if Properly Sanitized After Usage Near Wrong End of Horse: “Crupper/Horsey Bits of Demonic Leathergoods Leaping Out At You in Stairwells/Entanglements & Possible Stranglings,” actually a brand-new category.
Yes, very wise. Perhaps they should come with a government health warning.
—and someone asked me the other day: ‘have you any holiday plans this year’?
Christina (Cockermouth)
Yes, indeed! We are very lucky living where we do. Cockermouth is beautiful.