It seems to me that once cliches about the seasons are drummed into our minds at infant school it can difficult to shake them off. It is still officially winter here in the UK, yet the colours I walked through at Hardcastle Craggs, Yorkshire, last Saturday could have easily slipped from a child’s poem on the subject of “Autumn”. When I get home from a walk I like to jot down the colours as I remember them, hence the photo of the sketch book page I have included.
Had it not been so muddy underfoot, there would have been more photos. Fear of slipping held me back. However, we came to a “ledge” and no way would my short legs reach earth in my preferred manner. No, I was urged to “just let go”. If I wanted to continue that was what I had to do. I didn’t hurt myself and I didn’t end up face down in the mud. It felt really good, to have flown and landed well.
The landscape of twisted trees and water spouting from crevices in a frenzy seemed to suggest that nature is far more about death and regeneration than about the picturesque. A few rabbits dead on the path reminded me of an article I read recently in an old copy of National Geographic; it was about how some Buddhist countries leave corpses out to be picked clean by vultures. On Saturday, in this driven landscape, that seemed to me an understandable custom. However, if you prefer the picturesque, please don’t be deterred, as there was plenty of that too.
(I haven’t forgotten what I said I’d write about last time. This is an extra blog)