November 15th

patient jackdaws roost

stewed fog brew settles heavy

on the muddy moors

the treacle trickle

faint sounds of the river Flit

meandering on

I’m glad I didn’t have to commute anywhere today, the fog was thick and miserable.

July 15th

All seems still bar the

skittish skaters skirmishing

the surface ripples

---

the sound of people

muffled and lost in tall grass

shredded by the wild

entangling brambles

impenetrable thorn quilt

diminishing path

Not one, not two, but three haikus today. Two of them are a pair, one, the pond skater one, was originally meant to be stand alone, but if you read all three together, they complement each other and transition well, much like a walker leaving the relative peace of the pond and diving into the overgrown path to be torn by thorns and brambles.

So… The sun was threatening an appearance so I decided I’d go for a walk, I watched the pond skaters duelling on the surface of the big moor pond for a while, they would fly at each other, over the meniscus of the pond, wheeling elegantly and racing off in another direction to see off another adversary, they were all dancing, protecting the unmarked boundaries of their territory. It had been raining all day. D is away in Ireland, she would have been proud of me, as I listened intently. I heard the distinctive song of Chiff-Chaff and a Yellowhammer. Blackbirds and Wrens, their volume belying their tiny size. I crossed the stone bridge over the Flit, the water was running faster than normal, understandably due to the rain. It cascaded towards the faraway North sea, ultimately this little river would flow into the Ivel, then the Great Ouse then out into the flats of the Wash.

I walked the first moor, then thought I would tackle the second. Not via the main route, but by the little path, it was Sunday afternoon, which meant dog walkers. I’m normally personable, but I didn’t want to see anyone today. So I took the little path as hardly anyone bothers with it and the bird watching is better. I walked round the edge of the field of juvenile Alders, still stick thin but very tall, twice, sometimes three times taller than me. Even the grass was almost as tall as me. it should have given me fair warning. The path got more and more difficult to track, the wild had been reclaiming it. No one had battled through the thicket to clear it. It truly was a deer path now, no human had walked it in weeks it seemed. Back in March it was clear enough to run through it. But now, there were points I had to push through, through thistle and bramble. Nettles stung me. Thorns cut me. Snails ended up in my hair, passengers from the damp dark foliage.

I was lost. I’d lost the path. But I wasn’t phased. I was happy. There was a serenity in that. I tramped onwards, using one of the tributaries of the Flit as a marker to my right. I used my watch compass and having some idea of my position, negotiated myself out. I saw red brick between the trees, that meant civilisation. But I enjoyed my time in the grasslands. Getting lost when you are heading nowhere in particular has its own sweet reward.

Some photos from my adventure.

The Pond, Pond Skaters battle here.

Some thorny thistles blocking my path. Note they are around seven feet tall.

This used to be the path, now it’s a seething mass of impenetrable pain!

July 9th

soldier beetles touch

the cow parsley canopy

meadowsweet dreaming

First time in a long time, many weeks in fact, we walked on the moors. There is a wildness about them, the rain, that nourishing rain has burst the fields and moors aflame with colour. The plants and animals are thriving.

D is good at recognising plants and animals. So I learn a lot from her.

Soldier Beetles on Cow Parsley (although it might be Hedge Parsley, she’s fairly sure it’s of the cow variety). Solider Beetles are notoriously frisky, always getting it on with each other, although these lot are fairly sedate.

Meadowsweet. With it’s unusual smell. Kind of like vanilla, but not like vanilla at all. It’s a smell of it’s own. It hogs the sides of the river and its tributaries.

A pretty pink poppy, growing in the rape seed field. The yellow flowers of the rape are long gone, leaving the little pods containing the seeds from which the rape seed oil will be made. In this case it will contain a teeny bit of poppy too…

May 13th

 

Shorn in a night storm

dying limbs span the river

willow flesh weeping

May 5th

Dockleaf and nettle

bane and balm, riverside sprung

nestled together

Walked to the train station via the moors yesterday, that was a mistake, got mud all over my jeans and was skidding everywhere. What was nice though is that the edges of the River Flit are now completely green with nettles and (and what I think are!) dock leaves. It’s funny how the old remedy for being stung by a nettle usually grows close by.

The rain has helped the flora make busy with growth.

I took a photo of a particularly green clump. I take no responsibility as to my accuracy, there may not be any dockleaf in this photo, in fact there may not be any nettles either! If so, here is a photo of some green planty shit…

April 1st

The blackthorn archway

promised enchantment, a door

distant bells ring out

 

What a beautiful walk this morning. One of the blackthorn trees on the edge of the moors, bathed in the warming sun of early spring, was flowering. It must sit in a sun trap, as the other blackthorns nearby were not as magnificently decked out as this beauty. The sky was a clear blue, the morning chill was ebbing away. There were birds everywhere. Woodpeckers (Green and Great Spotted), Buzzards, Chiff-Chaffs, Treecreepers to name some of the more unusual ones.

Managed to get some (I say this humbly!) wonderful photos. Here are four, two of the blackthorn tree in question, one of a feisty wren who took exception to my presence and sat above my head singing loudly at me (I assume telling me in musical terms to “piss off”). And finally a teeny baby frog Debbie found on the moors. It is very early for a juvenile frog, when most of the new brood seem to have only just hatched into tadpoles, seething in the shallow ponds and stagnant parts of the river, not sure how it emerged so quickly as I doubt something this small crawled up onto land last spring.

March 12th

In the misty chill,

River skips through the mill wheel,

Distant tawny calls.

 

I walked back from the station in the dead of night, I’d been to see Arsenal play with my old Dutch friend Chris and his brother in law Ari, both of them enjoying the spat between their two countrymen Van Persie and Krul.

The air was damp with mist and as it was later than normal (I would normally rush back after a game, but I stayed for a goodbye drink) there was no background noise, there was an absence of cars and people. Bizarrely, as I’d lived in the area for years, this was the first time I could hear the river splashing against the old Mill Wheel (now fixed in place) on the edge of Flitwick. I also heard Tawny Owls calling in the far distance.

March 6th

An orange ribbon,

Rolled out between the willows,

Dressing the dark moor.