Escaping the rain and leaky roof to the Old Racecourse
I have moved. Left the comfort and familiarity of Wenlock Edge for another liminal place poised on the edge of two counties and countries. I’ve dared to cross the fabled border guarded by Offa’s Dyke, castles, hillforts and some ancient standing stones thrown in for good measure. It’s all very inspiring but this place feels tangibly different and I need to put down some roots as I’m still a little adrift. I’m doing what I always do, what I know works for me. I’m walking the land, feeling the rhythm of the earth beneath my feet here and getting myself properly acquainted with the local trees, birds and hills. There’s plenty to go at as I’m surrounded by a sea of green. Down the road the village is small, a mere dot in the landscape of hill folds and valleys, but once it was a place of importance and power, more of that to come as the tales unfold!
Each morning, I start close to home by greeting the oak tree in the front which is visible from the bedroom window. My partner laughs at my insistence on the curtain being drawn just enough to see ‘my tree’ as we enjoy the first cup of tea to begin the day. For years it was an ash tree that I looked out onto from my home in Wenlock. I loved that tree but I have quickly grown to love this oak tree too, with the horizon of hills beckoning through its branches. Jackdaws made a nest in the hole in the trunk earlier this year and a family of youngsters emerged noisy and excited one spring morning into the light. At night tawny owls use it as a meeting post, or I should say a screeching post, before swooping and hooting along the copse of trees lining the stream. One evening I realised that their flight path goes straight in front of the steps up to the studio as I felt the brush of silent feathers above my head. How wonderful! Owls have always been my absolute favourite birds. There is a prevailing sound here though, that of water, which forms a background noise to each day. It flows constantly down through the stream that gives this old blacksmith’s house its name of ‘Wenffrwd’ meaning ‘white brook’. At night it’s still rumbling away when I throw the windows open to gaze at the stars. The autumn and winter rains swell it to bursting point to the justified concern of our neighbours whose house, the old smithy, sits in the dip below and is consequently, right in its path. I’ve been tracing the source of the brook from the hills above on my walks and watching the way the water has cut deep channels down through the fields, turning and moving huge boulders in its spate.
Rain has been a regular feature of autumn and now we’re properly into winter. We had the first snow two weeks ago and the melt water swelled the brook to a raging torrent. The following week there was a beautiful crystalline hoar frost which turned everything as white as the snow. Snow and frost make me giddy and excited like a child at Christmas but it made for a nervous drive to a yoga class in the next village. The teacher is Finnish and seemed as excited as me about the cold weather as I spent the class staring out of the windows at the scene whilst trying to hold my balancing poses. I still think that snow is the best disguise of all weathers, though the valley changes its colours and moods regularly. Each day heralds something new. Rain, snow, ice, frost, sun, mist. Each one brings a new perspective on the landscape but no matter what the weather, my dog still wants her walks, and so do I. Walking is the key to belonging in this place but now the ground is sodden. The rain seems to have been belligerently unstoppable lately and the surrounding fields are waterlogged. Even the tupping rams look disgruntled and disinterested in performing. Our roof has developed an as yet, unsolvable leak, and buckets are filling with a plinking melody of wet notes. As I read this, the rain is falling steadily and running in rivulets down the lane in front of the cottage. When a short break in the weather appeared last week with just a glimmer of blue sky, it was enough of a sign to get me into the car heading up to the Old Racecourse in search of light and any available views. It was worth it. The sun came out from behind dark clouds and lit up a vista like a pathway beckoning me out into the horizon. The hills stretched off to the west, some still holding a dusting of snow. I don’t know them well enough to name them yet, but the familiar sight was a tonic for the soul and also for a tenacious cold that has lingered on me way past its welcome.
Heading up the track of the old racecourse through the rows of trees once full of rowan berries, haws and crab apples, their limbs are all starkly bare now and blackly silhouetted against the winter sky. It was good to be out and I felt like going further and so did Hollydog, so we followed the little path at the highest point leading off through bushes and mud, past a cottage and small holding, exciting Holly with its chickens. Somewhere to my left I heard the coarse, almost hissing call of a jay and scanned over the hedgerow into the field to catch sight of a family of three flitting between a group of trees. Intrigued by this field, full of dips and hollows as if it had been quarried in the past, I noticed a way marked post in the middle and decided to explore. After following the lane to a crossroad, I then turned back to where the jays were and found myself between a mixed copse of tall, planted pines and opportunist silver birch. I love the way these pioneering trees self-seed and colonise even the most unappealing soil. The ground here was waterlogged too and covered in groups of common club-rush making a home in the damp pools beneath. These were traditionally used for weaving baskets and mats and I used to collect them from a spring where I lived before to make into Bridie crosses for Imbolc or St Brigid’s Day. Now I know where to find some here, though the fields around the cottage have plenty of wet areas on offer too!
The scene was hushed and silent until disturbed by the loud hissing of squirrel fights in the trees above me. Something had them spooked and I scanned the trees with my binoculars as it felt like an ‘owl’ kind of place, but the light was already starting to fade. We’re approaching the winter solstice, the ‘sun-stop’ and the days are short and dark, so instead I headed back home. The almost full moon was coming up brightly behind me and my dog barked at it as usual. She always seems to want to chase the moon away. I stood for a few moments to watch it climb above the treeline before the cold and start of more rain forced me to move. It was only a brief dry spell but worth every minute to come out and breathe in the chance of light. It will soon be the shortest day of all and then we can look forward to the light returning. This place is beginning to feel like home!
Follow my tales each month on my WordPress website.
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These blogs are also printed each month in the Tanat, Cain and Vyrnwy Valley chronicle and also recored for the East Shropshire Talking Newspaper taking people with visual impairment or mobility issues out into nature.
