The countryside in November
As the leaves continue to fall, Sarah Ryan observes how nature is adapting to the season of transition
As the wind hurls another handful of rain against the window, which clatters against the glass, I tuck my feet further under the thick wool blanket. The ticking of the central heating tells me that the radiator is starting to warm up, and I think that, rather than go out for a walk, I will stay here, immersed in my book.
But, glancing out the window, I see the grey clouds breaking apart and sunlight sparkling through raindrops clinging to the branches. I imagine stepping outside to inhale a lungful of fresh, cool air, rich with the scent of damp earth and wet grass. All of a sudden, the draw that was keeping me indoors reverses, and I leave the book, pages down, on the couch, beside the rumpled blanket. Its story can be told later.
Outside, a fine rain falls gently on my face, beading lightly on the stray fibres of my jumper. It is falling now, miraculously it seems, from a blue sky. The pale grey clouds have broken apart and scattered like startled sheep across a hillside.
The walk takes me first into a small woodland of beech, ash and the chalky white trunks of birch trees still strung with flickering yellow leaves. Some have drifted onto the path and will be slowly trodden into a nutritious brown mush. I pause by a huge oak and gaze up into its thick, twisting branches. Its leaves are fox-brown: the last to change, but still holding on.
Fallen acorns
With a small, dull thump, an acorn falls from high above and bounces to a stop among the torn leaves. There are hundreds of acorns; some cracked, nibbled; scattered between the tree’s roots, which seem as twisted and tangled as the branches above. I pick up an acorn cup, pitted and rough on the outside and smooth as sanded wood inside, and fit it to my thumb like a small hat.
A sudden skittering noise betrays the presence of a squirrel, and I look up to see it sprint along a branch, then leap, grey tail trailing, into a neighbouring tree. Presumably, that acorn was not deemed good enough to save. Ones that do pass the test will be buried in a scrape of soft earth, which is patted down for later. These lithe, agile creatures do not retain enough body fat to hibernate, so will rely on the stores they make now, to keep them going through the frozen
“November’s sky is chill and drear, November’s leaf is red and sear” sir walter scott, ‘Ettrick Forest in November’
months, when pickings are lean. High up in the branches, one squirrel chatters to another.
Beside the water
The walk passes out of the shade of the woods and into bright sunshine; its warmth tempered by the cool, rain-washed air. The lake, steel grey earlier, is now a deep blue, ticked with white. A merry clank, like the ringing of cowbells, carries across the grass where the boats have been hauled up, sails bound to the mast. On weekends, they charge around the water; pale triangles leaning into the wind. But now, only a few rowing boats bob out there: fishermen bundled in waterproofs against the spray. Trout linger here in the depths along with perch and the heavy-jawed pike.
After pulling away from the lake for a while, the path dives back into trees, then re-emerges at a lawn beside the water. Canada and Greylag geese forage for grass and leaves, in long lines, wing-to-wing. Sightings of unusual waterfowl have been logged here: scaup, scoter and red-crested pochard. There is a huddle of ducks on the water now, and I wonder if there are any among the mallards. Above, a Red kite wheels.
I crouch for a while, looking out over the water, then turn back towards the woods, my boots sliding on the wet clay. Soon, it will be bonfire night, but the colours of that huge, bright blaze are already here, flashing in the trees.
“Oh, good gigantic smile o’ the brown old earth, This autumn morning! How he sets his bones To bask i’ the sun, and thrusts out knees and feet For the ripple to run over in its mirth” Robert Browning, ‘Among the Rocks’