The countryside in December
Sarah Ryan takes an early lakeside walk as the wildlife in the frozen woodland begin to awaken around her
It is still dark when the front door clunks closed behind me, and I set off for a morning walk. The silhouetted trees are black against a dark blue sky; like paper cut-outs in the backdrop of a shadow play. Between the branches glimmer the last stars of the morning. As I cross the road to the gritted track that leads towards the lake, my boots slide on a slick of frost coating the surface. A shallow frozen puddle shines in the light of the streetlamps, but over the road and down the track, there are no lights except for those points shining in the sky far above and the tissue-white moon.
The constellation of Cassiopeia leans over the horizon; a wonky ‘w’ in bright dots. The Plough hangs upside down, the far edge of its scoop pointing towards the dimly shining North Star.
Safety on the water
Out on the lake, the Canada and Greylag geese roost, safe from the claws and teeth of any predators roaming the shore. There may be other birds among them: Great Crested grebes, shelducks and Tufted ducks, but it is too early and dark to tell. With a sudden commotion of squawking and flapping wings, a small group moves away. There is a chattering splash, then quiet again.
I wander along the lake shore, past a willow trailing bare, slender branches and a gnarled and naked oak. Puffs of breath dissipate quickly in the cold air as blue floods the sky, and the grass crunches under my feet, leaving shadowy boot prints in the silvery frost.
Nature’s food store
As I approach the woods, a Tawny owl hoots, and I leave the track for a dirt path between the trees; the previously sloppy mud now frozen hard. Among the tangles of brown and grey branches are bunches of waxy red rosehips. They are packed with vitamin C and will provide an ongoing feast for the birds over winter. If the hairy, irritating seeds are scraped out, they provide nourishment for humans too.
I am listening hard for the call of a Long-eared owl, which lives in these woods. This magnificent, secretive bird makes a sound like someone sneezing through a party blower. But there is just the rustling of a blackbird turning leaves in the undergrowth until, from the hedgerow nearby, a robin shrieks out its winter song. Its chest is as red as embers. The path twists on through the trees:
“The heavenly-harness’d team Begins his golden progress in the east” William shakespeare, Henry IV
almost all the leaves have fallen, trodden into a brown mush that is already beginning to rot down, soon to be processed through the bellies of earthworms. Not the beech though: its crinkled orange leaves cling resolutely to the branches, and when I try to pluck one off, it tears in my fingers.
Soon the path leads out of the copse and into a muddy meadow backing onto the lake shore.
Teasels, their prickly heads laced with spider web, stand up out of the mud, and tall reeds waver gently in the breeze. At the sound of my approach, a colony of rabbits, hunched and nibbling in the grass, scatter. I take a deep breath of the chill December air and look out across the water as a line of bright orange streaks the sky.
As I pass the fields of winter crops, the scent of woodsmoke drifts down from the village. I think of the oats soaking in the pan on the stove back home and of the apples, gathered a few months ago and stewed with cinnamon and raisins, ready to be ladled on top. My stomach rumbles: I am ready for breakfast. When I get back, I will load some logs on the fire and watch it crackle into red and yellow life, made all the warmer by this invigorating early winter walk.
Sarah Ryan grew up in the Scottish Borders, climbing trees and poring over wildlife books. Those habits have little changed and she still makes time daily to get out into the woods nearby, or at weekends to venture further afield. Inspiration comes from Roger Deakin, Nan Shepherd, Kathleen Raine, wildlife recordist Chris Watson, and outside the window.