The countryside in January
Sarah Ryan is spotting squirrels and enjoying winter’s colour in both the woodland and the late afternoon sky
Slanting through the trees, the low winter sun falls on the trunk of an old wild cherry, its bark catching the light like burnished silver. Flakes of it peeling away reveal a russet-red underside, and lenticels, dashed horizontal lines, encircle the trunk. As I pass, I take off my gloves and run my hands over the surface. It turns from satin smooth to thick, warty and rough.
Protective coat
A gust of wind comes, and, although it is a soft breeze at ground level among the trees, it clatters the dry, leafless branches above me together. Looking up, the sky is a vivid blue between their stark, criss-crossing lines. A grey squirrel runs along one of the branches, its body a long, furry ripple, and crosses to the slender branches of a neighbouring tree with gymnastic ease. Another skitters in the leaf litter not far from my feet, then sits and looks boldly forward. It remains motionless enough to make out the chestnut tinge to its face, body and tail, and the clean purity of its white underbelly. Up in the trees, this white belly offers valuable camouflage, making it harder for predators prowling below to discern it clearly against the bright sky. On the ground, it helps to even out the squirrel’s colouring, with the darker fur on top indistinct in its surroundings. As the squirrel turns and bounds towards a tree trunk, I marvel at how nothing in nature is entirely accidental. The colour of the winter woodland is in its fur, with browns so dark they appear almost black, alongside warm bronze tones, greys and bright whites.
Food and shelter
One colour not present in the squirrel’s fur is the darker, bottle-green of the ivy, Hedera helix, which clambers up and over everything it comes near. It runs along the edges of the path, creeps over tree stumps and binds itself around trunks and branches. Hiding among it are hundreds of tiny insects, slumbering the winter away. More visible are the clusters of black, dusty-looking berries, each crowned with a short, woody stalk. These are important food sources for wildlife in January, providing valuable calories and gobbled whole by thrushes, redwings, blackcaps and blackbirds.
The ivy trails all along the path until it leads out of the woods, up to a wider track and over a railway bridge. Sometimes an old steam train chugs
“Blow, blow, thou Winter Wind, Thou art not so unkind, as Man’s Ingratitude”
William Shakespeare, As You Like It
through, hooting its horn and puffing white smoke. Children press their hands and faces to carriage windows and wave at any bundled-up walkers outside, who usually grin and wave back. I lean for a minute on the cold brickwork and look down the tracks, waiting to see if a train will come today. But, for now, it is quiet, save for the caw of a crow overhead, and I wander back into the wood, my boots slipping in the thick clay mud.
Hunting for worms
Back under the yews, the ground is soft and dry, scattered with dark green needles and squashed scarlet fruits. It has been rutted in places by hungry badgers, thrusting their snouts into the ground on the hunt for worms. For the moment, they will be curled up together, sleeping underground until they re-emerge after dusk. Then, each badger will need to eat approximately 160 earthworms to survive.
A golden warmth in the light tells me that sunset will soon be approaching, and I turn to walk back home. I will take the path around the woods this time, hoping to see the colours of the sky through the bare branches. I curl my fingers inside my woollen mittens, and I pull the hood of my coat up. The cold wind makes my eyes water and numbs the end of my nose, but from within my cosy layers, I watch the sky turn a vivid pink, purple, orange and blue. Though December has passed, the season is still bearing gifts.
“The squirrel, flippant, pert, and full of play. He sees me, and at once, swift as a bird, Ascends the neighbouring beech; there whisks his brush, And perks his ears, and stamps and scolds aloud”
William Cowper, ‘The Squirrel’