The countryside in June
Sarah Ryan takes a riverside stroll to meet friends for an evening around the campfire, at one with nature
RAGGED ROBIN, FUCHSIA red; forget-me-nots as blue as the sky; yellow daisies, with white ruffs; their petals sometimes touched with pink: the meadow is full of vivid life. Bumblebees drone from flower to flower, and butterflies flit restlessly between plants, pausing only briefly to fold their wings. Not just the meadow, but the whole natural world seems to be declaring its presence, celebrating these warm days of summer. The longest day is only a couple of weeks away.
By the riverside
I have arranged to meet some friends at the riverbank to spend the evening around a fire. There are a few hours until then, so I set off early to make the most of a languorous afternoon stroll beside the river. It moves slowly through a tunnel of trees, dappled with light and drifting leaves. The willows trail their long, graceful branches over the flow; their bulging roots climbing down through water and soil. Grass snakes have been seen here, curving through the ripples: I tread lightly so as not to frighten any away. I would love to see one.
The wood is at its youthful best right now. Sprouting from the base of a coppiced tree, the hazel leaves are as green as sour apples. Some are touched with a reddish-purple hue, as though wax crayon has been rubbed across them. The birch leaves are just as bright, and soft as cotton.
Cooling off
Our meeting point on the riverbank is cool and quiet when I arrive. I am the first one there, so I kick off my sandals, sit down on the bank and lower my feet into the water. The grass, allowed to grow long, is cool and soft, and the water feels as cold as a fridge when I dip my toes in. My feet look pale and green, magnified and distorted by the river water. Gazing down, I try to make out the tiny minnows that flicker in and out of the light. They swim daringly towards the wider river, then dart back to the safety of the shadowed bank once more. A swan glides elegantly past, leaving a low, trailing wake.
Evening song
When everyone else arrives, and the light starts to fade, we make a fire in a little rocky pit scattered with ashes and charred sticks. With the warmth of the sun gone, a chill is creeping into the air, and we wrap ourselves in blankets and huddle closer to the flames. They leap up
“Where-e’er you walk, cool gales shall fan the glade, Trees, where you sit, shall crowd into a shade, Where-e’er you tread, the blushing flow’rs shall rise, And all things flourish where you turn your eyes” Alexander Pope, ‘Summer’
in tongues of orange and yellow: a stick breaks in a burst of momentary sparks that cool and vanish as quickly as they appear. We rearrange ourselves constantly; moving around the fire to escape wafts of smoke that sting the eyes; drawing back our toes when they become too hot; shifting closer when the flames die down a little. My face and feet are warm, but I can feel the cool of the night behind me, just outside our little flickering circle.
Musical accompaniment
After a few hours, a bird begins to sing. It chirps, cheeps, flutes and chatters. It pauses before it churrs, creaks and flutes again. It is as though the bird has discovered a new range of sounds and is eager to test them all to discover what can be done with its marvellous music box throat.
We get up and walk to the river; shoulders draped with blankets and the smell of woodsmoke drifting along with us. Then we stand on the bank, whispering to one another, squinting into the darkness and trying to point in the vague direction of the bird. “Is it a nightingale?” someone asks.
It is. And we stand quietly; listening as it sings on, in high notes and low; changing register with an ease that few other birds can match.
n“O nightingale that on yon bloomy spray Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still, Thou with fresh hope the lover’s heart dost fill”
John Milton, ‘To The Nightingale’