The countryside in January
Sarah Ryan wakes early to make the most of a cold, crisp morning with a winter’s walk to the lake
FRONDS OF FROST curl across the bedroom window, glimmering white against a blue sky. It has been a cold night, but the early sun is bright. At the edges, the frost flowers shimmer into rainbow droplets, then fade to a cloudy fuzz. Beads of condensation trickle down the inside of the pane. I trace one with my finger, then open the window to inhale the crisp scent of a winter morning. The cold burns, and the sun dazzles the eye as it crests the treetops. Leaving the window open for now, I start casting around for my hat and gloves.
The kettle bubbles to a noisy boil as I pull on a thick pair of socks and shove my feet roughly into my boots. Steam gushes up from the flask as I pour the still-bubbling water over the teabag, slosh in the milk and screw on the cap. I am not prepared to wait today. The morning tea will have to come with me.
Outside, the cold brings tears to my eyes, and my breath comes out in a puff of white. I walk carefully; the pavement is slick with ice crystals; the puddles as hard as cracked glass. As I pass one of the houses, a sweet, spicy fragrance mingles briefly with the tang of the cold, and I pause for a moment, close my eyes and breathe it in. A witch hazel, Hamamelis x intermedia, reaches over the wall, bearing fingers of pale yellow flowers. They are a deep sunset orange at the base, springing from a dark, garnet-coloured bud.
The scent, potent enough to lure scarce winter pollinators from afar, is bewitching, and it is easy to imagine that this might have given the shrub its name. But it has its origins in the Old English ‘wice’, which in turn has its roots in a Germanic word meaning ‘bend’. The plant casts a mesmerising spell with its fragrance, but it is the pliable branches that give it its name.
Shades of the season
Crossing the road, I walk quickly down to the lake. The water soaks up the sky’s bright blue colour, deepens it, and reflects back a darker hue. With the excitement of the morning tingling in my fingertips, I set off on a quick march along the lakeside, through the nature reserve and into the woods.
The last of the previous year’s hips cling soft and frost-shrivelled to the branches. Clover leaves sprout up from the mud, and leaf litter and glossy holly leaves thrust a space for themselves in the hedgerow; their deep green is a welcome sight amid the winter brown.
“After a cup of tea (two spoonsful for each cup, and don’t let it stand more than three minutes), it says to the brain, ‘Now, rise, and show your strength. Be eloquent, and deep, and tender; see, with a clear eye, into Nature and into life’”
Jerome K Jerome, Three Men in a Boat
Part way along the path is an ancient oak, with an owl box wedged in its mighty boughs. I look up for any sign of the silent bird and scuff my boots through the litter below the box, searching for pellets and stray feathers.
Into the meadow
Soon the woodland starts to narrow, light reaching through the trees on the left and patches of blue breaking through the branches on the right. In a couple of paces, I walk out of the damp shade of the trees into a meadow and the brightness of the sun. Even on this cold day, I feel its warmth. Rabbits scatter, bobtails flashing. Rushes bend with a dry rustle in the breeze.
In the corner of the meadow is a solitary bench. Droplets of water have beaded on the dark wood, and I grip my sleeve with my fingertips, rubbing the heel of my hand over the slats to get the worst of the wetness off, then turn and sit myself down.
Plumes of steam billow out of the flask, and I burn my tongue with the first sip of tea. The liquid is so hot I can barely taste it.
As I wait for it to cool, I let my eyes rest on the view: the deep blue lake, spindly trees and distant fields. Then, forming a wavering ‘V’ in a perfect winter sky, the geese come honking in.
“Winter’s not gone yet, if the wild geese fly that way”
William Shakespeare, King Lear