The Courier & Advertiser (Fife Edition)
Pungent carpet of tawny beech leaves a reminder seasons never at standstill
Our Scottish vernacular has a wealth of expressive pithy proverbs which condense a reflection on life into a handful of words. A favourite of my Loanhead aunties was: “It’s the withered leaf that hings the longest” (though some called it the sere leaf ), which refers to that one desiccated, yellow leaf that defies all Nature’s forces to dislodge it from its branch.
At this time of year, when the trees are stripped of their foliage, you can look up into their bare boughs which only weeks ago were a canopy of greenery and, as likely as not, you’ll see that one fragile leaf hanging on to its source of life. Shakespeare wrote of “yellow autumn” and the poet Shelley of hearing the “autumnal leaves like light footfalls of spirits”. I know what they meant.
Out walking with Inka, yellow is one of the dominant woodland colours, so Shakespeare was pretty well on the mark with his description. The bracken has turned through sallow mustard to its winter crotal brown. Larches are the only conifer to shed their needles, which die back to a light malt whisky gold, littering the woodland floor. We walk on a carpet of tawny beech leaves. Seen in their autumn glory of browns and ochre and raw umber, it’s little wonder that the beech has been a favourite tree of generations of improving landowners. A dying sycamore leaf finally gave up its hold on life, spiralling down to land with a scratchy whisper – one of Shelley’s light footfalls of spirits.
In just several short months even those enduring withered leaves will be gone, dislodged by the urgency of new growth and regeneration that tells us we are on the threshold of spring. Meanwhile, it is time for raking up more beech leaves for another bonfire. Their pungent smell is unmistakable and a reminder of the perennial progress of the seasons.
My Loanhead aunties used the expression to describe elderly men and women who outlived all their contemporaries. The survivors – indestructible – defying age and gloriously celebrating life. My mother’s version of the old adage was: “It’s the creaking gate that hings the longest.” Despite creaking limbs, rheumatiz and sore bones, there are always some who outlast the rest of us. Mother was 92 when she died, so perhaps she knew what she was talking about.
Fog flummoxes geese
Fog is mist with visibility of less than 1,000 metres, whereas mist is still mist but with visibility greater than 1,000 metres. There may not have been out-and-out pea soupers, but there has been some decidedly foggy weather in recent days. Fog disorients and confuses the geese. Out last thing with Inka, a pack of greylags were circling round, attracted by the hazy glow of light from the village street lighting, questing and calling to each other in the gloom.
They tend to follow established flight lines in and out of their roosts, frequenting the same fields to graze, using visual landmarks to assist navigation within their favoured locality. Their navigational landmarks were obscured and they were calling to make contact with geese already on the ground because they are social birds and like to feed in the company of others.
Wildlife generally are affected by the weather. Waterfowl and the likes of otters are adapted to a watery life but for other creatures fur and feathers are protection against the elements only for so long.
I’ve hardly seen a pheasant scratching about on the stubbles – they’ve taken to the shelter of the woods. From beneath a hedge of broom Inka put up a covey of our native grey partridge, which was exciting in itself, as they have suffered such a decline in numbers. I know where to look for brown hares which live above ground, but with so much standing water in the fields they have taken to the shelter of the woods, too.
Opportunist feeders
I heard an interview on Radio 4 about gulls that congregate on a school roof just before the children come out to eat their lunch. The gulls had learned that there would be scraps for scavenging and the interviewee seemed surprised that they should have learned the habit.
I find nothing surprising about it. Gulls are opportunist feeders, always on the lookout for an easy meal. I’ve written about Inka’s internal time clock which rings at 6 o’clock and he nudges my elbow, telling me it’s supper time. Humans are little different. We stop for breakfast, lunch and tea, and sometimes in between, as our stomachs tell us it’s time for the next meal.
I started with the yellow, sere leaves of autumn and I’ll finish with the opening lines of a poem by Scots poet Hew Ainslie (1792-1878) – It’s dowie in the hint o’ hairst, / At the wa-gang o’ the swallow, / When the wind grows cold, and the burns grow bauld, / An’ the wuds are hingin’ yellow.
The gulls had learned that there would be scraps for scavenging