The Countryside in November
Sarah Ryan’s senses are awakened on a moonlit night-time walk through the woods
Moths flutter at the window, pale against the blackness of the night. Some settle, wings folded like an antique napkin, pressed on the glass. I find these creatures, with their delicate tissue paper wings and dusty bodies, fascinating and on my way out the door, pause for a few moments to observe those crawling around the pane. They are much easier to see now; the bright windows in the dark evenings a natural lure. Some are cotton white, others coloured and patterned like autumn leaves. There are 2,600 species of moth in Britain, so if I want to learn more about them, and I do, it will take some dedication. I take some notes and leave them to the light.
The moon is bright, and although I have a torch heavy in my pocket, I will try not to use it. I walk down the driveway and turn the corner towards the lake. Soon I have stepped away from the glare of street lights, dancing with flying insects, and towards the darkness of the lake and the woods. The moon glimmers on the water, catching its ripples in milky white. A weeping willow drops graceful pale branches towards the surface. The ducks and geese have largely settled down for the night, but they are roused to a brief, unenthused squabble as I pass.
Attuned to nature
Walking in the dark, I find my senses are acute. I am more alert, my hearing is sharper and my footsteps softer in the quiet night. Somewhere nearby, badgers will be foraging for earthworms, slugs and insects; snorting, snuffling and ploughing long furrows into the ground. I will have to be very quiet, find a good spot and sit silently for a while if I hope to see them. That is a project for another night, equipped with a hat, woolly jumper and good supply of patience. The moonlit path moves away from the shore, passing silvered fields, then turning into the woods. Before stepping under the branches, I stop and gaze upwards. The sky is scattered with stars. I see Ursa Major, the lip of its pan pointing towards Polaris, the North Star. For centuries, people have been guided by its light, and it shines smaller than many, but more valued than most. Further east is Cassiopeia, a dotted ‘W’ in the sky, the rest random sparks. I blink as a single bat flits past. It must be one of the last pipistrelles, snipping up late insects or unlucky moths before joining the rest of the colony to hibernate. I turn now and walk carefully into the
“The dusky waters shudder as they shine; The russet leaves obstruct the straggling way Of oozy brooks, which no deep banks define, And the gaunt woods, in ragged, scant array” hartley Coleridge, ‘November’
“His lonesome path, with unobserving eye Bent earthwards; he looks up--the clouds are split Asunder,--and above his head he sees The clear Moon, and the glory of the heavens” William Wordsworth, ‘A Night-Piece’
woods, still not wanting to turn on my torch. I follow its familiar bends through hedgerow and beneath a twisted oak with an old owl box. There is a tiny scuffling in the undergrowth, a delicate scritching of litter. I guess at a scuttling mouse or a blackbird overturning leaves in search of food. Tawny owls call to one another. I have been listening to them for years, and yet I have never seen one in the wild. I was surprised recently to find out that this silent, elegant hunter is approximately the same size as the clumsy, clattering wood pigeon.
Animal territory
November at night feels like it belongs to the woods and the animals in it, and I am aware that I am walking through a place which is not my home. It belongs to the insects, frogs, foxes, birds and rabbits. As I emerge from the woods onto a meadow, one darts across the path, ears high, white tail bobbing. On the way home, I snap on the torch. The hedgerow beside me flashes into bright, monochrome detail. Tiny moths, electric white in the beam, flit around the leaves. I cast around and see the gleaming discs of reflected eyes beside the path; another rabbit turns and speeds home. A little further on, I spot a shuffling shape, nose down in the rutted field. A muntjac has ventured out beyond its daylight territory to a place where people usually are. In the undisturbed night, he is emboldened, until I pass and he trots back into the trees. It is time for me to leave the night world to its business.