The countryside in June
Sarah Ryan discovers a quiet riverside spot to enjoy the sights and sounds of wildlife on a midsummer bike ride
The crunch of gravel turns to silence as I swing my bike onto a narrow trail of barely flattened grass and away from the wide track I have been cycling along. It caught my eye as I spun past, a slight passage between trees and riverbank, and I quickly turned back. The long grasses tangle and knot in the spokes, so I dismount and wheel the bike beside me, footsteps falling gently in the soft, thick green.
The little path passes between oak and willow on one side; the slow, stately river on the other; sunlight dabbling its surface. There is so little sign of anyone’s passage, I do not even know whose trail I am following: maybe a badger’s evening hunting route; maybe a track worn down by the scampering paws of a warren of rabbits; maybe a solitude-seeking fisherman. Between a giant oak, with thickly ridged bark, and the grass-fringed riverbank, I stop and drop my bike. It is the perfect lunch spot.
The grass here is thick and soft, and I am in no hurry, so I lie back and watch the sunlight play on young green oak leaves. Cotton-white clouds gather on the horizon but, directly above, the midday sky is a deep, satiny blue, and a bird, silhouetted against the sunlight like a scrap of fabric caught on the wind, glides between the trees. The light falling on my skin warms me from head to toe, and my eyelids slowly drift closed.
“The simple ayre, the gentle warbling wynde, So calme, so coole, as no where else I fynde: The grassye ground with daintye Daysies dight” edmund Spenser, ‘The Shepheardes Calender: June’
Peaceful pause
In the warm darkness, I play with a blade of the thick, blue-green grass which makes my cushion, rubbing the velvety surface idly between my fingers; finding the fold which runs its whole length. A great tit chups from somewhere in the trees, a regular creaky kind of squeak, and another answers. The coolness of the grass and deeper cold of the earth and stones begin to seep upwards, and I bask for a minute, caught almost precisely between the heat of the summer sun and the cold ground. The river passes as quietly as the barely flickering leaves. The sunlight makes red patterns on my closed lids, and somewhere, a squirrel chatters.
When I open my eyes, I see a tiny snail paused between the branching stems of a tall grass. Its translucent shell glows a pale amber and, from antennae to tail, it is no bigger than my little fingernail. When I touch it gently, I find that it has
the same fine strength. The sunlight filters through this young shell, not yet fully hardened, not yet patterned, and I hope that it survives into adulthood. Sitting up carefully so as not to knock the little snail from its place, I feel the slow, languorous weight of my limbs, heavy with sunlight. I sit for a few moments and gaze lazily at the river.
Life on the river
In a flash of brilliant turquoise, a kingfisher darts from its branch across the silvery water, and I scramble to my knees just in time to see it vanish into the trees. Downstream, a heron waits with perfect poise. Curious, I move forward to look into the water for minnows, which will come and nibble toes. Some dash in and out of the weed; some hang; small straight bars of silver, which scatter when I dabble my fingers in the water. A bumblebee, dark brown almost to black, with a fuzz of red tail, crawls over a white clover flower, then takes off with a loud buzz. It will soon be time for me to leave too, but I linger. The paths, busy with dog walkers and families, are only a few minutes away, and I want to enjoy the seclusion of this quiet spot, discovered by accident, for a little while longer.
Sarah Ryan grew up in the Scottish Borders, climbing trees and poring over wildlife books. Those habits have little changed and she still makes time daily to get out into the woods nearby, or at weekends to venture further afield. Inspiration comes from Roger Deakin, Nan Shepherd, Kathleen Raine, Chris Watson and outside the window.
“And though she doth but very softly go, However, ‘tis not fast nor slow, but sure; And certainly they that do travel so, The prize they do aim at they do procure” John Bunyan, ‘Upon a Snail’