The countryside in December

Sarah Ryan wraps up against the December chill to visit an ageing friend and subdued waters on an early morning walk

THE GRASS CRUNCHES softly beneath my boot, leaving a perfect print in the frost. Looking back, I trace the dark green patches of my footsteps across a swathe of silver. Ahead, this early in the morning, the park is almost untouched; my prints making the first marks on a shimmering lawn.

Cloud hangs low over the lake, giving the landscape a pearly lustre. Higher up in the sky, the haze has a luminous glow where the weak winter sun shines through, lifting and dissolving it; hinting at a brighter day to come. Ducks and gulls are silhouetted on the water, and there is the elegant, unmistakable curve of a swan’s neck. This is a favoured spot for overwintering birds, with Mediterranean, Little and Yellow-legged gulls all roosting around the lake.

My boots slip slightly on the frozen and frosted mud path when I reach it, and I follow it towards the old oak.

This is one of my favourite trees: a classic umbrella shape, its branches reach wide and low, so that when I duck underneath them in full leaf, I feel like I have entered a private, green room. In winter, the effect is more like standing in a conservatory, its old branches framing glassy patches of the view. I run my hands over the rough ridges of the trunk, some as thick as my thumb, and take in its familiar shape. The huge lower bough is worn smooth on the upper side after years of people climbing up into the nook at its centre. Leaning back against the tree, the cold of the wood wears through my jacket, and the curve of the trunk slots neatly between my shoulder blades. The oak stands as firm as ever among its dropped leaves. After two seasons of taking nourishment from the tree, it is the leaf’s turn to flake and mulch, feeding the soil and the roots of the tree.

The wind moves gently through the branches, and a bunch of gulls lift off the water, with rude, clattering squawks. The air smells like damp leaves, earth and the tang of the cold. Our usual mild south-westerly has been replaced by a chill northerly wind.

“The damp stands on the long green grass As thick as morning’s tears, And dreamy scents of fragrance pass That breathe of other years”

Emily Brontë, ‘Mild the Mist upon the Hill’

Slowing down

Ducking out from under the branches, I walk over to the gate, which leads to a small nature reserve. Here, there are bird hides, ponds, patches of coppiced woodland and a small area of grass given over to meadow flowers in the summer. Now, it is still, and the longer grasses glint with rainbow colours when the sun catches them. The ponds have gone into a kind of stasis: the fish dwelling in a drifting torpor near the bottom; the frogs burrowed into the pond mud or

under rocks; dragonfly eggs laid in late summer; all wait in a state of suspended development, called diapause, for spring. Life in the pond has moved into a state of very slow motion.

Treasures to be found

In the woods, I find the first snatches of colour: old red rose hips still on the bush and a floor of polished green ivy leaves. Any impression I might have had of things being dead or somehow stopped is dispelled with a little close attention. There is an elder tree sprouting jelly-ear fungus, Auricularia auricula-judae. These small, brown cups look just like their name, are velvety to the touch and take on flavours wonderfully when dried. I pull off a mitten so I can carefully peel a couple of them off the tree. The cold air immediately grips my fingers, and I quickly strip a few of the fungi from the branch; grateful anew for the scratchy warmth of my woollen mitten when I put it back on.

Stepping out of the wood and into the meadow, I see that the sun has warmed a blue line across the horizon, and the frost has begun to melt where the rays touch it; a swell of green rising up the field.

In one corner, a few nuzzling rabbits prick their ears and scarper. I take a deep breath, and the sharp cold of the air fills my chest, reddens my cheeks and brings sparkles to my eyes. It is going to be a beautiful day.

“The cold earth slept below; Above the cold sky shone”

Percy Bysshe Shelley, Ô The Cold Earth Slept Below’

Left to right: Shadowy footprints in the crisp grass; a swan glides gracefully across a lake; Little gulls, Hydrocoloeus minutus, in the shallows; creviced, lichen-covered bark; the oak’s framework.

The gentle, pale glow of the early sun starts to warm up the December day and the frost disappears.

Left to right: Fallen oak leaves drift on the water’s surface; mittens on as the cold starts to bite; rubbery, jelly-ear fungus grows on damp wood.

Sarah Ryan grew up in the Scottish Borders, climbing trees and poring over wildlife books. She still makes time daily to get out into the woods nearby and now runs mindful camping retreats at www.thewildwalkhome.com. Inspiration comes from Roger Deakin, Nan Shepherd and Kathleen Raine, and the birds that come crying in at dusk.