Only two weeks more of this, our second lockdown. First time around, Spring was in the air and there was some novelty to it. This time, winter creeps in and with Christmas on the horizon it's hard to even imagine how we will celebrate. The exciting news about vaccines this week has given us all a lift. I . . .
I’m trying to unfurl from lockdown. It seems to be a slow process. Like how coming out of hibernation might be for a chubby lazy bear. One of my childhood pets was a tortoise. I think they were popular in those days. It was supposed to go to sleep for the winter. But as there was no internet, we knew very . . .
Spring has been a difficult time. It's not just the social isolating, or the threat the pandemic poses. Our family lost our beloved Step Mother to the Covid 19 virus on April 18th. I've written 4 pieces for the Waterford News and Star since the lockdown. They meander through the last few weeks with the story of what happened . . .
I know pheasants are mostly bred in captivity and therefore can almost be regarded as predators in our wildlife sanctuaries. But somehow, I can't discriminate and here they are, still living in our patch. Charlie is the big fella and he arrived last year. His offspring, a young cock, has long gone or may even be . . .
“We need the tonic of wildness...At the same time that we are earnest to explore and learn all things, we require that all things be mysterious and unexplorable, that land and sea be indefinitely wild, unsurveyed and unfathomed by us because unfathomable. We can never have enough of nature.” ― Henry David Thoreau, Walden: Or, Life in . . .
"This earth is my sister; I love her daily grace, her silent daring and how loved I am, how we admire this strength in each other, all that we have lost, all that we have suffered, all that we know: we are stunned by this beauty and I do not forget; what she is to me, what I am to her." Susan . . .
“Hope” is the thing with feathers by Emily Dickinson “Hope” is the thing with feathers - That perches in the soul - And sings the tune without the words - And never stops - at all - And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard - And sore must be the storm - That could abash the little Bird That kept so many warm - I’ve . . .
Blackbirds with their confident perching seem to have it all sussed. They are gorging on our black currants flying over and back across the garden as if they own the place. The speckled hen blackbirds are a rarer sight. I'm not sure why. Are they shy? Maybe they are just so busy feeding everyone else. That's Motherhood for ya. The . . .
We had just arrived in Northern Brittany. Our first stop was to be a field on the edge of the Ile Callot. You get there by crossing a causeway at low tide. When the tide returns and the day trippers go home, there are only a few occupied houses and the wilderness left. And ourselves of course, camping out under the stars. We woke on . . .
She is centre stage. Claiming her space amongst the other small birds, gritty and determined. Her tiny feathers are ruffled from the sheer speed of her arrival. And in seconds she is gone. I am watching her and mulling over my word for 2017. I notice the thumping of my heart. It is beating over 100,000 times each . . .