JOURNAL ENTRY
18th September, Friday
“Standing beside the convocation of oaks
First geese fly over and then the raven pair.
On days like this, even these friendly fields
Remember that they cannot be tamed.”
[MUSIC]
WELCOME
A blustering westerly rakes her fingers up the canal, churning placid water to chop. The reeds and rushes bend low, and the alders whisper like a sighing tide.
This is the narrowboat Erica narrowcasting into the darkness of a September night to you wherever you are.
Welcome, how are you? I hope you’re okay. I am so glad that you managed to pop by, I was hoping you’d be able to come. It’s a nice night, but it is a bit blowy, so why not come inside and take the weight off your feet and shoulders for a short while? The kettle is on, the biscuit barrel is full, and there is a seat waiting especially for you. So come inside, mind your head on the hatch and welcome aboard.
[MUSIC]
NEWS FROM THE MOORINGS
Mornings of heavy dew and slow light. The canal as heavy and as silent as mercury. Misty horizons and jackdaw call. The bent long grass of the desire paths of the Five Apostles on Horse Hill, wet maned and soft muzzled, are jewelled with the glitter of cobwebs and dew. Rich creamy domes of field mushrooms burst from the soil; puhpowee – the Potawatomi word for “the force that causes mushrooms to push up from the earth overnight”. Rooks gather around the convocation of oaks, wild and ragged and beautiful. Magpies wing, long-tailed, like heraldic figures volant, spearing the mackerel skies with witch’s cackle. An iridescent tail feather floats down into the mud.
The canal’s closure is still in place, though we have just had notification that the 14-day mooring rule will be reinstated at the beginning of October. Resevoirs feeding the system are still very low, but we seem to be moving in the right direction. And the moorhen has left her nest. I haven’t spotted any chicks, but I’ve not spent too much time down there and so it doesn’t necessarily indicate anything bad has happened. I’m just pleased that her precarious nest didn’t get washed away by passing boats.
The geese that I talked about in the last episode didn’t return – or at least I should say haven’t returned yet. Although, a swan did visit us for a short while, but he or she (they were a little way off and so couldn’t quite see) has also moved on.
It has left this stretch primarily in the care of the ducks and, of course a few moorhens. They continue to group themselves ready for the coming winter. This morning, I came across two groups (one of nine and the other of six) down in the wooded section, where oak and ash link arms over the canal. I looked for orange beak, but couldn’t spot him. I say ‘him’ as I know that females have more oranger bills than males, but his plumage strikes me as being more male than female. But then again, the plumage is a little different from the others and I wonder whether it is a feral domestic duck that has joined the community here – or maybe a genetic throwback. It is also a bit difficult to tell between males and females as a number are still in eclipse, where the experience a rapid moult of their feathers. The males particularly look dishevelled and care-worn. For a few days a couple of weeks ago, one drake was sporting a distinctive loo-brush look, his dull green head feathers, all askew and sticking up in all directions. Mating season over, things calm down a bit within the community. Pairs stick closely together, the males (attached and unattached) ceding dominance to the females. There is safety in numbers and, for all their tension and in-fighting, the ducks know it and seem happy to share their uncertain world with others.
Above them, that same process of gathering is replicated among the rooks. Almost daily, the group seems to grow larger. Siblings and offspring return to their family groups and family groups join together. Soon the selection of nesting sites will begin again. But for now, the young learn to spread playful wings on wilder winds and strut and preen on the fishing-fields of sheep and cow under the watchful eye of their sentry guardians.
This is how autumn comes – before the goldening of leaf and the mellow mists and bonfire smoke. It’s in the shifting dynamic of bird flocks and communities; the avian politics and economies of life. When individuals and pairs of the summer once more meld and merge into the wider community. The pulse and rhythm of the earth’s year.
[MUSIC]
CABIN CHAT
[MUSIC]
AUTUMN DRIFT
“Autumn begins –
In the drifting clouds
The wind can be seen.”
Chora
“Early autumn -
The evening shower becomes
A night of rain.”
Taigi
The shifts in light and wash of subtle colours bring the undeniable feel of autumn’s presence. Sounds too; the dusk anthems of jackdaw and rook, westerlies blowing through the summer-old leaves of the alders. And the earthy smells of mushroom and damp marl. Cabin lights and pulled curtains as dusk rides upon the flood tide. The last few months I have watched the setting sun’s southward march. In the blaze of dry mid-June heat, I sat on the stern deck – too hot sit directly on the bare metal, impatiently waiting for it to sink behind the large ash on the hill above us to give us some respite and shade from the white-hot blinding glare of its reflection on the water. That is as far north on its annual pilgrimage along our western skyline that it travels. The point of pause, the still point of rest before the southward journey into our winter begins. And now, in three months, I have watched its solitary southward journey, like a reclusive monk, begging bowl strapped to his back, on holy caṅkama; it has already travelled three and a bit fist-widths along the horizon.
But for all the differences, it has been a gentle drift, this slow slide into autumn. True, there is often now a distinct chill of dusk and dawn, lifting off the water – though the water still remains warm to touch. But the days remain mild and sometimes warm even. News timelines fill with shrill forecasts of ‘another heatwave to blast Britain. Click here to find the exact times and locations.” But in all truth, this is nothing out of the ordinary. September is known for its hot spells. They are what gives this time that languid, and almost melancholic feel. The last long lingering kisses of summer. The last night of our holiday romance with the sun.
Just one more evening sitting on the stern feeling the canal water between my toes. Just one more dreamy evening, when the heat of day begins to cool, watching the bats dart and flit, as the stars begin to wink open. Just one more afternoon of tall clouds and blue skies, sitting on the hill among the tall grasses watching the swallows scythe the air with druidic grace.
It’s not so much as trying to hold on to something that you know is leaving or dying. I have to say, like many, I am REALLY looking forward to autumn proper – although, by all accounts, it could be a rocky one. But as summer drifts into autumn, it’s more about relishing; savouring the taste of those last few bites. And because of that, the days filled with the whispered echoes of summer become extra special, times to be treasured; not rushed, but appreciated. Gentle, golden days of young autumn. Days when there is nothing better than sitting on a style by a country lane and watching the rooks gather across harvested fields, or leaning on the sun-warmed brick of a bridge parapet and looking down into the water below.
Felix Dennis knew this well.
‘I have wasted the day’ by Felix Dennis
[READING]
Or listen to his
‘Autumn Harvest’ by Felix Dennis
[READING]
I am struck by that last line. What is it about the thought autumn that makes me also think of books? I suppose it is the thought of hunkering down, curling up, hedgehog-like, lost in a book.
Even during the heat of August, I was meeting people who were saying how much they were looking forward to lighting their boat stoves and curling up with a book. And I totally understood. It wasn’t about the heat – we had plenty of that – it was the feeling of the need to nestle down in your own little space; to feel cosy and safe, to enjoy the protective sense of being home. There is something so comforting and – right now, in such a chaotic world – attractive.
Felix Dennis mentions both pears and apples. It seems to be a bumper year for both (around here, at least). Last year was a mast year for acorns and beech nuts – those years of super abundant harvest. This year, it seems to have been a mast year for fruit. A soft rather than hard mast. People who don’t usually mention this type of thing to me, have commented on the abundance of blackberry and sloe. I’ve also been noting other berries, like black bryony and haws. Strangely, rosehips don’t seem to be quite so prolific this year, but I think there was a good crop last year. A little way down from us, the towpath is littered with feral and crab apples. The air giddy with the sharp sweet scent of cider. A few weeks back, we were up at my sister’s, and I took Maggie for a walk through their local park. It’s one of those wonderful ones with a criss-cross of mown paths and wild spots, woodlands and earthworks. One of the attractions is the proliferation of fruit trees. In one section there was a wild orchard of apple trees, their branches heavy with apples – like over decorated Christmas trees. I couldn’t resist, and Eve-like, I scrabbled through some thick brambles and plucked one that hung low. It almost dropped into my open hand. I had no need of a wily serpent to speed its and my fall. And to paraphrase Felix Dennis, ‘and the taste of that apple’! It’s a truism, I know, and I realise I sound like the curmudgeonly old geezer that I am, but I had totally forgotten how good a proper apple tastes and how so unlike those drab and watery shop bought ones they are!
All this puts me in mind of Laurie Lee’s lovely old poem, ‘Apples.’
[READING]
Annie Dillard
[READING] from Pilgrim at Tinker Creek.
NIGHT VIEWS (THROUGH YOUR WINDOW)
With thanks to Jeff Van Booven (Missouri, USA)
SIGNING OFF
This is the narrowboat Erica signing off for the night and wishing you a very restful and peaceful night. Good night.
WEATHER LOG
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