I live near the sea, I have done since I was 19 yrs old. I swim in the sea, I sit by the sea, I drive by the sea. I paint pictures inspired by the sea, the rockpools, it’s inhabitants.

But, I haven’t ever captured its colours. Its hues, the light, the way just one view has a whole paint palette of colours.

And so, inspired by and her beautiful nature colour studies, Amy Maricle’s inchy drawings and Leslie Stroz’s tiny paint palettes and paintings, an idea has been squirrelling away in my mind. To capture the ever changing colours of the Brighton sea.

Then one day last week, sat in the grey drizzle on the beach with my sea swim buddies, the thought grew wings and flew out into the salty air. “Well, pack a paint palette in your bag”, said Julia.

And so, that evening, rather than buying one of the tiny palettes I’d been looking at, I made one. I dug out a metal tin recently rediscovered from my childhood. I found spare watercolour pans, a travel brush from a larger kit and the necessary paper clip. Magnetic strip left over from teaching days was retrieved from the back of a drawer so everything sticks to the tin. The recycling bin provided lids to mix colours in. I cut a few two inch squares of paper and…

Along with the drawing kit that lives in my bag containing pencil/pen, a sharpener, rubber, a travel water brush and a tiny spray bottle and a mini sketchbook, all I need extra is a bottle of water. Which might help me be better hydrated too! At the moment, I popped in a miniature jam pot to act as a water pot. I’m not sure how I can get that inside the tin, but I’m impressed with how much I have fitted in. It might sound like a lot but I’ve always carried around a big bag of ‘just in case’ items!

Now it needed testing. It feels like I haven’t just gone down to the sea to sit, wander and just be for ages. And now I have the perfect reason. Each time I go to the sea, each time I need a break and some sea therapy, I have another motivation.

I want to create a collection of simple miniature paintings of the colours of the sea. I’m not trying to capture the waves, the white horses, the patterns made by the wind. Just the colours above and below the horizon.

And here is the first entry.

It wasn’t as simple as I think I thought. Learning to mix the range of blues, greens, greys, and whites needs more practice. It’s a good way to remind me of the key principles of watercolour technique, waiting for layers to dry and working from light to dark. Mainly to not over work it but portray that day’s hues.

Note to self - next time more snacks and a flask of tea.

So, watch this space (or my Instagram) for more tiny paintings of the sea.

What about you? If you’re an artist, do you do colour studies? Do you have a favourite make of paint or colour to represent the sea? What colours do you notice in the sea? Yesterday it was silver, today it was mostly angry white horses with deep aquamarine swell. (sadly only noticed from the car). The great thing about this project is that the sea and its range of colours will still be there, even in the depths of winter when everything else seems monotone.

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Even if you don’t consider yourself an artist, colour studies are a lovely way to connect with the wonderful rainbow of nature. I recently led a workshop looking at autumn leaves, and we spent a wonderful hour trying to mix the range of reds, purples, oranges and yellows in the leaves.

Here’s another autumnal leaf art activity I wrote about last year.

Or, just go and appreciate them! This autumn is a particularly good one for colour here in the UK, and so far we haven’t had quite enough wind and rain to turn it all to mush (at least here on the south coast). See how many different colours, and shapes you can find. And if it’s dry, you have to crunch and kick through them for the ultimate autumnal sensory experience.

Until next time,

How do you feel about the festivals happening at the moment? Depending where you live or what religion you follow, it might be All Hallows/AllSouls, Halloween, Dia de los Muertos, or Samhain. Love it, indifferent, hmm- not so sure, actively avoid? (I know Diwali is happening at the moment this year but while it has some common themes, it’s not linked to the others.)

These festivals are linked. Some might not like me saying that, please bear with me. Over time, traditions from various festivals and cultures have blended to create the modern Secular version of Halloween, and some of the original meanings have been lost. Consumerism, the media, and historical (sometimes current) negative messaging by some Christian leaders, particularly in medieval times, have contributed to this distortion. It has been used to demonise and control pre-Christian religions and scare followers about what might happen if you don’t follow the rules. It is now inextricably linked with evil and horror. Does it matter? Can’t people just have fun? Well yes - of course. I am cdertainly not against a good celebration - it is a core need of human beings. But if people conflate the current version of Halloween with these older festivals and traditions, this causes a problem. This has been a harder essay than my other marking the season posts - because I am worried about upsetting people. I also don’t want to misrepresent any cultural traditions (I have carried out a lot of research as I always do). 

So, let’s start with some facts, as much as you can find about traditions from hundreds, sometimes even thousands of years ago, across different countries and cultures. 

I’ll begin with All Saints/Hallows Day 1st Nov, followed by All Soul’s Day on Nov 2nd - giving us All Hallow’s Eve on 31st Oct (known together as All Hallows Tide). This is observed in the Catholic church and by some Protestants. It is a time to honour the Saints (All Saints/Hallows Day) and Christians who have passed on (All Souls Day). Church services are held with offerings of flowers and prayers, and people visit memorials and graves. It was moved by the Pope in the 8th Century from its original date in Spring. Other Christians celebrate it at different points in the calendar.

Some sources profess that All Hallows Tide was moved to incorporate or supersede the existing Celtic festival of Samhain. As is the case with history the sands of time have covered what really happened. But there is no doubt that All Hallows Eve gives us the word Halloween. 

Moving back in time to Samhain. This is a Celtic/Gaelic festival marked from sunset on 31st Oct to Sunset on 1st Nov. First, let’s address how to pronounce it. As it is not an English word, it is not Sam/Hain. It varies across the different Gaelic languages, but the best way to explain it, with English phonemes is Sow wen (sow to rhyme with cow). Click here and here to hear it. As with all Celtic/Pagan festivals, the exact origins are floating around in the ether. What seems to be commonly agreed is that it is the festival in Celtic/Gaelic areas for the end of the growing season/harvest and a time to honour the ancestors and those passed on. Celtic beliefs held that (as in other cultures) this was when the veil between the worlds of the living and departed was thinnest and souls could pass between. There are many traditions associated with Samhain, it may have been that each area had its own and that they changed over time. But there was fire and lights, the sharing of food, leaving of gifts for the departed, and the wearing of costumes. This is where it can get messy, were people carrying out the traditions and rituals to scare off spirits, or helping to guide lost souls? What is clear is that it is not about celebrating the bad spirits, making sacrifices, or practicing black magic. Modern Celtic religions such as Wicca, or Druidry celebrate with similar traditions to the ancient ways - with altars to honour nature, life, and those who have passed on. They have a final harvest feast before the start of winter. Certainly, no flying on broomsticks or putting frog’s legs in cauldrons. 

What about the Day of the Dead / Dia de los Muertos? This is celebrated on 1st/2nd November, predominantly in Mexico though other Central/South American cultures have similar traditions. It is a time to gather with friends and family to honour and remember those who have passed. It is marked by the creation of altars with offerings to the dead including flowers and gifts, and feasts including the favourite foods of the departed. A common symbol is the skull, which gives us the beautiful and elaborate costumes and face painting associated with the celebration. There is a festive tone to the event as people remember those passed on in positive ways. It is a celebration of life. 

These are the main festivals at this time in terms of my English/Western European understanding (do other cultures in the Global South and East have any similar traditions and festivals?) They have all contributed to the current version of Halloween as we see it today. Can you see the similarities, rather than the differences? As a primary school teacher, I encouraged us to look for the common threads between religious festivals. They are nearly always celebrated by coming together with friends and family, a feast, sharing of gifts, and the of lighting of candles or fires - it is just the religious reasoning that changes. For the Gaelic and Christian religions, these are the main times for remembrance of those who have died thus one reason why they can meld together. 

So how have we got to the version of Halloween we have today? It is too simplistic to blame American influences or even commercialisation, but this version with a focus on evil spirits, huge amounts of sweets/candy, dressing up in costumes to scare others, the proliferation of horror films, and huge amounts of often single use, plastic decorations seems at times to have little to do with the original festivals. It has become an almost fully Secular festival. 

As with all traditions, many aspects of modern Halloween have traditional origins. Let’s start with the dressing in costume. This occurs in many cultures and traditions throughout the year; as a way to trick evil spirits, to hide from them, but also to carry out activities that might not usually be acceptable.

I understand in America Halloween costumes are often milder than in the UK so we can’t entirely blame American imports for that. Some of the costumes worn in ancient ceremonies seem a lot more scary to modern sensibilities than wearing a sheet to be a ghost! What about trick or treating? It is linked to the wearing of costumes and going from house to house but also comes from people leaving out food to appease or feed the spirits as happens in many festivals. One of its original influences may be the pre-Christian Scottish tradition of guising where at different times of the year, people sometimes children, sometimes the poor of the village, dressed in disguise to go from house to house collecting food and gifts. And the pumpkins? Well, they really should be turnips. This originated in Christian Ireland and is only a couple of centuries old. Aside from the link to Samhain with lighting candles/fire this seems to come from the story of Stingy Jack who tricked the Devil and as punishment roams the land with only a light in a carved out turnip. This story was taken to America by Irish Immigrants where pumpkins were used instead to ward off evil spirits. Think I prefer Pumpkin pie or soup to a turnip version (if you make a jack-o-lantern, remember to use all of it!)

One of the activities I remember most from childhood Halloweens is apple bobbing - do people still do this? But it has absolutely nothing to do with any of this! It is thought to have been introduced by the Romans from their festival for Pomona, the Goddess of fruit and one of the traditions was apple bobbing. And of course - Halloween does coincide with the apple harvest. 

It is the horror aspect I am most uncomfortable with. It’s why there aren’t many images in this essay. Should we really have a festival that means people are scared or even menaced in their own homes? Where there is deliberate damage carried out? I know people that really don’t like it and are deliberately not at home on Halloween. Where another religion is represented in a twisted dark theatrical manner? I know I am in a minority as I have never liked horror/thrillers, even dramas set my adrenaline going in a very negative way. I know that some people love it, and want to be scared, especially in a mild, theatrical way. I know many people, especially those with young children do trick-or-treating in a fun and safe way. Humans have always been fascinated by the idea of the darker side of nature. Hollywood with its films, TV with its dramas, and mockumentaries have taken this and run, adding to the distorted way Pagan traditions and mythology are represented. Until recently, I hadn’t thought about it that deeply, I loved dressing up for various events (I think I carry off green face paint rather well!) I enjoyed carving pumpkins because I love being creative. I knew the secular version of Halloween wasn’t representative of Samhain (or All Hallows Tide). I wanted to write this so people could understand more about the original meaning behind celebrations at this time or at least not conflate horror, black magic, and evil with the traditions and cultural events of an ancient peaceful culture. We don’t need to change what we do, just be a bit more aware and think about our language. If you don’t like Halloween - for whatever reason but would like to do something at this time, I hope finding out more about these festivals and their common themes of time with friends and family, honouring those passed on, giving thanks to the harvest, preparing for the darker months and having fun has been helpful. 

Maybe find your own ways to celebrate. I’m lighting candles, and eating pumpkin soup and locally grown apples. In the tradition of Dia de Los Muertos, I’m remembering my loved ones who have passed on with happy memories.

Oh, one quick thing. I do have a big issue with the proliferation of single use plastic decorations and costumes for Halloween, especially the use of spray cobwebs to decorate the outside of houses. This can have devasting consequences for wildlife, either eating it or getting trapped in it. Make your own decorations from paper? Swap costumes with others or raid the charity shops? Don’t leave the pumpkins out for any snuffling creatures find them as they can cause problems instead put them on the compost after. See this article for more. Have a read of my post from last year for more on this (and some ways to be creative in Autumn).

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Nature, the natural world, the great outdoors. It’s great! It calms, brings joy, perspective, and a break from man-made busyness. It inspires my art and words to spill onto the page.

Hurray!

But…

I believe that in order to receive, we have to give. As humans, we can be inclined to focus on what we get from a relationship, particularly with the natural world.

And I got a lot from my trip to the sea this morning, plenty of negative ions to boost my feel good chemicals, calm from watching the birds foraging in the tide line and a dose of colour therapy from the way the seaweed glowed in the sun.

No ceremonies or big actions. I just picked up litter as I walked back. From small fragments of who knows what, to bottle caps, a phone case, cable ties, part of a plastic bowl, disintegrating food wrappers and plenty of discarded fishing waste. All things that have the potential to harm marine life, further break down and end up in the food chain. Things that might have been in the sea for only days, others might have come across the Atlantic over months.

And now they are in the bin. Yes, there are problems with where that rubbish ends up because we don’t have good enough systems. But it won’t be in a marine creature’s tummy.

The seaweed decorated fishing float originally caught my eye because of its vivid palette. Only on closer inspection did I realise the seaweed had used a plastic float and rope as a home to cling to. Maybe good for the seaweed, but not for anything mistaking it as natural. So, I detached as much of the seaweed as I could, to go back into the sea. The fishing float was then put in the fishing tackle collection tubes we have along the coast in Brighton.

These collection points are part of the wonderful project started by Leave No Trace Brighton in collaboration with The Anglers National Line Recycling Scheme. Simply pick up bits of fishing rope from the beach, put them in the tubes and the tube guardians collect it and send it off to have a second life (see the website for more details).

Leave No Trace Brighton also has a simple pledge - take 3 for the sea. Such a simple thing, no special equipment required (though I recommend at least washing hands/hand sanitiser after), just pick up (at least) 3 bits of litter as part of whatever you were doing anyway.

And it’s not just for the seaside. Anywhere you go you can collect litter. Rather than just following the countryside code of leave no trace, instead leave a positive trace - make it better than it was. Other organisations like Trash Free Trails are doing similar things inland. Yes - be aware of what you’re picking up, be careful around glass, check for needles etc, and dispose of it carefully, but even picking up a few crisp packets is something.

Simple actions, great outcomes.

Do you pick up litter? Might you think of doing it, even in a small way?

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Until next time,

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If you’d like to read the others, you can find them in the noticing nature tab on my main page. This is a longer one, get a cuppa and cosy up.

Ivy, everywhere much maligned and misunderstood by (some) human, loved and needed by many non humans. A feature of Christmas carols and decorations, a familiar name, yet often ripped out by those aghast at its vigour, unless it’s the dainty variegated variety carefully contained in a garden.

Myths abound: tree killer, house destroyer, deemed a weed simply because of its ability to grow rapidly in nearly all conditions.

But like so much in this world, it has an important role in the ecosystem and the truth has become lost in man’s craze to control and bend everything to his will and benefit.

Looking back, Ivy has a long history in folklore and culture. Whilst humans may not have (yet) found a mainstream ‘use’ for it (though more on this later), and so labelled it useless, like everything, it has a multitude of uses by other species.

So I’m here to give a shout out for Ivy. How do you feel about it as a plant? I hope by the fact you’re reading this and haven’t been put off by the title that you are at least open minded? For clarity, I’m talking about Hedera Helix, aka common English Ivy, rather than other forms/hybrids and Ivies that aren’t actually Ivy (such as Poison Ivy found in N. American and Asia, but isn’t in the Ivy family, just named for its similar climbing vine).

There will be planty facts, insect facts, bird facts, telling of folklore and dispelling of myths, gardening, architecture, and how ivy features in my daily life.

My love of ivy is rooted in my garden. Trips to the compost bin require navigating and sometimes releasing the bin lid from the Ivy forest that grows along my wall. In autumn, garden tasks are distracted by the loud buzzing of the myriad of insects enjoying the late season buffet on their unusual flowers. As winter arrives, I’ll be checking the ripening of the berries and whether the birds have feasted on them. In Spring and Summer, I try, often in vain, to photograph the Holly Blue Butterflies dashing around it, contemplating laying their eggs

Let’s start with the what. Common English Ivy’s Latin name is Hedera Helix. Hedera comes from Latin/Greek to get/grasp, and helix is from the Latin/Greek to spiral. So it is what does - the grasping (clinging) plant that spirals. The root of its English name is less clear. In Old English, it was called īfiġ, which possibly has links to Proto-German ibahs. Other than that, its linguistic origins are lost in the tangles of time. Its Wikipedia page has lots of nuggets of information.

Common Ivy is native throughout the UK, most of Europe and some parts of Western Asia. It has been introduced and is deemed invasive in North America, Australia and New Zealand. Many in its native lands would also call it invasive, but we’ll come back to that later.

Sorry, I’ve realised I’m assuming everyone knows what it looks like. Or you may think you know what it looks like, but I encourage you to look again because the leaves tell you how old it is. Its deep, dark viridian leaves on older growth are heart shaped, have you noticed that? Juvenile (young) growth has leaves start with the colour of granny smith apples and has five lobes.

Young plants grow long climbing stems seeking vertical surfaces to attach to, whereas once they become established, which can take 10 years, the stems become more woody and shrubby, and the leaves change shape. It is only at this point that it flowers and fruits - one reason not to prune/cut down ivy. My ivy jungle reached this point a few years ago, once I made the decision to find a compromise with it and let some of it serve its purpose with the wildlife, but not let it take over the border below it.

Ivy flowers are one of the strangest you will see - at least in my experience of UK/ Northern European flower shapes. In a previous post https://rachelgoddard.substack.com/p/natural-nuggets-of-wonder-in-the I described them as reminiscent of a 3d chemical formula. What do you think?

Alliums are the only other similar flowers I can think of - multiple individual flowers on stalks, yet no standard petals. Instead, it is scent that draws the pollinator to its plentiful nectar source. It’s not the most fragrant - whiffs of cat wee I think!

And then there’s its ability to climb, the skill which leads to its place on the “get rid of it” list. But look at it from a different angle and it’s really rather amazing and shares a secret with Geckos! The juvenile climbing stems send out tiny aerial root hairs searching for any suitable surfaces, then, and here’s the magic, it secretes glue-like nanoparticles which harden and mould it to the surface, thus securely attaching it. (really amazing fact - it has an adhesion force of 300nN!! - that could hold a large dog [maybe don’t try though]!) Just like a gecko, they can attach themselves to smooth surfaces as well as rough. They don’t bury into walls, or make cracks worse.

Yes, in certain circumstances, maybe it finds a really deep damp crevice full of organic matter, or its roots have been cut, and it’s desperately trying to find nutrients, it can put out proper roots which will then increase in size and therefore increase the size of cracks. One reason not to cut the main stems! If this does happen (it’s rare), it’s recommended that it is entirely removed (see this Historic England webpage). It’s this process where the stems root themselves when they touch the ground, thus rapidly colonising bare ground and giving themselves a bad name as a weed.

So following on from that - it’s mythbusting time.

Myth one - it bores into buildings and damages the walls. See above. In most situations, it is only the aerial roots that do their magic nanoparticles thing that are found on the vertical surfaces. This from Historic England explains more.

Myth two - it’s a parasite. For something to be a parasite, it has to form a relationship with its host and ‘take’ something from it. Ivy has its own root system and gets all its nutrients from the earth and photosynthesis. It’s just looking for a convenient climbing frame. It might climb up you if you stood still long enough!

Myth three - Linked to the myths above, many believe ivy kills trees. But once we’ve removed the previous two myths, this doesn’t have much substance left? What can happen is if the tree is old/diseased (through another issue) then the weight of the ivy can cause damage, particularly in winter storms. But in most of these cases, the tree was on the way out anyway. Have a look at this from the RHS.

Myth four - it’s poisonous. I thought I’d quickly cover this, particularly for my North American readers. As I said, I’m referring to Common English Ivy, not the plants commonly called Poison Ivy in the plant group Toxicodendron. This can cause an allergic reaction such as a rash and occasionally anaphylactic shock. Common Ivy is mildly toxic if eaten by humans, causing an upset tummy, and is toxic to cats/dogs and horses though they will leave it alone in the wild (Bridget Dog and my cat visitors show no interest in my ivy, unlike my poor Nepeta bush!)

Myth Five - it’s invasive. Well what do we really mean by this? Are we just saying that its a plant that carries out its purpose successfully, not staying where we want it? Or do we think it’s dangerous, a threat to other plants and animals? Because as I’ve said, it’s not dangerous, it’s a vital part of the ecosystem. But does it have aspirations to take over the world? Yes, it does! Maybe I’m being pedantic about word use, but invasive to me implies damage, something that shouldn’t be there. But Ivy is native, it is meant to be here. If you prefer to have something else in that flower bed - just pull it up! It is easily controlled, as demonstrated by the daintier variegated versions used deliberately in gardens.

So, now I’ve presented the defence to the jury, now let’s look at all the good things it offers.

Walk past any mature ivy in late summer/autumn and (hopefully) you can’t fail to notice the hum of activity. I have to apologise to a host of insects as I interrupt their dinner going to the compost bin. Because ivy flowers later than many native plants, its nectar is a vital food source for 140 species of insects. It even has two species named after it - the Ivy bee and the Ivy Hoverfly. One study found that in autumn, 89% of pollen collected by honeybees was from ivy.

Once they’ve had their fill of pollen and nectar, the ivy continues to share its ware. The purpley-black berries ripen after the birds have decimated other sources thus providing dinner long into winter with some not ripening until early spring where I am. Around 17 species of birds including the blackbird feast on these fat-rich sweeties. Dave Goulson (bee and insect science guru) recently did this Youtube video on its benefits for wildlife.

And it’s not just autumn and winter that they provide a service. Then there’s the silver lining to the feature which (some) humans hate - the dense tangle of woody stems provides a wonderful hidden home for small birds, wrens often nest in it as well as eating the berries. It’s like us living in a takeaway!

The Holly blue butterfly and moths such as the Small Dusty Wave (what a fabulous name!) lay their eggs on it in summer as the leaves and flower buds are vital food sources for their caterpillar.

And it’s not just the more than human world that gains from this maligned plant, us humans can too. Now you know it can’t damage walls, leave it up as it can help keep buildings cool in summer and less damp in winter. It also helps trap airbourne pollution so great for urban areas. And while the berries are poisonous for us to eat, extracts from the leaves are used in cough medicines.

So that’s the science bit. Now let’s dive into the world of Gods, celebrations and sacred protection. Because our dislike of ivy seems to be a relatively modern notion as ivy features throughout history and folklore across the world.

The Greek/Roman god Dionysus/Bacchus is depicted as wearing an ivy wreath representing protection against the dangers of getting drunk (anyone tried this?). As an evergreen, it also symbolising fertility and immortality and was therefore given as a wreath to newly weds.

Its role as decoration in winter festivals is not only due to it being one of the few evergreens native to northern climes, but also folklore around it keeping evil spirits at bay. As a winter evergreen, it is forever associated with Holly; in the Christmas carol and adorning our homes. But Ivy is a lot less painful to decorate with!

Its winding and clinging characteristics led to it being associated with faithfulness and eternal love in the Middle Ages, and it represents fidelity in the Language of Flowers because it doesn’t let go easily. In Celtic areas ivy is often hung in barns/byres as protection for animals, particularly with the making of milk and batter though I’m not sure of the underlying thinking behind this.

In the Celtic Ogham alphabet it represents the eleventh symbol - Gort, and therefore the eleventh month - which falls around the end of September to end of October - the time it flowers. In line with its physical features, it symbolises resilience, inner strength, wisdom and tenacity. I think I need some more ivy.

And so, to finish on a light hearted note, here are the ways its physical characteristics and folklore have influenced a wonderful set of local names.

Bentwood, bindwood, hibbin, ivin, ivery, and my favourite lovestone.

And it was magically spun into a spell by Robert Macfarlane for The Lost Words project (find the book here) and listen to it sung beautifully by the Canadian choir Elektra. I love these words written in response to the spell by a group of outdoor facilitators.

So, have I persuaded you? Might you think of ivy more favourably? Even if not, do have a look more closely at it, the flowers, leaves and its ability to defy gravity.

Until next time,

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Scarlet crimson, vermillion, raw sienna, quinacridone gold, raw umber, cadmium yellow, even hints of magenta, violet and rose.

Yes, colours from a watercolour palette, but inspiration for them had to come from somewhere and in autumn, Mother Nature shows us her most vivid hues.

In spring, it’s all Laura Ashley blossoms and buds, gentle pastels and hints, gentle in tone and texture.

But as the year turns to the darker half, walking through the trees is more Zandra Rhodes and Gianni Versace, with the fluttering, crispy leaves creating a sensory red and gold carpet under your feet and ruby red jewels hanging from the branches.

Just as humans celebrate this time with fireworks, so does the natural world, but with more tones, hues, shapes, and textures than any pyrotechnic designer could imagine.

And the best bit, it’s only just starting, only the first models are in their finery, with more getting dressed and waiting in the wings. As long as a big storm doesn’t come and whisk them from the trees and mulch them into mush, we’ve a few weeks longer to enjoy them. It’s looking like it will be a wonderful show.

That’s what we did, our (nearly) annual trip to Sheffield Park, a National Trust Property that was specifically designed for autumn colour.

I couldn’t not pick up a selection of leafy treasures which are now being pressed between the pages of Simple Things and Gardener’s World magazines - appropriate I think! Not sure what I’ll do with them yet - watch this space!

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And if you’d like some musings on Autumn and creative ideas for its treasures, have a look at this post from last year.

Have you been out to enjoy the colour? What is autumn like where you are? Do you have a favourite place to visit? Let us know in the comments.

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Until next time,

It’s not just the scrunch of the leaves, but the crunch of autumn’s offerings from the trees. Which natural carpet you cross depends on which tree you are under. For once, you can tell the tree by looking down rather than up. Tread over them

First, it’s the pointy hats of the beech nuts, then the prickly spheres of sweet chestnut, I suspect this collection was the remains of someone’s breakfast.

I walked more slowly, more deliberately, rolling my feet from heel to toe to let their lumps and bumps massage away the tension. Go on! Try it!

And then, the acorns, everywhere I’ve been this autumn, so many acorns! So, while I’m gathering material for my next longer “In praise of…” essay, I thought I’d repost the Acorn one from last autumn.

This is part of a series of longer essays - “In Praise of …” where I flex my research muscles to sing the praises of a particular aspect of nature. Maybe a common creature we don’t think about much, something more often despised than loved, or something that isn’t well known but deserves the limelight. It’s about thinking about the natural world more deeply and how it is an integral part of human life and culture. All in a hopefully accessible and interesting way. If you want to know more about anything, I’ll provide links throughout.

This is longer than my usual posts, so settle in with a cuppa! If reading via email you may need to click the link at the bottom to read the full essay.

The humble acorn, beloved by small children (and much bigger ones), squirrels, and Piglet from Winnie The Pooh. Plucked from the woodland floor, fingers investigating the contrast between the smooth nut and the bumpy cup it nestles in, then tucked into a pocket as a talisman. If you live or grew up in the Northern Hemisphere, I guess you probably know what I’m talking about, even if the version you’re thinking of, is slightly different from the one I’m used to in the UK.

But what are they? Why do they exist? What do they do? Follow me as I take you on a journey through all things acorn.

First - the science bit. Acorns are the nuts of Oak trees. All the 500 odd oak trees (genus Quercus) produce them, mostly in the Northern Hemisphere, but a couple are native to the Southern Hemisphere and they have been introduced to places like Australia. Oaks can be evergreen or deciduous and are found in temperate and tropical climates. They only produce acorns once they are around 20-30yrs old. But I don’t want to get distracted by the tree, this is all about the acorn.

So what is a nut? What exactly is an acorn for? I’ll keep it simple as a) I’m not a botanist) b) there is so much else I want to tell you. It’s the way the tree makes more trees. That little hard green (then brown) nugget nestled in its protective cup contains everything to grow a new oak tree, including enough food - it comes with its own packed lunch! The magic happens when it gets to a suitable place, in suitable conditions and then it springs into action pushing out a root and then a stem.

I say suitable, this one thought being nestled amongst the moss on the trunk of an oak tree was suitable enough to start sending out its root!

Usually, trees (and plants) want their seed to disperse away to not compete for resources. This is usually done by animals - see further below. But some decide they don’t want to leave home. In a temperate rainforest in North Wales, I found lots of tiny Oak seedlings underneath the canopy of their parents.

Depending on the species of Oak, the acorns, while basically the same, have differences in size, shape, and the way they attach to the tree. I spent quite a bit of time recently sat on a log trying to work out if I’d found English Oak and Sessile Oak acorns. Hindered by the fact the species can hybridise and that most of them had fallen out of their cups thus losing their stalks (a key id feature)!

So that’s the purpose of an acorn from the Oak tree’s perspective. But squirrels have another use for this pocket packed lunch. It is an excellent balanced energy rich food source so they are favourite foods for so many creatures - jays, woodpeckers, mice, bears, and deer. There is even a dung beetle - the Southern Iberian that enjoys them - this image from the research paper is so cute! And of course pigs such as Piglet from Winnie The Pooh (although he struggles to pronounce it as we do).

“I'm planting a haycorn, so that it can grow up into an oak tree”. He continues, “It's a very difficult thing, planting, unless you know how to do it”. Piglet in A.A. Milne

Traditionally pigs would be turned out into oak woodlands in autumn to fatten up, known as pannage. It still happens as part of conservation management in some areas in the UK such as the New Forest. Does this happen in any other countries?

You may think the Oak tree doesn’t want all its precious nuts eaten. It partly protects its precious load with tannins, a substance toxic to most. Even those who do eat them often have to make them more edible by soaking them. But, actually, being taken away from the Mother Tree is its ingenious plan to spread its offspring. Aside from the sneaky creatures (some birds for example) that swipe them unripe off the tree and eat them in situ, the oak tree is counting on the acorns being taken away and stashed by creatures such as European Jays and squirrels, or buried into the leaf litter by the snouts of pigs. Jays in particular are clever and remember where most of them are, but never all and so those left uneaten start the long journey to becoming mighty oaks. For this reason, Jays are known as the Master Tree Planters and are thought to be responsible for ‘planting’ and therefore increasing the spread of Oak woodlands.

Oak trees can even control this. If you live in an area with plenty of oak trees, you may have noticed some years there are more acorns than usual. It does vary according to weather but the trees can control how much they produce. This is called a mast year and trees do this to ensure more of their seed/nuts are produced than can be eaten. A ‘bust’ year controls the amount of food and so less of the creatures that eat them survive. What is more amazing is that trees communicate with each other to create a mast year!

So, that’s the botany bit. But acorns are so much more than that. They have a rich association with humans; as a food and in culture and folklore.

Let’s start with its name in different languages.

acorn - English

agern - Danish

eikel - Dutch

gland - French

Eichel - German

aculos - Greek

akorn - Icelandic

dearcán - Irish

ekollon - Swedish

Notice anything? (surely it’s not just the phonics/literacy geek in me?)

Now let’s go back in time; in Middle English it was acorne coming from Old English ǣcern, which itself came from Proto-Germanic akraną which referred to the fruit of forest trees, thus linking it with other Scandinavian and Germanic languages. But its roots go further, as we can see a link with the Ancient Greek word for acorn (and oak) - ákulos and Latin - äkʊɫ̪ɔs̠. To disappear down an etymological rabbit hole go to this website.

Why do we like them?

The word Acorn seems to be everywhere, doesn’t it? When I started this research, the first web entry was for an Investment firm! Another quick search and I found numerous community organisations using it. Those of a similar age and location (UK) to me might remember Acorn computers! Does this have something to do with its symbolism?

Acorns have always been a part of human lives. It’s not just the animals that prized their energy-intense goodness. While they are toxic in their raw form, we have worked out ways to prepare them to make them edible by leaching them, effectively flushing out the tannins. Incidentally, when jays and squirrels cache them, groundwater might do this. The nuts could then be processed into things such as flour and stored, often for longer than other foods. This made it a staple food in Ancient Iberia (modern Spain) and used in popular dishes in Korean and Kurdish culture. They were used as a replacement for other types of grain in times of famine; by the lower classes in Ancient Greece and during the Japanese Jōmon period. It even became a coffee substitute during wars such as the American Civil War and in Germany in WW1. See the Wikipedia entry on this. Do you know of any other culinary uses for acorns?

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Acorns have particular significance for Indigenous American peoples. Some Native American Oaks such as the California Black Oaks naturally have lower tannin levels thus easier to prepare. The prevalence of a larger number of species (compared to Europe) meant they were a reliable food source. The importance of the Oaks and their understanding of the interconnectedness of all living things means Indigenous people work hard to protect and support the Oak trees through methods that Modern Western arboriculture and agriculture are only beginning to understand such as controlled fires to manage pests which in turn breaks down leaf litter faster fertilising the soil and providing space for the dominant Oaks to grow.

The acorn has symbolic importance throughout Europe, from Ancient Rome and Greece to Celtic and Scandinavian cultures. It was used in fertility and immortality rituals by the Ancient Greeks and Romans. The Goddess Diana/Artemis was often represented wearing an acorn necklace. It is a symbol of wisdom, and Druids were said to eat them to gain the Oak’s knowledge and divine the future. For this reason, the Oak tree was sacred to them and acorns are often found in Celtic imagery. By carrying an acorn as a talisman, you carried with you its protective powers. In Norse mythology, the God Thor was often portrayed holding an acorn. Some of its symbolism comes from the Oak Tree but it stands on its own as well. It represents the cycle of life, growth and personal development as it grows into the mighty Oak, bringing us the popular phrase - From tiny acorns, mighty oaks grow. The first mention of this exact phrase seems to be from America in the mid-19th century but there have been iterations of it throughout history from Aristotle to Emerson, and even Chaucer - “as an ook cometh of a little spyr”.

And its use continues in modern culture. It was used as a symbol by both sides in the English Civil War presumably for power and protection (I’m counting that as modern as opposed to the more ancient cultures above!) It is the waymark symbol for the National Walking Trails in England and Wales, maybe because of the acorn’s association with growth and potential. So maybe ponder a little longer when you see this little sign on a footpath.

Acorns have a wonderful place in children’s culture. Those of a certain age might remember the Acorn Fairy from Cecily Mark Barker’s Flower Fairies Books - first published in the 1920’s. I still have my copies from childhood. The Acorn Fairy, dressed in its acorn cup hat may have inspired others to use acorn cups to adorn dolls and other creatures. Did you do this? The photographer David M Bird has taken the acorn cup hat creatures a step further with his stunningly beautiful Becorn creations. He carefully creates characters from natural resources, and photographs them having wonderful interactions in the natural world. Do have a look at his website. The Hidden Folk characters in ’s children’s books also use acorn cups and the character Moss wears one as its hat. I highly recommend these rich, beautiful tales, that weave through warnings of the damage we are doing to our planet. Click here to find them in my UKBookshop store. *

Acorns are also found in contemporary culture. Beuy’s Acorns was an art installation at the Tate Modern by Ackroyd and Harvey. They took inspiration from Joseph’s Beuys 7000 Oaks social sculpture in Germany in the 1980s by taking 100 acorns from his original trees to grow on. These were installed on the Tate Modern’s terrace in 2021 as a statement on the current climate and environmental emergency.

And on that note of the acorn as a symbol of what we need to protect, I leave you with the Acorn spell, from The Lost Words project by Robert Macfarlane and Jackie Morris. If you don’t know about this project to protest against certain nature words being removed from the Oxford Junior Dictionary please have a look at Jackie’s website, and the book itself*

The acrostic poems were then wonderfully spun into music by the Spell Songs collective of Musicians. Watch one version here on Youtube and the original spell on Spotify

Thank you for getting this far! I hope this has been an illuminating journey into the world of the acorn. I certainly enjoyed researching it all. I apologise now if I have misrepresented anything, I have tried to cross reference all my sources (hyperlinks are given throughout the essay).

Until next time,

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*Just a reminder, this link goes to my affiliate store with UKbookshop so I may earn a small commission from any purchases at no cost to yourself.

I needed to get out,

I’ve had a bag packed with art materials for a few days, but the remains of an evil cold and a bone crushing, cellular fatigue that forced me to bed in recent days meant my pencils and inks sat forlornly by the door.

I’ve needed space, I need to recover, I don’t know what I need. I don’t know how to rebuild, to fulfill my dreams.

But the outside is calling, as is my long neglected sketchbook. They feel like a glimmer of hope that I’m not going to feel like this forever.

Today dawned grey, Storm Amy’s fingertips pushing wind and fog our way. But still the outside called and chores led me out of town, fog lights on.

I’m already feeling apprehensive about winter coming, a new feeling that arrived last year, taking over the previous 47 years of loving the coldest season. It’s not the cold, it’s not the rain, it’s the grey. I feel claustrophobic and lonely in it.

So, maybe, I thought, as I drove up to the car park on the very top of the downs, just maybe, I can turn this around.

Get out into the gloom, be with the white swirling mass.

What I hadn’t expected was the creative ideas that rose from the hedgerows, whispering of muted colours, soft textures, and sculptural forms. I didn’t think small pops of colour would draw my eye like beacons, the magenta of a perennial sweetpea on the verge, a battered pink knapweed swaying in the gust, the rather dishevelled petals of I’m not sure what against the cow munched grass. And then the hawthorn, one of the stars of this season, berries loading its parent branches so they hang heavy as if to touch the ground. Their deep, dark crimson juxtaposed against the veil of grey.

I stood, head tucked into the hood of my coat, feeling the fog and the wind on my face. Marvelling how the fog, that can seem so stationary, swirled around like a cartoon ghost. I remembered all the mountains and beaches I’ve stood, feeling alive in the elements.

And I thought, yes, just maybe I can do this, I can keep getting out, I can keep putting colour and line onto paper, words onto page, I can do this. Be as gentle with myself as the fog swirling around the coombe. I will remember a hat next time though.

It’s been a long time since I’ve written here. I’m not going to make promises, yet again try to explain why and where I’ve been and how I am now. But just like with getting outside and putting colour on paper, I will try to put words on the page. Sentences have finally been whispering in my ear, so I just have to get them written.

Maybe you might try to embrace the gloom too?

Hello again, how did we get to July already? My body still thinks it’s May despite the thermometer definitely signalling high summer (I can’t handle anything over about 23°)

My last post, about 3 million months ago, started with the whole “I’m sorry, can’t believe it’s been so long, for x and y reason”. I talked about how I just needed to write, just keep it simple.

And then, I didn’t. And yes, life has continued to happen, a few more lemons have landed and I still haven’t made much lemonade.

I have consciously and positively added to my Jenga tower by enrolling on a Certificate in Nature-based therapy. And that has been a very good thing, especially when my new peers and I escaped last week for three wonderful days of experiencing and learning in the woods. I will be writing much more about it soon and what it means for my little business.

But for today, I want to share a couple of glimmers, those moments of joy and awe. Those noticings that make you stop what you are doing, even just for a moment. That bring so much to your day and leave you thinking about them long after.

And it doesn’t have to cost lots of money, you don’t have to go to a viral waterfall and join a long queue.

My glimmers have mostly happened just metres from my back door. Brief forays into the garden for the washing, the compost bin, to water new plants.

If you’re a regular reader, you’ll realise my love of butterflies, if there is one in my vicinity, my eye will be drawn to it. And there are often a few fluttering about my garden.

But while pegging out the washing, my brain decided I needed a break and wanted to stop and look at this one for a bit longer than I might usually. I don’t know why, I can’t remember what I was doing, or what state my brain was in, just that my brain (or butterfly using ESP) commanded me to stop and the butterfly graciously allowed me to take a photo.

At the time, my brain just thought, “Oh, small white, hello”. But no, my butterfly brain hadn’t kicked in fully. It was only just now getting the photo ready to put in here that I realised, it’s actually the rarer and (in my eyes) more delicate cousin - the Green-veined white.

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But really, its name and classification didn’t matter in terms of its glimmer power. It caught my eye, it paused my day, it made me smile, and stuck around to provide joy for the rest of the day and beyond.

The second glimmer came in a break during an online webinar for my course. It may be a nature practitioner course, but talking about risk assessments, site surveys, and policies was making my brain melt.

So out I went into the garden. And something, I don’t know what, made me look down at the first plant pot I come to.

Given that she’s (and it is a she but I won’t go into how!) only a couple of cm long and perfectly camouflaged against the plant, I still don’t know how I spotted her, that’s the magic in nature noticing, the way that once you exercise that part of your brain, so much more of the world opens up.

She is a speckled bush cricket. I knew they were here, but so far had only been heard, not seen. It was just when I needed a glimmer, a dose of nature, that she appeared. A pause, a moment of appreciation, a link to memories of hearing the iconic cricket sound in summers past. A reminder that even in my little urban garden, there are so many more residents than just me and the neighbourhood cats.

What nature glimmers have you seen this week? Can’t think of one? Maybe have a look at your camera roll - did something make you stop long enough to take a photo?

I invite you to let your eyes roam, let them notice what they are drawn to and allow the joy of seeing that make your day just a little bit better.

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Until next time,

Yet again, it’s been weeks since I last wrote here properly. I’ve scribbled so many notes and composed many more in my head. I’ve felt guilty at not committing them to the (web) page, at not sharing it with you, or preserving my memories and thoughts on how this beautiful season has affected me more than ever. In a way maybe not experienced since that strange sunshine-filled spring of the 2020 lockdown.

As I wrote about in my last post, it’s been a hard few months, and I’m still struggling with both symptoms and overwhelm. But spring has carried on regardless, nudging me to get outside and breathe it in, to sit with all its sensory joys, to take part in Mother Nature’s biggest creative endeavour. Even as I sit here typing, my eye catches the flutter of a butterfly visiting my front garden.

So, to get over this writing barrier, I’ve just got to write. And, what I’m going to share might be a bit left field. It’s not about the joys of the blue skies, warm days…

Here on the south coast of the UK, it had been six weeks and barely a drop of rain. Bath and dish water was being saved to keep the garden going, and the car was coated in a thick layer of dust. Paths normally not dry until high summer were hard and dry.

But then, we finally woke to rain, actually the sound of tyres swooshing on wet roads. I hadn’t believed the forecast, but now I felt relief. I went down to check how much had fallen and whether it had refreshed the pots of seedlings (it had).

We (Bridget dog and I) drove up the hill into a gentle layer of mist. A grey world strangely welcome after weeks of bright light.

But on stepping away from the road into the orchard, it was my nose that found the joy first. Oh I wish the internet had smell-o-vision! But this wasn’t just petrichor (the scent released by the soil after rain), this was the scents of spring turned up by 100%. This was the blossom, the comfrey, the fresh new leaves - such a sweet yet soft aroma released and enhanced by the rain. I had to stick my nose in every bloom we passed to top it up.

And that wasn’t the only benefit of the rain. The already beautiful blooms were bejewelled with glistening raindrops, reflecting the world around them and adding texture to their silky petals.

On newly emerged leaves, the droplets magnified the intricate veins.

And then, as I moved closer to photograph one branch, I found a different decoration - a tiny snail searching for breakfast. Another reminder to slow down and notice the tiny wonders everywhere.

As we drove the five minutes home, the sun had burnt off the mist, and we were back to the clear blue skies and sunshine. But, the rain had had her moment and reminded me that there is magic and beauty to be found in all weathers.

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Do you enjoy being out in the rain, or those moments after the rain has left? Am I the only one that finds days of the same weather boring, even if sunshine?

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Until next time,

Oh gosh, it’s the end of March and I haven’t written at all this month. I’m away at the moment and life has rather over taken me at the moment. I will get back to it soon.

But, my calendar has reminded me it is time for our monthly nature noticings.

On the last weekend of each month, I open up the community chat for you to share. It might be a wonderful moment, you might have a photo or might not, it might be something you experienced on the way home from the shops or a walk in the woods with friends. It might have been something you saw through the window. If you’re in the northern hemisphere, what is coming into bloom? In the southern hemisphere, how does nature prepare for the changing of the seasons?

Spring has been springing, both in England and France (where I currently am), so it’s hard to choose a highlight. For now, I’ll go for this amazing bee (I believe it’s a Violet Carpenter Bee) we accidentally disturbed whilst clearing up the garden. It needed to be disentangled from the weed matting it had been snoozing in, then I gave it a lift to a patch of primroses to revive itself. A few minutes later, it was on its way.

To join, you need to head to the chat. I know a lot of you read this via your email, but it only takes a click to take you either to the Substack website (where I host this blog) or you can use the app (click on the little message button, usually on the right hand side at the bottom). You can share a comment on this post if you’d prefer, but Substack only allows you to add photos in chat. Does that make sense? It is so lovely seeing nature from different locations around the UK and world.

It’s only for subscribers (free or paid) so if you found your way here another way, it would be lovely for you to join us.

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At the moment, everything I share and write here on Substack is free. But it takes time and energy to produce. If you’d like to drop me a donation via Ko-Fi, click on the link below. Thank you!

See you in the chat,

I have been wintering this season, not in the manner of a cute dormouse, but often frustratingly horizontal in quiet rooms. For reasons known and unknown, I’ve had one of the worst Me/Long Covid flare-ups I’ve had in a very long time. As a result, I’ve not been a shining example of my own advice. I have not embraced and enjoyed winter, I have wished it away wanting colour and light in my days. The light is only just starting to return to my little north facing urban garden, so rather than being a balm and refuge, is a slippery dark mess shouting at me to sort it out. Flare ups are much easier to bear when I can sit in the light and chat with the flowers and insects. Yes, I have the wild cemetery two minutes walk and the South Downs five minutes drive, but some days even that has been too far. My next garden will be south/west facing and have been planned with all seasons in mind, but that doesn’t help me now. I realise how much getting outside, trips to the mountains, ski holidays and regular winter swimming used to help me through the winter.

Balancing mental wellbeing and physical needs is a tightrope walk. Some days I have got out, driven the sea, to the orchard, because my mental wellbeing needed to take priority, even if that then meant an afternoon crashed out asleep in a darkened room.

So this is a rather long introduction to the little outing Bridget Dog and I had to the Community Orchard yesterday. I wasn’t feeling full of beans, I needed to retain energy for doing admin, but Bridget needed a walk and I needed nature.

It was the perfect medicine - sniffs for her, tiny wonders for me. A top up of hope that Spring and therefore light and colour, is coming. Saturday heralds the start of meteorological spring and it’s light(ish) at 6pm (on the south coast of UK).

There were a couple of trees already displaying their white embellishments, with others just having a light sprinkling of white hundreds and thousands. Give it a couple of weeks though and I’ll be dreaming up all sorts of similes and metaphors for blossom filled hedgerows.

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The Hazels however were stealing all the limelight as usual, requiring detours off the trodden path (which Bridget does not approve of) to investigate their delights.

Since I learnt about the female flowers a couple of years ago, all Hazel trees have had to be investigated each Spring. But this time, it was the male catkins that captured my attention. With all my attention on the pink anemone like females, I’d dismissed them as dowdy sideshows. But look! Peeking out from under each scale (the little flap bit) is the little greeny-yellow stamen ready to release its pollen to the wind. (with thanks to the Tree Guide website for giving me the technical terms).

Next, a diversion off our usual route to the orchard pond, time to cross my fingers - would there be any…?

Yes!! My first frogspawn of the year and the first I’ve seen in the orchard for a couple of years. I have been eagerly but slightly enviously watching’s frog updates from her trailcam and texting my Step Mum as to whether they have appeared in her pond. So it was a joy filled moment to see this clump and add it to the Pondnet spawn survey. I will keep checking and report back on progress!

Another first of the year was almost missed in our hurry to get into the main orchard. Next to the path, in danger of being trampled was a small patch of violets. These demand phone gymnastics and much juggling of dog leads to photograph, actually getting down to be able to smell them wasn’t going to happen.

Thankfully, a quick internet search and attempting to sniff a flower only a few centimetres off the ground is no longer essential for identification (only sweet violets have a scent). This excellent website and close study of the other photos I took and I think, probably, these were Sweet Violet (rounded sepals and self coloured spurs if you’re interested). Either way, another dose of colour, and even better - purple - one of my favourite colours.

And, to round off a short but joy filled, nervous system calming trip a couple of reminders that winter can still offer up its own wonders.

Just writing about this little outing has brought a second burst of happiness, such is the joy of nature noticing and spring watching. The memory and hope for Spring that I’ve held onto for weeks will soon be a reality. I know a lot of people talk about the lack of light, or the rain and cold affecting them the most in winter, but for me, this year, it’s the lack of colour and access to nature which have affected me the most. Spring is not going to cure me, I may still be spending time in bed not able to finish a page of a book, but it will bring colour, light and a nicer garden to sit in.

What signs of spring have you noticed? What are you looking forward to most?

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Until next time,

Here we are, the end of February! I’m not sure whether it seems a long time or just a moment since our last nature noticing chat.

It was so lovely sharing our nature noticing during the 12 days of nature photos project at Christmas, so on the last weekend of each month, I open up the community chat for you to share. It might be a wonderful moment, you might have a photo, or not, it might be something you experienced on the way home from the shops or a walk in the woods with friends. It might have just been something you saw through the window. Maybe you’ve spotted some green shoots or early flowers? Birdsong might be one of my highlights.

To join, you need to head to the chat. I know a lot of you read this via your email but it only takes a click to take you either to the Substack website (where I host this blog) or you can use the app (click on the little message button, usually on the right hand side at the bottom). You can share a comment on this post if you’d prefer, but Substack only allows you to add photos in chat. Does that make sense? It was so lovely seeing nature from different locations around the UK and world.

It’s only for subscribers (free or paid) so if you found your way here another way, it would be lovely for you to join us.

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At the moment, everything I share and write here on Substack is free. But it takes time and energy to produce. If you’d like to drop me a donation via Ko-Fi, click on the link below. Thank you!

See you in the chat,

How do you feel about holidays? Is that a strange question - surely everyone loves holidays don’t they? Time to relax, be with friends and family and explore new places.

Well yes. That’s partly true for me, I do love getting away, especially when it involves places more wild and rural than my home.

But, I often find unfamiliar places unsettling, even places I know and love. I need time to get to know them again. I need to find familiarity, to ground myself, and feel part of the new surroundings. This then enables me to relax and enjoy being somewhere different.

Nature is a huge part of finding the familiar, as I realised on a trip last week. It’s a place I’ve been before, there’s even British TV (slightly embarrassing to admit but familiar TV programmes are hugely helpful in settling my nervous system) but it’s not home, so I don’t fully relax. But, although we were a few hundred miles south of home, in a landscape quite different to Brighton, there is still so much that is familiar. And that which wasn’t still helped as it sparked my curiosity to find out more about it- which makes it more familiar.

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The first creatures to welcome us were the birds, as we sat drinking tea in the sun, the air was full of birdsong, nothing particularly rare, definitely familiar; Robins, Great and Blue tits, but because I rarely get them in my garden they immediately lifted my soul. Once we filled the bird feeders outside the windows, their visits became the backdrop to our days so the calm of nature noticing was always accessible. I know there are issues with feeding birds, but I also know the power it brings by enabling us to watch them.

This window into their world meant I could study them so closely. Many were so intent on feeding, I could stand just 30cm away from them, only the window glass between us. The tiny details, their seemingly fragile legs belying the strength needed to hang their comparatively rotund bodies upside down from the feeder as they stabbed at the fat balls. I can study the individual feathers, textures, and patterns as the wings overlap in rest along its back. Watching their interactions was better than a sitcom. The Blue tits are the dominating bullies visiting the most. They don’t approve of other Blue tits being around as they feed but put up with the Great Tits. Nothing else was around while the Nuthatch picked its way through the fat ball, finding what it wanted. The artist in me marveled at the silhouettes of the Nuthatches, pulling their familiar poses whilst grasping the metal feeder.

The Robins were a rare visitor to the feeders as they are mostly ground feeders so take what the others had discarded from the windowsill. Though there were some attempts at the feeders, instead of hanging on they continued to flap their wings like ungainly Hummingbirds. Instead, I had regular conversations with one as he perused the molehills or sat defending his empire from the top of the washing line, just as I do with the birds in the cemetery at home. This connection and engagement grounded and connected me, and gave endless entertainment.

This is a limestone landscape, different from the rolling chalk ridges of home. The extra few degrees of latitude mean that some of the woods that cloak the hills are again familiar yet unfamiliar.

The forest floor, almost ankle deep in crisp crunchy sienna leaves leads me to time travel to autumn rather than late winter. These would have decomposed by now back home in our much wetter conditions. The leaf shapes are familiar, the lobes of the Oak and elongated ovals of Sweet Chestnut. Pale bare trunks against a winter blue sky are reminiscent of the Beech Bluebell woods of home yet here the winter forest floor, instead of brown and bare has mounds of bouncy luminous moss, half hiding decaying branches and layers of browning bracken. Spiky sweet chestnut cases punctuate the layers of leaves.

While all this is known, only the moss is common on my patch if not on this scale. The oaks are a different species and there are no woods full of Sweet Chestnuts in my part of the South Downs. These bring a slightly exotic feel, taking me back to childhood summer holidays in this region, memories of warmth despite the need for my winter coat. Yet, I still feel at home weaving my way through the trees, lots of tiny wonders catching my eye.

This trip also reminded me what I want - and need(?) from my next home - to have much more nature around me, to be able to see birds and other wildlife from my doorstep, and sofa. To be embraced and connected. To become even more familiar and grounded in the natural world around me to benefit my wellbeing and give me more opportunities to help the world around me.

If you haven’t already, please subscribe. Most posts are free to all subscribers, but a paid subscription helps me build this little corner of nature and creativity.

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Until next time,

As I write this, both Bridget Dog and I are wrapped in our blankets on the sofa, socks and coats drying on the radiator. It was rather wet on our morning walk, but, enveloped in my coat, it didn’t really matter. It’s just rain. Drops of water bejewelled bare branches and made ripples in the puddles. The Sparrows’ morning hedge meeting sounded exceedingly boisterous. If only I spoke Sparrow.

But although it’s raining, although I’ve spent much of this month horizontal, that’s just January. It’s just one month of the year. I have needed to rest, many others have too and that’s ok. The rest of the world has kept going, either resting or preparing.

But, February is coming, Does it feel in some way momentous to you? Part of me thinks, it’s just another day, but the other thinks - yes! A new shiny start. Everything is going to be ok! That’s the part that flutters the butterflies in my tummy each time I remember that the ground is awakening, green shoots are pushing through, buds are unfurling and soon there will be colour.

I feel a bit disingenuous. So much of what I write about is singing the praises of the great outdoors and nature regardless of the time of year and weather. But today - January is a bit crap. I think it’s probably because I can’t get out as I would normally, even a stomp across the South Downs would help, so instead I am wishing the days away to spring.

Mother Nature did give me a little boost yesterday though, a hint of what is to come. A single blossom, shining out from the grey brown tangle of twigs, the rest of her friends still tight in their buds.

But - I promised you a celebration. Both astronomy, religion, and culture can help us here. 1st February is halfway between the Winter Solstice and the Spring Equinox, the wheel of the year continues to turn and the Gaelic festival of Imbolc celebrates this. It is also St Brigid’s Day, in honour of the Celtic Goddess adopted by the Irish Church to become their Patroness - they now even get a public holiday! St Brigid is the patron saint of healing and protection amongst other things, so I will be lighting a candle for her, hopefully she will grace me with her blessing.

Christianity marks this time with Candlemas on the 2nd February. In the Christian calendar, this day is in honour of Jesus being presented at the temple and the purification of Mary. It signifies the end of the 40 days of Christmas/Epiphany. But hmmm? Handily another reason to celebrate in the dark days of winter fitting with the seasons of the year marked for centuries.

My internet search for February festivals also showed that the 1st is National Freedom Day in the USA. Given recent events there, I hope it will still be honoured, there are certainly some that need to be reminded of the events that make up the USA’s history.

I would normally research and write more about the festivals to mark the seasons, but given the current state of my brain, unfortunately, I’m reaching my screen limit.

So instead - I’ll reach back into the archives. Below is one of my early posts, it’s strange to read it back, but it gives a bit more on how this point in the year was/can be celebrated and a window into what I was noticing then. Hopefully by the time the wheel has turned to the next festival, I’ll be well enough to tell you more about it.

A nudge from Nature

1st February 2023

Hello, here is my mid-week nudge from Nature. It’s a bit of a longer read today, my ponderings about our connection to the seasons, how it has been celebrated in history and what we could do today.

One of the ways I’m being more intentional in connecting with nature is by being more aware of the ways the seasons have been noted and celebrated as festivals. I know this may turn some people off, but stay with me. It does all ultimately come back to nature. I would like to suggest that we don’t have to view festivals such as Imbolc, which is today, as pagan, or against Christianity or indeed in any way religious if you don’t want to. The more I’ve read about the celebrations that form the wheel of the year, the more I see them as an opportunity for us to reconnect with nature and the seasons. Other than the weather, I know some city dwellers are almost entirely unaware of the changing seasons, even though there are still plenty of signs in our concrete world.

These festivals developed in ancient times as a way of marking the changing seasons and making sense of what was happening in the world before scientific advances explained them and the Christianity calendar took over. Many pre-Christian traditions and celebrations were subsumed by Christianity because people were celebrating anyway. As communities adopted Christianity, they continued using the same rituals, think of the bringing in of evergreens at Christmas and the use of light and fire. I am predominantly talking about Western/Christian countries here, though I know other cultures also have wonderful festivals and traditions associated with the seasons.

And so onto today. There are a host of pagan and Christian festivals around the 31st Jan-2nd Feb. Imbolc, the Spring Pagan Festival is celebrated on the 1st Feb in honour of the Goddess Brigid, which leads to St Brigid’s Day in Irish Christianity, (also the 1st Feb), celebrating St Brigid who may or may not have been a real 1st century Irish Nun. Candlemas (2nd Feb) in the Christian calendar, marks the end of the Christmas season when traditionally the holly and ivy were removed from houses to mark the beginning of Spring. Imagine that, Christmas continuing all the way through the dark short days rather than ending on Twelfth night. I’ve also just learnt that Groundhog day in North America has an association with Candlemas and of course, is when a groundhog decides if Spring is coming or not.

Whatever you call these days and whatever the origin, these festivals are ultimately celebrating the beginning of spring. It is halfway between the winter solstice and the spring equinox which are markers of day length and the position of the planet. The festivals are associated with the start of the lambing season (is there a more joyful spring sight than gambolling lambs?) and farmers preparing to plant their fields and restart the farming year. They focus on what many were doing at that point in the year.

For those of us without lambs to birth or fields to sow, or with no religious beliefs, it is still a time of anticipation. All talk seems to be about longer daylight, warmer weather and sightings of spring bulbs. On my social media timelines this morning there have been many posts celebrating getting through January, we need that hope that the long dark winter days are nearly over.

So, how does this help us connect with nature? I believe that just as we mark the year with religious festivals or secular holidays like birthdays, holding celebrations to notice nature makes an occasion of the moment. When we celebrate, we create memories around that date remembering what is happening in nature - often what the weather is doing. In the UK, we associate Christmas with snow, even though it rarely happens now. My childhood September birthday parties were nearly always outside wearing summer clothing, so in my world, summer lasts until then!

Traditional ways of celebrating the early Spring festivals include the making of St Brigid crosses from rushes, the lighting of fires and visiting Holy wells and water. Religious rituals at this time often centre around purification and cleansing, is this where spring cleaning comes from? Modern interpretations may be lighting candles or visiting a special body of water with friends and family. It’s a time of spring cleaning, I currently have the back door open, letting the fresh air in. We might grow spring bulbs and be planning which seeds we are going to grow this year. Or as I am doing, searching everywhere for green shoots peeking out, for buds on trees ready to burst and noting each new bird song I hear (more on this to come in my end-of-week letter). Another lovely suggestion I read about, linked to the ritual of purification and spring cleaning, would be to do a litter pick or beach clean, a very concrete way of helping nature. St Brigid is also the patron saint of craft, so I’ll take my sketchbook out later and do some green sketching.

So, however you want to describe it - happy Spring!

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Until next time,

It’s the end of January, how did that happen? We are two thirds of the way through meteorological winter (in the Northern Hemisphere) and plenty has been happening in nature, some out of sight, but lots to spot.

Following on from the 12 days of nature photos project at Christmas, I wanted to carry on with a place for us to share what we’d noticed in nature that had brought a little bit of joy and wonder.

So on the last weekend of each month (so today and tomorrow), I’ll be opening up my chat for you to share. It might be a wonderful moment, you might have a photo, or not, it might be something you saw on the way home from the shops or a walk in the woods with friends. It might have just been something you saw through the window.

To join, you need to head to the chat area - either on the Substack website or on the app (click on the little message button, usually on the right hand side at the bottom). You can share a comment on this post if you’d prefer, but Substack only allows you to add photos in chat. Does that make sense?

It’s only for subscribers (free or paid) so if you found your way here another way, it would be lovely for you to join us.

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At the moment, everything I share and write here on Substack is free. But it takes time and energy to produce. If you’d like to drop me a donation via Ko-Fi, click on the link below. Thank you!

See you in the chat,

So, today, how’s it feeling?

I’m not going to comment on global news events but scale it down to what we can affect - our own view.

Today is, according to an advertising campaign started in 2005, Blue Monday, the most depressing day of the year.

Except, really? How can any day be loaded with that much negative expectation? And it’s not, there is no scientific data behind it, it was just a way to make us buy holidays. There is nothing different about today, from yesterday or tomorrow.

But, I will use it as an opportunity to promote the wonders to be found in nature!

It would have been a clever twist of the term if I could have made it down to the sea - to bring the joy and calm that blue spaces offer. But, that’s too much for me today. So the cemetery it was, and of course, it didn’t disappoint.

On the way there I said hello to the sparrows in their hedge and checked on the progress of the ivy berries.

Then, ahhh, calm and plenty of both visual and auditory joy.

The snowdrops are starting to show their faces, the daffodil spears are standing tall and the cherry trees are preparing for their debut. The single branch of Cherry blossom I captured for the 12th day of Christmas post made it through the snow and is now fully in bloom - though the rest of the tree is still waiting a bit longer. I was also pleased to find some new female hazel flowers so they survived the cold too.

I did say both visual and auditory so I will leave you with a little voice note from nature - not my voice, but the avian residents. It’s a little quiet, I wasn’t going to include it, but I hope you will forgive my technical inadequacies. It lifted my heart, so I hope it does yours. As far as I could assess, the orchestra consists of Robin, Blue Tit, Song Thrush, Crows and Magpies. The blackbird and Jay were too busy finding their mid morning snack.

Hopefully, I’ll be able to get a microphone soon. Maybe drop me a tip to help?

Rachel's tip jar

So, wishing you a blue, green, brown, white, pink (other colours are available) Monday. And if you can’t get outside today, I’m happy you can share mine. I’m off for a nap now.

Until next time,

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January calling!

Hello, how are you feeling about January? Here in the UK, on the south coast we’ve been having a mixed bag of weather, but as part of that was a bit of snow, I’ll forgive the greyer days. For those dealing with floods, polar storms, and wildfires, I’m sure some benign grey days would be welcome - I hope you are ok. The fairly reliable seasonal norms of my childhood seem a very long time ago.

And then, there is the emotional side of January, some might be recovering from a hectic Christmas, some might be wishing there was something to celebrate, you might have thrown yourself into the new year with energy, or want to hide under a blanket.

I’m still recovering. My body calls out for sleep frequently, it feels like I’ve been in bed more than out this week, my nervous system needs rest and gentleness. My brain can’t cope with much and the thought of trying to make plans beyond tomorrow for myself or my business seems not just a mountain to climb but one that is very far away. It’s frustrating and hard. I’m trying to be gentle, plans can wait, I’m going with a balance of what my body and/or mind need as they often aren’t the same thing, trying to remind myself that things will change.

So, for me, and for you, however January finds you, I’m giving us a few nudges from nature. Whether you want a distraction, a treasure hunt, some joy, curiosity, or just calm, it can all be found outside. Nature is doing all the things we are in January - sleeping, growing, nesting, singing, and restoring. And if you can’t get outside, what can you see out the window? And although we may be trying to do less online - I am a big lover of nature TV, both traditional documentaries and on YouTube, including live webcams.

Let’s start with some colour and hope. Have you seen any flowers? They might be winter flowering plants deliberately planted in a garden, or hardy opportunists growing on a pavement. There are even a few native flowers that choose this time of year to flower. I meant to buy some daffodils from the supermarket this morning, environmental concerns outweighing my need for some dancing yellow happiness on my table. As it was - I forgot. But going through my photos folders I noticed that by early February last year, the first proper blossom was showing and there were swathes of snowdrops in the cemetery. I don’t want to wish January away, but I do need some flowers.

How about something we can only marvel at in winter - bare trees. The sculptural majesty of bare deciduous trees has inspired my creative side for the last few winters. I’m useless at identifying all but the most obvious species, but I still appreciate the shapes and textures. Whether the texture and feel of the bark, or the shape and pattern of the branches, each one is different and deserving of more than a brief glance.

And then, what about a feast for the ears? The birds. You might think all the birds are quiet now, busy trying to stay alive or off in warmer climes. But spend a few moments listening, even on a residential street, and more than just traffic noise will reach your ears. It might be the caw of a magpie, the screech of a gull, or if there’s a hedge nearby, the chatter of a host of sparrows. From a nearby tree, a robin or a blackbird might be triumphantly declaring its presence. It might not be the glorious orchestra of a spring dawn chorus, but it still has the power to lift the soul. You don’t have to know what it is to appreciate it. As I’ve mostly been in bed or on the sofa resting this week, it’s the chatter of the local family of magpies that have been keeping me company, occasionally treating me to a swoop of iridescence black and white. Maybe you’ve heard or spotted something else?

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I intend on taking a dose of my own advice and trying to get outside, even if just to the cemetery in the next couple of days. Find a few tiny wonders and say hello to my favourite trees. I can’t remember the last time I did any green (outdoor) sketching so, for accountability, I will say I’ll do a ‘how to sketch outside in winter’ post soon as that will get me out and doing it! I received a fabulous new pair of gloves for Christmas so I have no excuse.

So, until next time,

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So, here I am - two years and 65 posts on from my first words.

And I’m proud to have sustained that. I’m proud that despite all that life has thrown at me, meaning there have been a few periods of silence, I’ve still kept going.

It reminded me I love writing, I like forming my thoughts into sentences and setting them down on the page. More than that, I like sharing them and that’s where Substack has helped - by providing a platform and community for writers and readers to find each other more easily. I may not be earning yet from it but I hope it’s a starting point for building my new little career. Writing, like I am now from the sofa, is the most flexible activity that works best for my health so one of my aims is to branch out from just writing here to other paid work such as magazine articles or similar. Maybe mini zines or books combining nature and art? Guides on how to notice nature? What do you think?

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As well as putting my words out, it’s the community aspect I like. Most readers get my posts via their email so the fact you have chosen to have me there is an honour. That people leave comments and share my words is even more special. Recently a few joined in with the 12 days of nature photos project and the chat thread became a lovely place where we shared our noticings. It became a journey around the world, of different weathers, different landscapes, and a little view into people’s days. For someone who is at home alone a lot, it brought a sense of community and connection - which is one part of my guiding word(s) for the year. It meant I could encourage and help people, we helped identify what people had seen, shared common moments of wonder and I loved that it sparked people into their own research rabbit holes.

Your comments remind me there is an audience and interest in what I am doing sharing my love of nature, of creativity. To help open up the outdoors and nature to all.

Looking back at my early posts, much is still the same. I’m still sharing my nature noticings, how nature inspires my art, and how I create in/with it. I occasionally still share nature books I’ve loved (would people like me to do more of this again?). I’m still giving little nudges to help people get outdoors or bring some creativity into their day. I just don’t combine it all into the same post, enabling more depth.

What changed this year is how much of me is in the essays. While I’ve always talked a little about what brought me here, about living with a chronic illness, and how nature and creativity help, this year there was a shift.

This time last year, I was a ghost of myself. All the nature in the world couldn’t help at first, though it was part of the toolkit. I wrote about it more in this post when I finally returned to writing seven months later. My life has changed and I’m still processing it all.

I hadn’t intended to shift how I wrote, but so often big changes bring about unexpected things. Taking part in ’s Summer Writing Sanctuary meant I wrote more personal, memoir style pieces and decided to share them. The lovely feedback gave me the confidence that sharing my experience and feelings was ok and that others wanted to read it - it resonated with them.

So - what now? I’m still easing myself into the year. I don’t feel ready and energised enough to leap into anything new and my brain isn’t clear enough to work out new plans. And that’s fine, it will come.

For now, I’ll potter along doing the same types of posts, mixing up nature noticings with one on art and then a nudge for you to get outside. There will be some deep dives into interesting things for the ‘In Praise of…’ series and ‘Marking the Seasons’ posts at the key points in the year.

What I am going to do more of is the voice notes from nature, I’m hoping to get a microphone so the wind is less of an issue! I’m also going to host a monthly noticing nature community chat where we share something that brought joy/wonder from nature that month. I think I’ll do it on the last weekend of each month so the first will be 25/26th January. I also want to write some posts about the theories and research behind nature and creativity. Is there anything you’d like to see more of? Maybe you have an idea for a deep dive?

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Until next time,

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And so here we are, the final day of Naturemas. Doing this little project has helped me through a difficult and strange period. How? It’s meant I’ve had to get up, dressed, and outside, however I felt and whatever the weather. I’ve squeezed in quick walks like today, dashed out in my PJs to catch the fros,t and made time for longer walks. Yes, this is what I do anyway, but not every day. And given the weather and some days where I really wanted to stay wrapped in blankets, I wouldn’t have gone out but for the motivation to write to you.

So, today, while waiting for the bread dough to prove, I donned my big coat and went to see what I could find. As always, there was plenty, despite the low light and occasional need for windscreen wipers on my glasses.

But, I’ve chosen this.

A little reminder that spring will come. A pop of pink amongst the grey and brown.

What have you noticed today? Much of the UK got some level of snow it seems - other than us. While I know it can cause problems, it also hopefully brings joy and smiles, and makes a great photo. Do pop across to our chat thread to share.

I hope you can get outside and find your own natural wonder, if not, I hope this bit of virtual nature has brought a bit of calm.

Happy Naturemas to you!

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As I write this, the temperatures have risen slightly and the grey blanket returned, with more stormy winds forecast for tomorrow - our last day.

So, while I have just been out for a quick circuit of the wild cemetery, a frosted droplet in my garden has the honour of being today’s photo. Taken, again in my PJ’s as my tea was brewing, taking this photo required getting cold, frosted knees so I could down get to its level.

What have you noticed today? Do pop across to our chat thread to share. Tomorrow will be our last day - for now. I hope I can find something suitably awe inspiring, I’m sure I will, nature always delivers - you just have to look.

I hope you can get outside and find your own natural wonder, if not, I hope this bit of virtual nature has brought a bit of calm.

If you’d like to share a photo and join the conversation, head to my chat. You will need to be on the substack website, or the app. It’s lovely to see what people are noticing.

Happy Naturemas to you! Until tomorrow,

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