Whilst waiting for the Forest Church participants I witnessed a buzzard which didn’t act like the typical buzzard. The markings on it were similar yet different at the same time including a grey head and a grey band around the rump. The circling that common buzzard’s tend to do was less distinct and the wings were flatter in position. It was relaxing watching it as it gradually disappeared out of sight over the trees in a North Easterly direction.
Before the buzzard appeared, driving to the meeting point I had seen a kestrel on the telegraph wire, with its head down as I passed underneath it in the car. Surprisingly it was unperturbed by my presence. Later it flew towards where I was sitting in the back of the car putting my wellies on.
When everyone had arrived we began after making sure the coast was clear. Normally we do an action prayer of welcoming Christ’s presence. It’s more about us presencing ourselves to He who is already present. Looking towards the cardinal compass points we rotate clockwise through them and locate our bodies to those points. I think I have referenced that before in another blog. It’s called the prayer of seven directions. This time we said Christ throughout the prayer. The last action we put our hand over our heart and say Christ within us.
Then we set off towards one of the large paths in the area. Check out the last post to see our location here.
For the first part of the walk we were encouraged to walk up to the bridge in silence and as we did to take note of anything we saw or heard. Not long before this we’d all seen an orange tip butterfly which as always is a pleasure.
Taken from the butterfly conservation website.
Reaching the bridge we shared mainly what we’d heard which were some of the more common British species of birds. Our eyes were drawn to a small blue butterfly which we weren’t able to identify as it didn’t settle.
The next part of the walk was prefaced by a piece take from a longer article on the fear of God by another Forest Church leader who I’ve been corresponding with. I have included it below for reflection which is what we did. The section that was read started at “…if we want to grow” and ending at “…preserve our wellbeing”
The next part of the walk under the bridge had not improved much from earlier on in the year when it was flowing with water. Thankfully there was less water but there was a lot of mud but it was negotiable – just about with walking boots!
We were led up to the muddiest part of the walk where not only had we to negotiate the ooze but also fallen and leaning trees. Here we listened to two pieces, one, parts of a poem about the mud of World War 2 and the other some 450ish year old prose which is added below.
From At the Somme: The Song of the Mud (verses 1 and 5)
BY MARY BORDEN
This is the song of the mud,
The pale yellow glistening mud that covers the hills like satin;
The grey gleaming silvery mud that is spread like enamel over the valleys;
The frothing, squirting, spurting, liquid mud that gurgles along the road beds;
The thick elastic mud that is kneaded and pounded and squeezed under the hoofs of the horses;
The invincible, inexhaustible mud of the war zone.
This is the song of the mud,
The beautiful glistening golden mud that covers the hills like satin;
The mysterious gleaming silvery mud that is spread like enamel over the valleys.
Mud, the disguise of the war zone;
Mud, the mantle of battles;
Mud, the smooth fluid grave of our soldiers:
This is the song of the mud.
A piece from John Bunyan’s Pilgrims Progress:
Now, I saw in my dream, that just as they had ended this talk, they drew nigh to a very miry slough or swamp, that was in the midst of the plain; and they, being heedless, did both fall suddenly into the bog. The name of the slough was Despond. Here, therefore, they wallowed for a time, being grievously bedaubed with the dirt; and Christian, because of the burden that was on his back, began to sink into the mire.
Pliable. Then said Pliable, “Ah! Neighbor Christian where are you now?”
Chris. “Truly,” said Christian, “I do not know.”
Pliable. At this Pliable began to be offended, and angrily said to his fellow, “Is this the happiness you have told me all this while of? If we have such ill speed at our first setting out, what may we expect between this and our journey’s end? May I get out again with my life, you shall possess the brave country alone for me.” And with that, he gave a desperate struggle or two, and got out of the mire on that side of the swamp which was next to his own house: so away he went, and Christian saw him no more.
Wherefore Christian was left to tumble in the Slough of Despond alone; but still he tried to struggle to that side of the slough which was farthest from his own house, and next to the wicket-gate; the which, he did but could not get out because of the burden that was upon his back; but I beheld in my dream, that a man came to him whose name was Help, and asked him, What he did there?
Chris. “Sir,” said Christian, “I was bid to go this way by a man called Evangelist, who directed me also to yonder gate, that I might escape the wrath to come; and as I was going there I fell in here.”
Help. But why did you not look for the steps?
Chris. Fear followed me so hard, that I fled the next way and fell in.
Help. Then said he, “Give me thine hand.” So he gave him his hand, and he drew him out, and set him upon solid ground, and bade him go on his way.
Tramping through the wet woodland we continued enjoying the spring scents of hawthorn. Everything was lush and green. We were given the option of walking up the wet path through the wood or skirting the edge of an arable field. A change of scene was decided upon and so we headed around the margin, along the field edge.
At first it seemed sadly quiet with the occasional singing of a blackcap eminating from the wood and some other spring birds. For the time of year one expected more song. Previously the field hosted skylarks on other visits. They took a while for their presence to be known. As we ascended the hilly field we noted three skylarks singing over it in the end. One of the highlights for me was watching one descend rapidly seemingly without fluttering wings. It was breathtaking! With that in mind and standing by a large oak tree another poem was read.
Meeting the Sacred
When a mystery
breaks the surface of nature
my consciousness quivers.
I meet the sacred,
sense the spiritual,
and wonder.
When a mystery
rises from the depths of nature
my mind seeks wisdom.
I meet the sacred,
discern the spiritual,
and wonder.
When a mystery
reveals its presence in nature
my spirit is startled. I meet the sacred,
celebrate the spiritual,
and wonder.
From Rainbow of mysteries by Norman Habel
The path down to the lane at Flexford through the field was still wet from all the rain we’ve had over the last few months. It did not deter us. At the end of the path is a large tree trunk which separates one type of habitat from another a fitting end to the first part of the walk.
A whitethroat was singing as we met the lane and in the not too far distance was a lone bird on the wire. This bird has become a signature of the demise of our farmland birds. It continues to hold on even when low in numbers in this area. The field where the wire crosses is full of rapeseed oil plants giving off a heady scent. Everyone within the group was able to see the yellowhammer – the bird referred to here. As we walked off we talked of its song as we could hear another one in the distance.
The crossroads of paths and lane here seems to be the meeting place of a number of birds which we listened to and saw. Linnets, blue tits, great tits, buzzards, jay, skylarks and so forth. Even in winter one can be surprised what turns up at this point.
I was hoping to see swifts yet we didn’t see them flying low as expected. Something high up caught our attention and there they were flying not far off from four or five buzzards. Distant specks in the vast sky blue. This led into a few verses from Ted Hughes poem on swifts. I’ve included the whole of it here. I recommend reading it out loud as I think it’s very effective detailing their movements.
Swifts
Controlled scream of skid
Round the house-end and away under the cherries. Gone.
Suddenly flickering in sky summit, three or four together,
Gnat-whisp frail, and hover-searching, and listening
Fifteenth of May. Cherry blossom. The swifts
Materialize at the tip of a long scream
Of needle. ‘Look! They’re back! Look!’ And they’re gone
On a steep
For air-chills – are they too early? With a bowing
Power-thrust to left, then to right, then a flicker they
Tilt into a slide, a tremble for balance,
Then a lashing down disappearance
Behind elms.
They’ve made it again,
Which means the globe’s still working, the Creation’s
Still waking refreshed, our summer’s
Still all to come —
And here they are, here they are again
Erupting across yard stones
Shrapnel-scatter terror. Frog-gapers,
Speedway goggles, international mobsters —
A bolas of three or four wire screams
Jockeying across each other
On their switchback wheel of death.
They swat past, hard-fletched
Veer on the hard air, toss up over the roof,
And are gone again. Their mole-dark labouring,
Their lunatic limber scramming frenzy
And their whirling blades
Sparkle out into blue —
Not ours any more.
Rats ransacked their nests so now they shun us.
Round luckier houses now
They crowd their evening dirt-track meetings,
Racing their discords, screaming as if speed-burned,
Head-height, clipping the doorway
With their leaden velocity and their butterfly lightness,
Their too much power, their arrow-thwack into the eaves.
Every year a first-fling, nearly flying
Misfit flopped in our yard,
Groggily somersaulting to get airborne.
He bat-crawled on his tiny useless feet, tangling his flails
Like a broken toy, and shrieking thinly
Till I tossed him up — then suddenly he flowed away under
His bowed shoulders of enormous swimming power,
Slid away along levels wobbling
On the fine wire they have reduced life to,
And crashed among the raspberries.
Then followed fiery hospital hours
In a kitchen. The moustached goblin savage
Nested in a scarf. The bright blank
Blind, like an angel, to my meat-crumbs and flies.
Then eyelids resting. Wasted clingers curled.
The inevitable balsa death.
Finally burial
For the husk
Of my little Apollo —
The charred scream
Folded in its huge power.
Very appropriately Forest Church happened to be on the 14th of May – note the beginning of the poem.
Retracing our steps we walked down the footpath between the fields which is lined with trees and has an upper and lower path. We talked of the route and some of the things we’ve seen before in the area.
The lower path criss-crosses a stream which makes a delightful sound which we stopped to listen to for a few moments. The water was very clear compared to what it has been more recently. A few verses from another poem was appropriate. The verse about treble notes struck me in light of the stream in front of us as it sounded like one and the same.
The Brook
I come from haunts of coot and hern,
I make a sudden sally,
And sparkle out among the fern,
To bicker down a valley.
By thirty hills I hurry down,
Or slip between the ridges,
By twenty thorps, a little town,
And half a hundred bridges.
Till last by Philip’s farm I flow
To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on forever.
I chatter over stony ways,
In little sharps and trebles,
I bubble into eddying bays,
I babble on the pebbles.
With many a curve my banks I fret
by many a field and fallow,
And many a fairy foreland set
With willow-weed and mallow.
I chatter, chatter, as I flow
To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on forever.
I wind about, and in and out,
with here a blossom sailing,
And here and there a lusty trout,
And here and there a grayling,
And here and there a foamy flake
Upon me, as I travel
With many a silver water-break
Above the golden gravel,
And draw them all along, and flow
To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on forever.
I steal by lawns and grassy plots,
I slide by hazel covers;
I move the sweet forget-me-nots
That grow for happy lovers.
I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance,
Among my skimming swallows;
I make the netted sunbeam dance
Against my sandy shallows.
I murmur under moon and stars
In brambly wildernesses;
I linger by my shingly bars;
I loiter round my cresses;
And out again I curve and flow
To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on forever.
Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Half way along after ascending to the upper the path. Something caught my eye as I was leading. I stopped and silently pointed to the ground under one of the hedgerow trees. I did not dare make a sound as I didn’t want to disturb the bank vole which was sitting very still. Everyone was able to see it. A tricky moment how to convey to a group where something is without using words!
The last bit of the walk was touched by the song of a mistle thrush (scroll down in link to hear) which was very pleasant and not something I remember hearing that often in spring time. We compared the song to other ones we knew of.
Finally we took a slight detour from the main track and headed through some wood pasture which has mature willow in it. The willow grows round a hidden pond. A lot of the willow had seed blowing in the wind.
We delighted in four swallows flying low over our heads as they chattered around the nearby farm buildings. A very low buzzard soared in the distance. Some fresh mint was picked by a couple of the group members present to be taken home.
At the end of the track leading out of the pasture we stood and reflected on what had struck us about the walk. One of the most significant things was the loudness of nature. Sometimes we get distracted by our own noises that we don’t notice it. It was a an opportunity to take that in.