Tor Falcon: Diary of a Wild Place

Or, an artist's unscientific study of the natural world. Copyright Tor Falcon http://www.torfalcon.co.uk

Nature Blog Network ask me anything

Aug 27

In amongst the drunk late summer greenery is a perfect circle of scentless mayweed. It marks the spot where, last winter, cows stood on an ever rising dais of their own dung around a bale of hay. From shitty to pretty via house keeping with a tractor and a shovel. 


Aug 19
group-eight:

Tor Falcon will be showing her new work at Wiveton Hall in North Norfolk.
www.wivetonhall.co.uk

group-eight:

Tor Falcon will be showing her new work at Wiveton Hall in North Norfolk.

www.wivetonhall.co.uk


group-eight:

Tor Falcon will be showing her new work at Wiveton Hall in North Norfolk.
www.wivetonhall.co.uk

group-eight:

Tor Falcon will be showing her new work at Wiveton Hall in North Norfolk.

www.wivetonhall.co.uk


Aug 18
I’m sitting up to my shoulders in mint. As I draw it I’m aware of  wood pigeons cooing. It’s the wonderfully fat sound of English summer. As I listen, the cooing gets throatier. It gets deeper and more intense. It’s not cooing ,it’s wooing. I can just see the wooer and his lady in an ash tree to my left. He sings, she moves away. He adjusts his tone. She hops to another branch. He follows. He puffs himself up. He’s big and soft and every colour of grey under the sun. He tries again, deeper. She doesn’t move. He’s so deep and throaty now, I’m almost falling for him. She goes right to the end of the branch. He’s there next to her……the branch cracks and they scrabble to the nearest solid perch. He stands on tip toe and resumes his plea. Always the same old words but there can be no mistaking the meaning. She’s still resisting. I can’t believe he can go further. He’s producing sound through pure bubbling honey. I can’t bear to tear myself away. How much longer will she make him go on for? How much lovelier can his singing get? But I have to go. I leave the lovers to it and return home with my little drawing of mint which will forever remind me of the love song of a wood pigeon.

Tor Falcon

I’m sitting up to my shoulders in mint. As I draw it I’m aware of  wood pigeons cooing. It’s the wonderfully fat sound of English summer. As I listen, the cooing gets throatier. It gets deeper and more intense. It’s not cooing ,it’s wooing. I can just see the wooer and his lady in an ash tree to my left. He sings, she moves away. He adjusts his tone. She hops to another branch. He follows. He puffs himself up. He’s big and soft and every colour of grey under the sun. He tries again, deeper. She doesn’t move. He’s so deep and throaty now, I’m almost falling for him. She goes right to the end of the branch. He’s there next to her……the branch cracks and they scrabble to the nearest solid perch. He stands on tip toe and resumes his plea. Always the same old words but there can be no mistaking the meaning. She’s still resisting. I can’t believe he can go further. He’s producing sound through pure bubbling honey. I can’t bear to tear myself away. How much longer will she make him go on for? How much lovelier can his singing get? But I have to go. I leave the lovers to it and return home with my little drawing of mint which will forever remind me of the love song of a wood pigeon.

Tor Falcon


Aug 12

Jul 25

torfalcon:

image 

Damselflies, so insubstantial, so bright, so horizontal and so difficult to draw. I love these strange insects. They flit round the edges of summer like shards of electric blue glass. They live for two or three years under water, rapaciously gorging themselves. Hungry, grey, ugly larvae which then emerge into the light as slim, polished darts. With only two weeks in such splendid guise, they must dance and shimmer and skim and mate and die.


Jul 12

Jun 22

Jun 15
The hay field in early June is mesmerizing. Five acres of green space used by boys, for football, and by lurchers, as a race track in the winter, has become one living thing. Millions of individual plants unite in their common aim, to produce seed. Shivering and sighing at night, bejewelled and trembling in the early morning. It rolls pollen with the wind and reflects the sun’s own image in buttercups. In the evening it wears a soft rosy halo, still glowing after the sun sinks behind the wood.
The lanky plantains hold their black heads sideways, nodding, until suddenly they all come in to flower at once and the field seems to be flying. Sheeps sorrel, as mellow as old brickwork and as sharp as limes, reaching, reaching up. Each plant adds a layer of colour and texture, affecting the movement and look of the whole. And each year, as the nitrogen levels drop, new plants find a convivial home here. This years new arrival is a pink vetch, it’s regular pairs of leaflets and curled tendrils break up the verticals. A glimpse of it’s strong pink flower is thrilling.
But sink down into the depths, below the flowers, feel the spider tickle it’s way across your arm, feel the breeze gently push the stems around you. Loose count of the different types of bees, busy above your head. Watch the ants move up and down the ox eye daisies. Hear the cuckoo. See the perfect spring clouds drift through the clear pale sky and know, simply, how lucky you are.

The hay field in early June is mesmerizing. Five acres of green space used by boys, for football, and by lurchers, as a race track in the winter, has become one living thing. Millions of individual plants unite in their common aim, to produce seed. Shivering and sighing at night, bejewelled and trembling in the early morning. It rolls pollen with the wind and reflects the sun’s own image in buttercups. In the evening it wears a soft rosy halo, still glowing after the sun sinks behind the wood.

The lanky plantains hold their black heads sideways, nodding, until suddenly they all come in to flower at once and the field seems to be flying. Sheeps sorrel, as mellow as old brickwork and as sharp as limes, reaching, reaching up. Each plant adds a layer of colour and texture, affecting the movement and look of the whole. And each year, as the nitrogen levels drop, new plants find a convivial home here. This years new arrival is a pink vetch, it’s regular pairs of leaflets and curled tendrils break up the verticals. A glimpse of it’s strong pink flower is thrilling.

But sink down into the depths, below the flowers, feel the spider tickle it’s way across your arm, feel the breeze gently push the stems around you. Loose count of the different types of bees, busy above your head. Watch the ants move up and down the ox eye daisies. Hear the cuckoo. See the perfect spring clouds drift through the clear pale sky and know, simply, how lucky you are.


Jun 8
This place is a happy co-incidence of steep rock briefly relaxing into undulation and a row of sycamores sheltering on a half moon within a sinuous U . The perfectly round oak tree at the top of the bank is a full stop, a completion of the curve. 

This place is a happy co-incidence of steep rock briefly relaxing into undulation and a row of sycamores sheltering on a half moon within a sinuous U . The perfectly round oak tree at the top of the bank is a full stop, a completion of the curve. 


Page 1 of 19