Tor Falcon: Diary of a Wild Place

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 trys 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 moving love song of a wood pigeon.

Standing watching bees, all six legs wrapped tightly round tufted vetch flower heads, their heads out of sight, thrust far up into the tubular petals drinking nectar, I feel an incredible contentment. Joyful. Everything’s all right in the world. It’s just as it should be. The flowers have flowered, the bees have plenty of nectar, the cycle of the year is complete. This is simple and perfect.

But, however I write this or think about it, I can’t leave it here. This moment has a sting in it’s tail. Because you can’t think about bees without being aware of their decline. About the varroa mite and the destruction of nectar rich habitats. Of greedy mankind laying waste to this paradise planet we are so lucky to be living on. Will my children have moments of bliss watching bees when they’re my age? Try as I might I can’t keep this moment pure. It doesn’t seem to exist without the sting. When was the last time someone could really watch bees industriously gathering nectar and be truly satisfied that all was well with the world?

High summer has given way in my absence, to a dishevelled late summer. The army of nettles, once standing so upright are insolently lolling at their posts. A patch of tall willow herb has fallen tipsily sideways but still just manages to keep it’s beautiful head above the grass. Bramble tendrils saucily probing everywhere, some with such brazenness they appear to be heading straight up heavens skirts. Thistle down, untidily blowing about like the dirty white froth of spilled beer. Docks, still upright but changing colour, from green to yellow to orange and pink and red and now a deep purple brown, like the hardened drunk whose face turning from red to purple is the only visible sign of the amount of alcohol consumed. And a strong wind is adding to the blousey immodest feel of it all. The usually hidden underside of leaves are on display. I feel like I’ve walked in on the end of a long party. The music has been turned down. Everyone still looks beautiful but look a little closer and you’ll see their lipstick is smudged, they’ve lost a shoe, their hair has come loose. Some are still drinking, some are still dancing but most are beginning to flag. One or two have fallen over. And have you seen Granny over there with the bottom of her bloomers hanging down.