This morning was bright, beautiful and cold. This afternoon was bleak, brisk and cloudy.
I love the way phone cameras manage direct sunlight through the lense.
The first day of the half term break is always a pleasure. There is a calm aura around the house and things slow down. But this morning we had to be up and out for the dog walk because Mabel’s groom was due in the afternoon.
We walked through woodland still carpeted with ice-crusted snow. The clear ground was dry and frozen solid. And we walked across fields usually scattered with sheep which are obviously penned up in weather like this. It was a real spirit-lifter. Again, massive lungfulls of cold air were taken in and each one provided a head rush as chilled oxygen travelled around my body.
This afternoon, we cleaned the house from top to toe. A proper one, where cupboards were pulled out and cleaned behind. And the tops of pipes, and window frames, and that space on the floor behind the toilet bowl. Everything smelled good and looked good in the bright sunshine.
Then Mabel went for her pamper. It’s very odd in the house without her. It really does feel like there’s someone missing. But she returned and normal service was resumed. And she matched the sweet smell of the house. All good.
Last day of half term today and we have reached the halfway point of the academic year. I don’t if I have ever known a tiredness like this. We’re all pretty exhausted.
An icicle hanging from my shed this morning.
The pupils that have been coming onsite have been great and I think will be best placed to cope with life after lockdown. Whenever and whatever that looks like. There’s no doubt, in my opinion, that remote learning is here to stay. Time will tell to what degree.
And although I know that young people need to gain their qualifications in the key skills of mathematics and literacy, there is more. This pandemic has certainly shown us how important it is to connect with our communities and with the outdoors. And to appreciate the smaller stuff more. It will take bravery for decision makers to pursue that as part of the curriculum offer post pandemic. We will see.
But the good news is that the R-number (the rate of infection) is below one. The lowest it’s been since July last year. In a year, many will have forgotten what some of this terminology meant.
How are those bubbles captured? I will find out.
As I drove to work today the sun was peering underneath the carpet of cloud which pretty much covered the sky. At the point at which it rises above the horizon, and before it slipped behind the cloud, it spilled an orange light out across the still white fields.
This made the ground glow like gold and lot up, in the same warmth, those trees and hedgerows that still had snow on them. Although I was driving and unable to stop and take a picture, I still felt privileged to have been there, at the right time, to witness it before the rest of the day got underway.
We woke this morning to a fresh sprinkling of snow on the ground and roofs. Nothing dramatic, more a gesture really. And as I drove to work the sun broke through the clouds and was so bright. Dazzlingly so.
It has been a productive day but people are noticeably numb to everything that is happening ‘out there’. I became numb to it a few days back now.
I couldn’t tell you how many new infections there are daily, or how many are hospitalised or in intensive care. I think the death rate is still pretty high. I do know that we have topped 115k Coronavirus deaths in the UK. I heard it accidentally on the radio. I choose not to have the news on for now.
We did get notified that we are due a vaccine and can book one right away because of the job we do. Not all teachers, just those that work with the most vulnerable young people. I’ve booked in for next Thursday morning in Colchester at the football stadium. Most of the time I go there to give blood, sweat and tears. The last two by supporting Colchester United, the first because I donate the red stuff and this is a donor venue. This time though, I’ll be having something out in me. Makes a change I suppose.
It’s a bit weird but I have started wondering which version of the jab I will get. I would prefer the Astra Zenecca one but couldn’t say why. Perhaps subconsciously I like the idea of it being invented at Oxford University? Maybe it’s because I don’t really fancy having something injected in to me that has needed defrosting first?
Comfort cultural consumption. On my way home this evening the radio presenter was talking to author Jacqueline Wilson about how the updating of her much loved literary character, Tracy Beaker, had grown up. The children’s books that appealed to so many young people twenty years ago are looked back on fondly by people now in their twenties and thirties.
In the new book, Tracy is a mother of three, and one would guess that many of those who read the books as a child are now parents too. There will be many who (through nostalgia spectacles) will read the new novel, interested to find out what has happened to their childhood anti-heroine.
When things are going to shit, I reach out to Scooby Doo. There, I’ve said it.
And in times of emotional challenge and unpredictable change, we look to such things as cultural comfort food. Walking the other day, when it was bitterly cold, snow was falling, and we remain locked down, we got excited about watching Star wars on the telly when we got home.
When I am feeling vulnerable, I know I reach for music and films from my youth to bring some sense of familiarity and certainty. They provide a means to self-sooth by connecting me to a time ‘before’ the uncomfortable and unsettling times we are currently in.
These cultural things also become transitional objects that we hold on to to help us move from one period of time to another. At school, we often encourage young children to bring something in from home if they are new or unsettled, or if they are experiencing some traumatic episode at home. It can provide a connection to a prior time of stability or to a person they love and trust.
Now, although I don’t remember going for many walks back when I was a kid, I do remember being outdoors alot. So, for me, and probably many others of my generation, this terrible time has provided an opportunity to have a trapse around near my home. And it has offered something more than simply getting a daily dose of exercise? I know I am getting to spend some quality time with my local flora and fauna, but I had not thought that I may also be tapping into some psycho-historical remedy.
When I was young I would listen to the radio, waiting for a certain song. When it played, I’d sing along. It made me smile.
On my way to work tomorrow, I will play some Carpenters in the car. It will remind me of living in Devon. Waiting on the stairs on Saturday mornings for Dad to come home with warm jam donuts from the village bakers. Here’s to cultural comfort consumption.
The snow continued to fall in fits and starts today but it did so as the thaw began. The latter with more urgency, and despite the bitterly cold temperatures, we are seeing the grass and the ground again.
Isabel’s snowflake #1
So, another day working from home with the rest of the family, all of us marking out our own territorial spaces in the house. It went remarkably well, all considered.
But I am glad the snow is receding. Yes, it’s exciting to see it fall, especially at night, when you turn on the outdoor lights and see it flurried and settling. Even more so when you see the wind doing it’s thing and drifting the white stuff into extraordinary shapes.
My Snowflakes #1
But, after a short while (about a day in fact) it all becomes tiring. Not only because of all of the adjustments we have to make to our day-to-day lives. Which, by the way, are far from normal of course. But also because it’s an assault on the senses.
The sound is different, more muffled and quieter. There is less human and animal activity too. The birds continue to feed in large numbers but do so in silence; there is no noise from the trees or hedgerows. And some strange patterns in the snow, of creatures not used to this weather too.
Snowflake #2
It is brighter – dazzlingly so. Even at night, the carpet of white bounces around even the most insignificant of sources of light. Last night I was conscious of an eerie, numb, orange glow coming from outside. When I peeked outside the bedroom window I noticed that it was a single orange bulb coming from the water pump twenty metres away from the house.
But of course there is beauty in it all too. Especially, as I have discovered over the past year, if you look close enough. Today, I was inspired to try and take some pictures (using only my phone of course) of snow flakes. Yesterday, a member of the Gents Film and Leisure Club shared some amazing pictures his daughter had taken. They were nothing short of incredible really. So I had a go myself today, using my phone and a glove. Thank you, Isabel for letting me share your pictures.
Thank you, Isabel. The master of phone photography. What an incredible image?
When I drove home from seeing Dad late yesterday afternoon, I thought we had seen the back of the usual one-day snowfall we usually get. But I was wrong. Overnight it piled in and drifted along the lanes, blowing hard and cold through the gaps in the hedgerows and between the trees. The result? Schools closed, icy cold winds and a persistent sprinkling of snow throughout the day.
A breaking wave of snow. The natural sculpture was formed as the bitter easterly wind blew the powdery snow through the gaps in the hedgerow.
So, this morning we woke in the dark as usual. But as the decisions were being made to close our schools, so the day broke to produce that very odd light you get when snow is all around. Firstly, things are much brighter, the light is more concentrated and unfiltered. Only reflected off the white, all covering sheet of white. The other oddity is that the light is coming from the ground as well as the sky, albeit through a layer of cloudy, and earth bound snow flakes.
So, all four of us at home today, on a school day! Plus the dog and the two cats. But everyone was able to find their own bit of space. Strange, and an indication of how things have changed in the past year. First of all, me and Lisa had a sense of what it has been like for Stan and Adora. This past year they have been learning from home, that’s really hit me today. All of those young people unable to be at college socialising, growing and learning with friends they know and ones they haven’t met yet.
It’s life departed months back, but this looks like the only living thing in this snowy field.
Secondly, our kids are growing so quickly. Stan is eighteen in three months time. He’s leaving for university four months after that. Adora will be doing likewise the following year. And the lead up to this massive change for them? Three bouts of national lockdown.
So, they were upstairs in their rooms doing their lessons online. Lisa was in one room doing her meetings on Teams and I was Googling it in another. Thank God I sorted the broadband recently – a snag of country living. Oh, and today, an odd experience. A full-on belly laugh, whilst at a staff meeting, all forty or so staff. I won’t explain what happened but there was a noticeable release from many people, myself included, who haven’t had much to laugh about for the past year or so
The birds have been feeding wildly in the back garden. All the usual suspects were there including a veritable army of blackbirds and starlings. I put some halves of apple out – that always works. And a treat today was a local walk with Mabel. It was cold though, we raced around pretty sharpish, but it was beautiful.
The walk this morning was cold and blowy, but utterly lovely.
Snowy Sunday. It started around 4am and has not stopped all day. Now, I know we have a tendency to exaggerate and get a little hysterical about all weather in the UK, but that’s because (I believe) we live in a temperate climate where we have few extremes of anything and alittle bit of everything. But drought or snow are a rare occurrence and stear our behaviours accordingly.
So, after our bracing and bright-white dog walk in Lawford we hunkered down at home, with cheese and biscuits, a good book and a roaring wood burner.
Grass stalks look like stripped trees when the picture is taken at ground level. Snowy landscapes create disorienting views.
The birds were crazy busy on the feeders but there seemed to be more blackbirds than normal today. Perhaps it because the snowy carpet made them more obvious, hopping about searching for food. But I was also reading that, at this time of year, the migratory blackbirds will be heading back to Scandinavia and the birds who spend summer in our backgardens will be heading back east to their nesting places. Some will also move from the woodlands, where they go for berries and shelter in the depths of winter, back to their spring, summer and autumn garden territories.
A couple of days ago, I cancelled our planned flights to Italy. We had already rearranged them from last October to March in the hope that travel restrictions would be lifted, but that is looking unlikely even now. It looks as though the UK government want to push on with this third lockdown as the final one. They want to get the majority of adults vaccinated before they start returning things to normal, and don’t want to risk yet another surge.
And who knows what the situation will be at Easter, both here and in Italy? At the moment, flights are being cancelled and anyone who does come into the country has to isolate for two weeks in a hotel at their own expense.
Age brings experience; some good, some not so good. Bereavement is one of those experiences, and for me it is a confusing one. My simple brain (as a result of my experiences so far) split this thing into sad and happy memories that flit into my mind at odd times. Sometimes triggered by something obvious (“I remember coming here with..”) and not so obvious – I may just wake up and think of that person.
Well today, I am missing my friend, Jason. Not sure why today, of all days. I just am. And that’s ok. I am sad, but thinking about him makes me smile too. Love you, Mate. Miss you.
This morning, in fact the whole day, has drifted by satisfyingly swift. There’s always an expectation that the day needs to be filled with stuff being done. Not today. I pottered to start.
A grey day above, but look down, and look close enough, and there is vibrant colour.
Insignificant jobs were accomplished today. Like swapping bird feeders. Taking Stan to meet his girlfriend for his weekend walk. I had a craving for a sausage sandwich, so popped in to the Coop on my way back. We took Mabel for a walk, just around the local fields, and returned as the rain started to sprinkle down. I watched a bit of footy on the telly and made up a fire, which we enjoyed lounging in front of watching telly.
It sounds pretty mundane, and that’s exactly what it was. A whole day of mundane, and we will likely do it all again tomorrow.
This past week, Lisa has been watching The Detectorists. Ive been joing her for the odd episode here and there. Then this evening back-to-back episodes that took us to the end of the third and final series.
It was timely for me to rewatch them. They’re genius, every one fills my cup and makes me pine for the long summer days. T-Shirt sleeves, a pint at the pub, walking on dry ground, flanked by tall grass fizzing with insects. Birds at their busiest and time to stop and savour what we have right under our noses. Or walking alongside us.
It’s no accident that it was filmed in the beautiful Suffolk countryside, with references to Colchester and Maldon.
As I write this, before sleep, the region is braced for snow overnight and throughout tomorrow. We have a habit of completely over-playing what is likely to be a couple of centimetres (at best). The anticipation rarely matches the reality. But rather than be critical of how, as a nation, we obssess and panic about the weather, I have come to love it. Our quirky ways. And our even quirkier regional characteristics. I feel more and more East Anglian every day – and this blog has made me realise it.
What a sky to end the working week and start an ominously forecast weekend.
I’m starting today’s post from the evening. Yes, it was a good day, much achieved and a really good buzz, but the end of the day came with a desire to leave while it was still light.
It has been mild today, dry and bright. The birds have been out in force, a steady stream of them chirping and clicking on the feeders outside my window. So, with a sense of spring in the air I set off home to take in a stolen walk with the family
I managed to get back to my empty house in time to quickly change and head across the orchard to meet up with the others. They were half way round and asked me to bring high visibility vests as the sun had set and dusk was fading into night.
And it was noticeable that the wood of the apple trees were changing colour. They do that as spring rises. Their dormant black bark hardens off in the autumn as the lengthening of the nights accompanies the winter.
But, as the daylight increases, both in duration and intensity, so phytochrome induces chemical and biological changes to the wood flesh. It’s actually brought on by a reduction in darkness, rather than an increase in light. And so, the wood softens and the bark too and the trees turn a blue-grey colour. A really pleasing sight as I look along the rows and head off to meet my family for some late Friday fresh air.
We’ve always sat around the table to have dinner at the end of the day. The four of us. Phones are not allowed, no TV or radio in the background. It’s very rare that this doesn’t happen.
Then the view from my car window on our lane across the orchards. On my way to work.
It hasn’t been something we’ve enforced either. I think we all genuinely like being together for that short time, sharing food and the events and thoughts from our respective days. And we discuss the latest news, be it local, national, global or personal. And we are nearly always interested.
The past week or so, although the togetherness is still there, there have been a few conversations that have been on the verge of getting snappy. The lockdown and persistence of this pandemic is taking its toll on us all. Me and Lisa are tired, really drained, and the kids are on the verge of cabin fever. But we are a resilient bunch and we talk to each other a lot, and that will be enough to get is through.
My day started with my usual twenty-five mile, thirty-five minute journey to work. In that relatively short trip I went from clear frosty skies to foggy, saturated air.
Then my view when I got out of my car at work.
When I arrived, I was told that one of our kestrels was back, perched on top of the fence out the back. A real pleasing surprise, and backed up with a foggy camera photo too. I think, privately, my colleague who saw it was as pleased as me. We then looked up whether kestrels migrate. That’s a good conversation to have when you first arrive at work.
The Bald Birder 