In 1906 Edith Holden started a Diary, now known as ‘The Country Diary Of An Edwardian Lady’. In it, she observed Natures cycle through the months of the year, writing simply about the weather, the birds, the flowers and the natural world around her. All the pages are beautifully ornamented with her original artwork and favourite poems. In this Blog, I’m going to try to emulate her Diary in a modern way. For a start, this is a blog on a computer, not pen and ink lovingly written on paper! However, I hope that the end result will have some similarities, in that I want to capture day by day, month by month the steady rhythm of Nature through the year. For although our 21st century lives are hectic, chaotic, noisy and deafened by electronics, the beat of the natural world, which is the backdrop to all our lives whether we notice it or not, remains ever the same. So take a sedate, gentle and steady-paced journey with me through the next year, observing the natural world. Our way of life may have changed almost beyond recognition since 1906, but nature is doing what it always has done, the cycle of nature remains constant and reassuringly predictable. In that respect, nothing has changed. ‘ No Winter lasts forever; no Spring skips its turn.’ (Hal Borland)

Tuesday, 11 June 2013

June 11th.

The wild roses are in bloom in the woods,  all tangled and interwoven in a pretty, fragrant jumble with wild honey suckle. It's a good month for all climbing and creeping plants and the woods can sometimes get quite inpenetrable with the wild undergrowth that suddenly, and thickly springs up. Blackberry bushes are in bud. The smell in the air is beautiful, with wafts of sweet perfume carried on the breeze, especially in the evening.The birds are all very busy, saw several blackcaps catching flies above the brook and a pair of crows feeding four large chicks sat grumpily on a willow branch. After a cold and wet start to the day, it turned into a lovely evening full of bird-song.

June- Matthew Arnold

The evening comes, the fields are still,
The tinkle of the thirsty rill
Unheard all day ascends again;
Deserted is the half-mown plain,
Silent the swathes! The ringing wain,
The mower's cry, the dogs alarms,
All housed within the sleeping farms!
The business of the day is done,
The last left hay-maker is gone.
And from the thyme upon the height,
And from the elder blossom white
And pale dog roses in the hedge,
and from the mint plant in the sedge,
In puffs of balm the night air blows
The perfume which the day forgoes.
And on the pure horizon far,
See, pulsing with the first born star,
The liquid sky above the hill!
The evening comes, the fields are still.

Illustration available here

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