Views from the Hills

Views from the hills
Thoughts from the shadow of the Preselis

Words and pictures © Tony Holkham 2012

Become a writer Magazine publisher? Competition

The first volume of 'Views from the hills' (2011), with additional text and photographs, is now available from Amazon here as an e-book.
Note: you do not need a Kindle reader (currently not set up for colour) -
you can download a FREE app for your Mac, PC, pad, tablet or phone here, which should enable you to see the book in full colour.
For details of my other books see here or go to my home page.

A DOG'S LIFE
20 May 2012

When I went to the front door yesterday morning to check for any mail, I was surprised to see a rat run from the road and down between the garage and house. It took too long for me to get to the back door to see where it went, but I imagine it was either to the field beyond our hedge where there is still a large pile of rotting hay or to my compost bin in the far corner of the vegetable patch. The latter is probably the more attractive option.

Since we are surrounded by farmland I should not of course have been surprised, but it is unusual to see a rat in the daytime. And since our household contains a Jack Russell terrier the risk to the rat was considerable.

Something has been digging up our nasturtium seeds and perhaps I was too hasty to blame the dog, though he will eat wild bird seed when he finds it, along with anything else that looks remotely edible. I will say no more about that.

Though spring is well on its way, the cold weather is holding back some of the new growth; the big ash tree has hardly begun to leaf, and my spinach seeds have not yet germinated, though the potatoes are doing well under their frost protection.

Despite the cold, insects are at last becoming more numerous and even predators such as robber flies (picture) are taking advantage of the increasing number of flowers in the garden. On the field banks, gorse flowers are rapidly giving way to the improbable pods that will one day explode in the sun and scatter their seed several yards away in the right conditions. Picking a mature pod from the bush and warming it in the palm of the hand will often have the same effect, something that would delight us as children. Such simple pleasures, never forgotten.

Much credit for my love of the natural world, outside the influence of my family, must go to Margaret Hutchinson, author of A childhood in Edwardian Sussex: The making of a naturalist, who would regularly lecture we primary school children at Haslemere Educational Museum in the 1950s. It is a lovely, warm book that you can still buy. The publisher was Saiga of Hindhead, sadly no more, whose many books across the whole range of countryside matters are still keenly sought after.

The sun is trying desperately hard to shine through the patchy cloud, and the expansion and contraction of the plastic guttering makes a pleasant ticking sound to accompany the gentle test match commentary on the radio. They are sounds of summer, so summer cannot be far away.

Sparky, permitted in the vegetable garden while I am there, drew the attention of the inquisitive heifers the other day. Some gave him barely a glance, while another came to the fence where he was sitting quietly sniffing the air, and to see such hugely different animals touch noses through the wire was a rare delight. When he is not quietly enjoying the olfactory view, the rest of the time he will be sprinkling a few foxgloves, chewing a blade or two of grass, or just poking around in the unkempt corners. He probably smells a rat.

Today, the sun (or at least the BBC) has promised to shine, and all the signs look hopeful: thin drifts of cloud with patches of pale blue; a slight haze in the air, thinning by the minute. In the next field but one the white speckling of daisies and other wild flowers paint the ground reminiscent of Monet. That field has been empty of stock for a few days and while a large white butterfly makes its haphazard way towards this sudden feast, rabbits skitter back and forth along the bottom of the bank. They will soon disappear when the red kites make their daily rounds.

Having spent yesterday afternoon digging weeds it is all I can do to stand upright today, so I will be starting a new book: On extinction: How we became estranged from nature by Melanie Challenger, which received a good review in New Scientist. Sparky and I will have a lazy day. Unusual for me but, of course, not for him. If you need to learn to relax, look to the dog; in that respect, they are the masters, we the students.

[Scroll down for earlier thoughts or go back to the top of the page]

PROFUSION
5 May 2012

Spring at last. I know this because as I went to check the potato tops for frost damage the other morning, a flash of colour caught my eye. An orange-tip butterfly, a male (the female does not have any orange), darted away across the hedge from where he had been visiting the flowering weeds in last year's pea bed. The UK Butterflies website says of this species: The Orange-tip is a true sign of spring, being one of the first species to emerge that has not over-wintered as an adult. You can't argue with that; it must be spring.

And yet winter still shows some reluctance to depart. Nights that have been clear have been very cold, and when there is a wind (when isn't there?) it is a cold wind. Clouds have gathered frequently and created bright strings of jewels on the windows and on the garden table that I so optimistically put out in March. But we can look forward to brighter days: days full of the hum of bees and the pleading of fledglings, of days pottering in the garden or out on the lonely, lofty bridleways.

The martins are back in force, their mysterious homing instinct bringing them back to the very eaves under which they were born to rebuild their nests with mud gathered from the cattle hoof-prints in the soggy field beyond the thickening hedge. While they fill the air with their cheerful chirping, a crow sits above one nest site, peering down with malevolent intent.

A single stalk of rape is happily flowering in an abandoned plant pot. The first clematis bloom heralds the profusion to come. The fountain bubbles cheerfully and then I find myself mesmerised by a single dandelion seed head, not having the heart to destroy its intricate beauty, even though I know I will be sorry when the seeds have produced hundreds more of the deep-rooted little devils. The reason I love their cheerful flowers is the attraction they have for so many insects, such as the improbable earwig and the host of fly species that I could not hope (had I not given up that sort of thing) to ever identify. Perhaps I will allow - encourage, even - dandelions to occupy a small corner of the garden and harvest them for food, since we are constantly being urged by the gurus in our television to include them in our diet in these austere times. Fried with a little wild garlic perhaps? Or with some marigolds that I have sown in the greenhouse and which are now bright and hopeful little green spots on the dark compost.

Where wild food is concerned I have a lot to learn but, as my leisure time, hopefully, increases with my age, it is something I look forward to learning, along with the Welsh language, though perhaps not at such a slow pace. It's not saying things in Welsh that is the problem, it's understanding the answer, a dilemma familiar to anyone who wants to speak a tongue other than their own. There are no short cuts in either study, though while a mistake in the language might result in a quizzical look, an error in the other might mean a short cut to the hospital. As children we would pick the leaves of roadside weeds and eat them on our way home from school, giving them names such as 'egg and bacon' or 'custard'. The banks of the lanes in those days were an incredible profusion of plants, insects, reptiles and small mammals because they were rarely, if ever, cut.

With white fluffy clouds drifting from east to west against a pale blue sky, today is punctuated by bright spells of sunshine warming the backs of two cows and their calves in the field. The younger calf is taking his first tentative mouthfuls of the grass that is now growing rapidly, without straying too far from his mother. Yellow dots of dandelion are appearing in the field, too, keeping their heads low as if in fear of being spotted.

At this time of year I always wait in hope of one of the defining sounds of my youth, a cuckoo, but I have not heard one for many a long year. There is time yet: spring, the season of newness and optimism, is not yet over. In fact, it has hardly begun.

[Scroll down for earlier thoughts or go back to the top of the page]

APRIL SHOWERS
25 April 2012

Michael Flanders and Donald Swann were right when they sang: April brings the sweet spring showers... on and on for hours and hours. Their 'Song of the Weather' always makes me smile and I find myself singing it whenever their predictions come true. April can be the most difficult of months to comprehend; she can be any of the four seasons from one day to the next; I can remember swimming in the sea one April, and digging out a path through three feet of snow in another. This April has been no different in her determination to confuse.

Walking with family on Frenni Fawr on Easter Sunday afternoon we were privileged to see a male wheatear close-up, something I had so far been unable to do. In addition to that, a red kite posed for pictures, hanging on the breeze like its seaside namesake and occasionally dropping to the ground to investigate a possible meal, of which there was little sign. Only one rabbit made an appearance, dashing for the bank at our approach, and a hoped-for glimpse of the fox did not materialise. A few young ponies were only mildly disconcerted by the presence of Sparky, who had other things on his mind. A sheep's bones lay scattered across the stunted grass, bleached white and unreal; a solitary lamb's leg, still clothed in wool, lay nearby. It was clear that spring had not yet warmed these hills.

A few days ago, though, we enjoyed one of the best sunsets so far this year; impossible to describe and inadequately photographed, it blessed the end of a lovely day, casting its radiance into the dark clouds that foretold of imminent rain. More rain; it is raining softly as I write this, though I dimly remember being woken in the night by hail pounding on the roof.

Meanwhile Sparky has caused a little concern, taking to going out first thing in the morning and plucking fresh emerald shoots of grass from under the hedge and then bringing them up again with a startlingly-bright yellow bile. His eating habits are most unlike many other dogs; sometimes he will delicately eat a few morning biscuits; at other times he will leave them until just before his dinner time, and then hardly want dinner at all; then he is hungry again in the small hours. We solved this particular problem with a few biscuits softened with warm water last thing at night.

There are still few insects about. I have written an article on insects for the summer edition of a local magazine (which will be included in this year's compilation of 'Views from the Hills: Volume 2') but it is worth noting here that I have not yet seen a single butterfly this month. The flies that over-wintered in the conservatory’s crevices eventually found their way outside and will have laid their eggs in the pile of rotting silage in the corner of the field or in the cow-pats under the hedge. Mosquitoes have not yet produced their strange little larvae in the brimming water-butt, and bumble bees are still rare visitors. When the temperature has dropped almost to freezing on several nights this month, I am not surprised. Their time will come, hopefully in sufficient numbers to satisfy the returning feathered summer visitors when they grace our skies once more.

As I complete this 'View' I can hear a blackbird singing some distance away, his tuneful warble carried on the unseasonal easterly wind. When I visited a friend's woodland cottage the other day I was entranced by the volume and variety of bird song, and surprised by how quickly I had forgotten its beauty, living as we do now on the edge of moorland with few trees. I have some apple and cherry seedlings waiting to be planted and now have an urgent desire to get it done. But I will still need to wear a fleece in the garden; spring may be here, but it still feels like winter to me.

And finally, just as I am in the very process of putting these words on to my website, what do I see in the gathering gloom but the darting shapes and sartorial dress of the first house martins, returned thousands of miles from warmer climes to our cold and wet April evening. Small wonder the seasons confuse me.

[Scroll down for earlier thoughts or go back to the top of the page]

CHANGING SEASONS
30 March 2012

Was it only ten days ago that I wondered whether spring had come? I was answered the following morning. Sunshine as bright as on any day since autumn, the countryside suddenly alive. Insects everywhere and garden birds feeding at an unprecedented rate while the magpies search to rob them of their first batch of eggs.

A goldcrest called from the hedge and I crept towards it to get a glimpse of this fairly common but rarely seen tiny bird, hardly bigger than the sable-coated bumble bees that stumble from flower to flower. It saw me first and skittered away to resume its simple song from a neighbour's garden.

And what flowers - camellia, forsythia and primula all vying for attention; a lone daffodil nodding; almost-luminous jonquil all staring in the same direction; pieris beginning to blush. They will be followed quickly enough by the foxgloves and other wild plants that grow in the vegetable patch quicker than I can dig the plot clear for my spinach plants. Hydrangea leaves of startling green and timorous hosta shoots asking the same question I did.

Paving stones warm enough for a dog to stretch out on, motionless save for a twitching nose; garden chairs out, old spiders' webs flicked away. Sneaky dandelions to uproot, but not all: their flowers are so perfect and the seed heads so pretty when the wind blows.

Suddenly a hundred things to do. In the greenhouse my mouse-proof box (actually an old plastic bread bin) full of seed packets waiting for me to start potting; compost left over from last year warm and welcoming to the touch; the hunt for garden tools I have not touched for months and the first fill of the watering can from the brimming water butt. Every day the irresistible urge to be outside.

Every night, too. Cattle in the darkness, shadows in the field, their white faces or occasional calls echoing in the heavy, still air the only discernible clues to their presence.

The night sky has been magnificent this week. The Plough, balancing delicately on the tip of its handle; Polaris, aloof and cold in the north; the crescent moon chasing a coy Venus as the world turns; Orion the hunter glowering over the whole scene, preparing for his summer rest, while constant Cassiopeia, mother of Andromeda, will grace the northern sky all year. Several planets - Mars, Mercury and Jupiter - have also been visible this month, and I thought I could see Saturn's rings through my binoculars, but I couldn't keep my hands still enough to be sure.

The colours of the stars become apparent after a while, ranging across the whole visible spectrum, from the deep orange of Betelgeuse at Orion's feet to the white glare of Rigel on his shoulder. The longer you stare, the more you see, your eyes gradually filtering out the yellow light from the street lamps, your brain tuning in to the points of light that twinkle in the heat rising from the warmed earth; points of light that cannot be counted, and countless others too distant to be seen.

And as you gradually become aware of the immensity of it all, you begin to wonder how many other pairs of eyes are looking up as yours are; and then you begin to wonder about the stars themselves, and what they signify, and what it would be like to be up there, looking back. And whether, as we are watching them, they are also watching us.

Last night, though, a change in the air. Was that spring? A myriad new leaves everywhere - can they be wrong? Even as I watched our first visible sunset of the year I was uncertain, and sure enough this morning: a biting north wind, a dog asking for his blanket, the cattle huddled in the valley under a pale, grey, featureless sky. It was easy to think I had imagined those bright days with the sun on my back and the doors wide open until dusk.

But then the seasons do that: they defy our attempt to fix their start and end; they decide when to begin, and if the last week of winter decides to follow the first week of spring it is of little consequence to Mother Nature; she has her own itinerary and smiles condescendingly at our feeble attempts to second-guess her plans.

[Scroll down for earlier thoughts or go back to the top of the page]

EQUINOX
20 March 2012

Today the length of daylight and darkness are the same, which means spring has arrived. Or at least we humans say it has. Whether the countryside has made the same decision is hard to say. Tonight the air is so still and the road surface still so cold that a car's tyres can be heard as it traverses Rhoshill a mile away, its lights pin pricks against the dark fields. Even without any wind, the air is still cold, and there was a frost yesterday morning - not that I was up early enough to see it.

As I stand in the dark garden while Sparky pokes among the bare shrubs, the light from distant lambing sheds to the north paints the cloud with a ghostly glow, and a plaintive cry nearby tells of a lamb that has just for a moment lost touch with its mother. The reply, a low rumble, comes instantly. The almost tangible silence falls again.

Yesterday morning we watched the farmer assist a calf's birth in the field; it got to its feet and suckled within the hour and mother and infant were soon lying together beneath the great ash tree while other members of the herd took turns to come and look at the new arrival and, seemingly satisfied, wander away again.

The first flowers of the forsythia have broken out, and elsewhere infant leaves are appearing, hesitating before unfolding themselves like fresh butterfly wings to face whatever the new season will bring. Frenni Fawr calls me; the bracken will be preparing to uncoil its exquisite green fronds and the grass will begin to grow again. Sparky, too, is bursting with energy and will not settle in the evenings of late; his almost daily walk to the shop no longer satisfies him; nothing less than the real thing will do.

Most days now see ponderous bumble bees flying above the hedgerows and flies awakening from their sleepy corners in the shed; the morning squadrons of starlings have been posted elsewhere, and the robin no longer sings at night, presumably too tired. I no longer feel the need to cower indoors, and the sound of the central heating is more of an irritation than a comfort.

The seed potatoes are in, and it is almost time to sow peas and beans in the greenhouse, and tomorrow will see us at the garden centre at Moylegrove to buy more packets than we can possibly use, a yearly miscalculation which has taught me nothing in 45 years of growing vegetables. The neighbourhood tomcat has already made his mark on the freshly-turned earth, although I'm not convinced it isn't a present from the fox. And I was considering giving a home to a handful of chickens, too, but perhaps Reynard has already guessed.

So has spring come? Circumstantial evidence is everywhere, but her creeping approach is so imperceptible that it is impossible to say which day is the last of winter and which the first of spring. It could apply to any two days in the second half of March.

All I know is that today I am celebrating her coming; waiting for definitive proof would be pointless - when that came, summer would be just around the corner.

[Scroll down for earlier thoughts or go back to the top of the page]

OF MICE AND DOGS
4 March 2012

You wouldn't call it a plague exactly; not even an infestation. But when Sparky caught a wood mouse in the sitting room we knew it was getting serious. We had already heard scrabbling in the roof, where plastic bags had been shredded and nest-building was obviously in progress; two casualties there: the humane trap was not proving effective. I am pretty tolerant to wildlife entering the house in the winter, even those hunting spiders that seem so much bigger than they really are, but small mammals who have a tendency to multiply at an alarming rate taking up permanent residence is another matter.

There was another yesterday in the conservatory; with no windows open or air bricks, the only way it could have got there was from the kitchen, whose door we leave open most of the time. Sparky has taken to sniffing deeply in every corner and it is obvious that the pretty little things have had the run of the house for a while. When we had cats, we were hardly aware of these small rodents save for an occasional half-eaten specimen generously left for us at the foot of the stairs, or a proud yowling in the dead of the night. I hate to kill them, but if they were to start chewing at cables, which I have known them to do, they would not only plunge us suddenly into a new ice age, but electrocute themselves as well.

A huge and dense black cloud drifts over our hill but does not release the expected heavy rain. A new herd of cattle occupies the fields beyond the hedge - a lumbering beige bull, several multi-coloured cows and some delightful calves skipping among the growing number of molehills. And one ewe - we call her Gwladys.

It has turned cold again after a few days of mild weather and intermittent sunshine, during which some aircraft almost grasped the concept of noughts and crosses. I have seen more than one bee on the heather, a sign of the approaching change of season. No deciduous leaves have yet ventured out, but there are plenty of buds to interest the small birds; the seed potatoes are sprouting in the rack, pleading to be planted in the sun-warmed soil while I enjoy the sunshine from the comfort of my radiator, knowing the 'to do' list is growing as I dally behind the double glazing.

It must be time soon for Sparky and me to revisit some of our favourite places - the comfortable stiles on Frenni Fawr, the sun-warmed and tactile bluestones of Carn Menyn, the breathless climb to Foel Drigarn and the wonderful views of several historic counties from all three. There will be new places, too; we have not yet fully explored Cwm Treweryll that separates us from Rhoshill, nor the moorland surrounding Mynachlogddu a short drive away. There will be insects and birds causing us frequently to stop and stare, and new flowers to photograph if I can tear my gaze away from the beautiful and seemingly permanent gorse blossom.

There may even be a rabbit or two if we tread gently. For Sparky, though, that may be too much to ask.

[Scroll down for earlier thoughts or go back to the top of the page]

ANOTHER FINE MIST...
23 February 2012

We have had many misty mornings this winter. Today's was different. The warmth of the sun could be felt through it before it had burned away from the top of the far hill, and when it completely dissipated we were left with a gloriously sunny day with almost clear, blue skies; a sign of spring if ever there was one.

The winter is not over yet, though. The wood mouse that visits our cupboard under the sink and chews random items has not yet moved out to her summer quarters in the greenhouse. The humane trap is in there, between the soap powder and scouring pads, with a quarter of a rich tea biscuit, but so far she has declined the invitation. The trap has worked in previous years, but this individual seems to prefer the ends of rubber gloves to McVitie's finest.

Elsewhere, life progresses. The two adjoining fields this morning have become home to some cattle; the large, but I fear rather dopey, Limousin bull that we became acquainted with last year was using his head to try to dig through the bank between the two fields to get to his harem on the other side, not realising the gate was open. Eventually he twigged, and with (I imagine) the bovine version of a sheepish look on his soil-covered face, plodded round to take up his duties with all the enthusiasm of someone on their way to meet the bank manager.

Sparky, meanwhile, has taken to the chair in the porch where the ever-warmer sunshine streams in on mornings like this. I have known no other dog that loves the sun so much. I will know spring has truly come when he stretches out on the patio, closes his eyes, and takes that long, deep breath that dogs do when they are content.

Hints of spring are everywhere; the bird songs are changing; a mosquito appeared yesterday; snowdrops, heather and camellia are cheering us up and buds are swelling on roses and other shrubs. It will soon be time to check over my bike and consider how little work on Rosie I can get away with this year. I know the time will come when we will have to say goodbye to our faithful old Saab (25 this year), but she soldiers on with the minimum of maintenance or complaint and we put off the awful decision for a little longer. Another day like this and I may even eschew the keyboard for the spade and begin to consider where to plant potatoes. But let's not be too hasty; there will be more morning mists, and some will stay all day.

As the early afternoon clouds begin to gather with the south-westerly breeze, the sunshine dapples the hills in a moving tapestry of light. It is sunlight that determines the seasons, and sunlight that gives us life; why most humans no longer worship the sun, I will never understand; the reason is lost in the mists of time.

MID-WINTER
4 February 2012

Last week we were treated to a pretty sprinkling of snow, not quite enough to cover the drizzle of yellow gorse flowers across the haggard hedgerows, but enough to cover all but the longest blades of grass; it lingered on the top fields until this morning's rain and still lies in patches in the garden while the temperature hovers just above freezing. The heifers have not been out for two days; instead, a ginger cat sniffs the abandoned byre for the hungry wood mouse that will be filling her cheeks with grass seeds in preparation for her first confinement next month.

Our resident herring gulls stalk the meadow that they consider their own, barely tolerating the crows who drop in to peck among the cattle-beaten grass and fresh mole-hills. I thought I heard a lamb calling in the dark, cold night, and put it down to wishful thinking, but there it was in the field next morning, lying by the hedge, flapping its ears in imitation of the White Rabbit. I could not help but think of our nearly-empty freezer.

On yesterday afternoon's sunlit stroll to the shop the dog and I saw primroses peering from the long grass as if to enquire of no one in particular whether spring had sprung yet. I fear not, I told them silently: it is too cold, the days are too short, and the Arctic winds are not yet ready to give way to our own westerlies that blow the salty air from the sea for most of the year.

The light at this time of year changes from hour to hour and now the hills are shrouded with a mist more reminiscent of Dartmoor or the Berwyns. It is magical to watch it slowly blanket the view, but comforting to be separated from it by double-glazing while I watch the men of France beat the ever-enthusiastic visitors from Italy on the rugby field; my own countrymen have their trial against the men from the north this afternoon, and tomorrow the greens and reds will be printing their proud boots in the receiving turf (with apologies to the Bard).

A group of collared doves, frightened of their own shadows, are ignored by the sparrows whose plumage seems to grow brighter as the days imperceptibly lengthen. They say it is not true that doves have ousted the woodpigeons, but I have seen hardly hide nor feather of the pot-bellied natives for a year. It is a shame; their calls are soothing and, unlike the doves, every individual woodpigeon has a different and distinctive call: some soft and musical as a cuckoo, others as raucous as a heavy smoker.

While searching for something else the other day (isn't it always so?) I found the copper bracelet I normally wear in the winter to ward off rheumatism, something I have suffered from for more than thirty years. This winter, despite the weeks of rain and damp that we have had, I have not given it a thought. I can only put it down to altitude - seven hundred feet is the highest I have ever lived; it may not be much to the red kite whose distinctive shape floated high above the fields this morning, but it is almost a mountain to me.

The return of milder weather will see the last patches of snow fade away and the two inches of ice melt in the water butt; our resident dunnock will be left in peace to search among the stones while the robin accompanies from the budding blackthorn. The coming of spring will be most welcome, but I have not finished looking at winter yet: to wish for spring too soon would be to wave aside with impatient hand the tantalising first course of a banquet.

[Scroll down for earlier thoughts or go back to the top of the page]

RETURN OF THE NATIVE
18 January 2012

My rambling Views from the Hills began, almost a year ago now, with a movement detected in the corner of my eye, and it happened again this morning; a brown shape a hundred yards away moving smoothly into my field of view. I turned to watch as he trotted nonchalantly across the field, skipped up the bank, peered over at the sheep and then came back down again to continue searching the edge, moving ever closer. This time, though, I was not on the mountain, but standing in the kitchen, waiting for the kettle to boil. It was a while before I realised that I was holding my breath, and the adjective 'breathtaking' was never more appropriate.

He was unlikely to be able to see me and so I went out into the conservatory to slowly lift my binoculars to my eyes, his casual progress giving me time to bring him into sharp focus and marvel at the thickness of his winter coat, the flash of his watchful eyes and the delicate manner in which picked his way around the muddiest hollows in the same comical way Sparky does. The heifers ignored him, more intent on their daily hay ration than this quiet interloper.

Wondering as ever where I had put my camera, I was startled by a rook landing precariously on the bird feeder to check for anything left over by the garrulous starlings and cautious finches, and when he saw me he flapped lazily away again. By this time, the fox was out of sight; he had been heading in the direction of my vegetable garden where the compost bin was pouring forth its contents of eggshells and peelings, the plastic door which I had failed to properly secure having been stolen by the west wind many months ago.

Knowing that Sparky is partial to the minute contents of eggshells I went into another room to see whether the fox was in the garden, but he was not. I resumed tea-making, the memory vivid in my mind and yet already on its way to that part of the brain that I hope is never erased.

A few cold mornings have brought a myriad birds to the feeder and we were even honoured by a visit from a bullfinch two mornings in a row; shunning the offered food he searched among the forsythia buds for his breakfast; the forsythia will be the first of the shrubs to colour the end of the winter, but already the primulas are appearing here and there with little splashes of colour.

But we are not near the end of winter yet; a wispy fog and thin rain pervades the landscape; it will add fifteen minutes to our journey to the hospital at Haverfordwest, but the drive across the mountains will still be the pleasure it always is. Sooner or later the bending eucalyptus will herald a change, the skies will begin to clear and bright circles of light will skip across the far meadows on the hill. Whatever the weather, I cannot find it in me to complain about a single thing in this quiet corner of a friendly field.

[Scroll down for earlier thoughts or go back to the top of the page]

WEB OF DREAMS
1 January 2012

This unusually mild start to the year has caused confusion, inside and out. Inside, we have the heating on, not because it is cold but because the air coming in feels damp. The rain has hardly stopped for weeks and is today whispering and swirling in the gusty west wind like silk bloomers hung out to dry - why such an image should come to mind I have no idea; I know no one alive who wears them, and would not dream of asking the question in any case.

Sparky, belying his name on days like these, is content to relax until the rain stops. He may at these times appear to be asleep, but he can hear the rain chattering on the roof. Only the rustle of my walking coat or the squeak of the refrigerator door would tempt him from such a state. He is not confused, just waiting. And while we wait, should we not relax?

Yesterday he showed an interest - his usual sort of 'is it edible?' interest - in a young and inexperienced garden spider optimistically beginning to spin her web across the middle of the conservatory. When I realised what she was doing - by walking into it - I moved her into a corner to practise her craft undisturbed. Then the same thing happened when we went into the garage to fetch some ice; Sparky and I have to do this together, for some reason I am unable to fathom unless it is simply in the hope that I will drop an ice cube and he can madly chase it about the paving like a young dragon with its first gemstone.

Coincidentally I read an article about spiders last night, about how the brains of some very small species cannot be accommodated inside their heads and extend into their legs. It is a miracle to me that the instructions for deciding where and how to spin webs, how to detect predators and prey, manufacture silk, look for a mate and nurture hundreds of babies, can be contained in that tiny body at all. It makes our super computers look cumbersome and stupid.

Unsurprisingly, I dreamt about spiders. Built into us is an innate fear of the beasts, small and harmless though most of them are, but this dream was a pleasant one, and I even found myself wondering whether spiders think. Now I am awake (or at least believe I am), I am sure they do. There must be room in that miniscule brain for memories, and building a web and making other life decisions must require planning. So for spiders, as for us, there is a past, a present and a future. Awareness of the passage of time is the only reason we think; there would be no need for it otherwise.

The development of the brain in all independently-living creatures must be inseparable from the development of thought and, although we may think grander things and build grander webs than our distant eight-legged cousins, the ability to think must be universal throughout the rich variety of animal life that lives on this planet.

Time past has gone; we cannot retrieve it. But we can recall it; we call it learning, and it shapes our futures. Quite often our dreams are a melting pot for the learning process. And if this aptitude is so highly developed in such a young species as humans, then what of those creatures who have been here for so much longer? If spiders think, then surely they must dream, too.

PUBLISHERS
You are welcome to use any piece on this page as a filler, but please contact me first to discuss payment (if any - I am often willing to grant permission to print an article in exchange for a small, free advertisement for my services). I can provide the original high-resolution photographs.

All my books are available from Amazon here or see my home page for individual book details.

[Back to top]