- Wilson "Snowflake" Bentley
Homespun wisdom ready
to weave back into the edge
of some blossoming storm,
You waited on,
anticipating such spirit-harvests
springing from their own short seasons.
In imagination
or deep in long-held memory,
each tiny flake was already a window.
I see you, or maybe just think I do,
still looking through onto some dream meadow,
a trillion faceted blooms,
flickering in
a building breeze.
There’s a winter promise in the air. Taking the dog out for a final stroll late at night, all the signs are there - the sky is clear, the moon bright, and the temperature has dropped rather drastically. He’s on his way. And sure enough, in the morning, whilst still sleepy and warm under thick woolen blankets, I somehow can feel his presence. I’ll admit, it still takes me awhile to get out of bed, but I know that his intricate handiwork awaits admiration.
Jack is quite the lad.
As if by magic, the first hard frost of winter has changed the landscape as we know it. It’s an unfamiliar familiar. The lines of the hills look transformed. Overnight, he’s preserved the last glimpse of late summer in crystallised flashes of purple heather and turned spiders webs into new artworks. At this time of year, when nature seems to be coming to a close, Jack Frost forces us to see life from a different perspective.
He’s an overture to the fourth movement - the finale before a new symphony begins in Spring.
Taking time to look at the little things can be breathtaking. Growing up as an inquisitive child in the countryside, I am grateful that it’s now second nature for me to seek out the small details that each season gifts us. And on that morning as dawn broke and the sunrise cast a warm glow across the valley, I was able to capture the fleeting beauty of Jack’s miniature creations as they disappeared before my eyes.
As the first rays of the morning light broke through the trees and landed on Jack’s crystal carpet, it felt almost magic like. A glistening, shimmering wonderland. And while the droplets of water were frozen in place, I worked quickly to capture them in time.
I hope you will agree, it was something to get out of bed for.
Words & Images by Country Meets Creative
A big thank you to Deliciously Ella for contributing one of her tasty recipes to get you ready for the colder months ahead!
Recipe extracted from Deliciously Ella with Friends by Ella Mills, published on 26 Janury by Yellow Kite, £25 © Ella Mills 2017
CHILLI & GINGER PHO
This is a simplified version of the classic pho recipe, which means you can have dinner on the table in twenty minutes rather than leaving it to simmer for hours! The broth base is flavoured with sesame, ginger, spring onions, chilli and lime and then filled with lots of veggies and buckwheat noodles before being topped with fresh coriander. A perfect cosy, comforting supper that will warm and rejuvenate you.
Serves 4
NUT-FREE
2 portions of buckwheat noodles, or even courgette
25g dried shiitake mushrooms
2 teaspoons toasted sesame oil
generous thumb of root ginger, finely grated
2 garlic cloves, finely grated
2 red chillies, finely sliced
2 spring onions, each chopped into 4
2 tablespoons brown miso paste
2 tablespoons tamari
100g baby corn
250g bok choi, thinly sliced
120g beansprouts
2 carrots, peeled and julienned
handful of fresh coriander, roughly chopped
juice of 1 lime, plus lime wedges to serve
Prepare the noodles, if using, according to the packet instructions, then place in a sieve and rinse with cold water. Put the dried shiitake in a bowl, pour over 500ml of boiling water and set aside for 20 minutes.
Heat the sesame oil in a wok, or large sauté pan, then add the ginger, garlic, chillies and spring onions, and cook for a minute or so, stirring to make sure the garlic doesn’t burn.
Splash in a little water and let it bubble for a couple of minutes, then add the miso and tamari and 500ml more boiling water. Let this broth bubble away until the mushrooms are ready, then add them too, with their soaking water (except the dregs, as they may contain grit). Return to a nice simmer for 5 minutes.
Add the corn and bok choi, and simmer for 5 minutes. Stir in the beansprouts and carrots.
Divide the noodles between 4 bowls, then spoon the broth on top. Sprinkle with chopped coriander and a squeeze of lime juice, then serve with lime wedges.
The half-stripped trees
struck by a wind together,
bending all,
the leaves flutter drily
and refuse to let go
or driven like hail
stream bitterly out to one side
and fall
where the salvias, hard carmine--
like no leaf that ever was--
edge the bare garden.
William Carlos Williams
The promise of a new season is a thrill. Watching, waiting for those first signs that change is afoot never gets old, perhaps because we're never quite sure when they will appear. Though December to me feels like winter, and though it is the month I've selected to release the winter issue of the magazine, it isn't cut and dry. Autumn's fragments are still evident in soggy piles of leaves by the side of the road, and the wrinkled conker shells up the footpath, and will remain, no doubt, for some time yet.
Winter is the quiet season. It is a time for reflection, contemplation, and a moment of stillness before life once again springs forth. It is an opportunity to spend dark evenings curled up with a blanket and cup of something hot, with a good book. I honestly can't remember the last time I read a book from cover to cover, but I know that of all the seasons, I love reading about winter the most.
These are the books on my bedside table this winter.
Dorothy Wordsworth's Christmas Birthday by Carol Ann Duffy.
Set on Christmas Eve in 1799, Duffy's poem takes us to the frozen landscape of the Lake District. With beautiful illustrations by Tom Duxbury, it's the perfect little book to get you in the festive spirit. I also love that it's short enough to read in one sitting, and lasts about as long as a hot chocolate.
Night Sky, or any guide to the stars
My husband loves astronomy, but I'm really more of a beginner. That's not to say I don't enjoy locating key constellations, and it's a brilliant excuse to get outdoors at this time of year. Even better is that it gets dark incredibly early, and unlike the summer months, a spot of stargazing can take place early evening. Take a torch out and use a guide to map the sky.
Snow by Marcus Sedgwick
Another short book, Sedgwick imitates the six sides of a snowflake through the six chapters, exploring art, literature and science of snow, as well as his own experiences and memories. He suggests that "snow is transformative. It changes the world around us... Overnight, it repaints the landscape in white, inevitably bringing to mind concepts like purity and clarity of thought. Over the course of eons, it can remake the earth itself."
Winter edited by Melissa Harrison
Part of the collection of anthologies for the changing seasons, this one is my favourite. Particular highlights include Satish Kumar's approach to wildness, and Kristian Evans' thousand words for snow.
Village Christmas by Laurie Lee
If any collection of stories is likely to awaken nostalgic feelings of early childhood, then it's this one. "Outside there is no surprise in the coldness of the morning. It lies on the valley like a frozen goose. The world is white and keen as a map of the Poles and as still as the paper it's printed on. Icicles hang from the gutters like glass silk stockings and drip hot drops in my hand as I breathe on them."
And of course, there's the winter issue of Creative Countryside if you're more in the mood for a magazine.
Winter is also the best time to linger in a hot bath. I think I've probably managed three or four baths since my son was born (he's almost nine months now) but I'm determined to make time for more over the festive season. The wonderful folk at Magic Organic Apothecary sent me their new Dreamy Mineral Soak to try, and it's truly the best bath product I've ever smelt. With a healing blend of lavender, pine, cardamom and Himalayan pink salt, it's perfect for soothing aching muscles and purifying the skin (ideal for winter).
Above all else, and as Edith Sitwell recommends, "winter is the time for comfort, for good food and warmth, for the touch of a friendly hand and for a talk beside the fire: it is the time for home."
"Everything that slows us down and forces patience, everything that sets us back into the slow circles of nature, is a help. Gardening is an instrument of grace." (May Sarton)
It’s hard to convince myself that gardening is an instrument of grace when I am plastered in mud and weary from a day planting bulbs. In fact I’ve been planting bulbs for the last month; 2,715 of them – I trudge around the garden zombie-like, weighed down by the sludge on my boots and trousers. I’m a bulb-planting zombie. But May Sarton is right; the slow process of digging down deep and burying my little nuggets of treasure, does set me back into the ‘slow circles of nature’.
That is what I love about working closely with nature. I have to work at her pace and now, in November that is slow; slowing down to the virtual stop in December. And after a busy year in the garden I need the break. Spring with its excitement, followed by the colourful chaos of high summer and the flurry of harvest and preparation that comes with the late summer and autumn, all combine to make the gardener’s life a pretty busy one. But even the most back-breaking jobs and the coldest, wettest days, never once make me want to do anything else for a living and I am always deeply grateful that life has allowed me to live my path this way.
Working with Gaia, feeling her life-giving soil in my hands, nurturing her wild seeds and my own chosen precious gems, embracing the beauty and wallowing in the scents she sends, it is a wonder to me that anyone would want to be anything but a gardener! Luckily everyone can be a gardener – even without a garden: With so many wonderful community gardening projects to join, allotments to be had, window boxes to install, gardening is within pretty much everyone’s reach. For those of us lucky enough to have our own gardens, the path to happiness is just a step outside the door.
Biophilia – our instinctive connection with nature – is part of us all. Living without this connection can lead to illness and a feeling of ‘something missing’ in our lives. Going for a walk or enjoying a view bring a certain amount of connection but for me, the act of working with the land, as gardeners do, brings even greater benefits, involving, as it does, the elements of creativity and nuture that fulfil other human desires. Creativity - art - is what we are able to give back to the world. Working with the world, with Earth herself, nurturing Nature to create art in the form of a garden, is incredibly fulfilling. It is joyous, sacred work. I worship daily; kneeling in the dirt, loving every minute.
In the Blue Zones of the world (the five areas where people live longer, happier and healthier than anywhere else) the people engage in daily unautomated tasks such as gardening, eat plant based diets and place great value on social and family life. In many ways, they lead a ‘Simple Life’ – something to which many of us aspire. Gardening takes us back to that simple life.
We don’t need a horticultural degree to make a garden – everything we need to know is out there in the Collective Unconscious (or, failing that, Google). Humans have been working the land for thousands of years – it’s what we’re meant to do. If we give ourselves a chance we can re-find our way into the flow of natural life. In fact it is an easy and instinctive act to step outside and back into May Sarton’s ‘slow circles of nature’.
It’s not so easy, though, in my experience, to remain entirely graceful while you’re doing it.
At 21 years old, engineer William Roy was tasked with mapping the Scottish highlands. Following the rebellion of 1745, the military decided they needed to open up the wild highlands and to do this they had to understand them. William Roy and his teams spent eight years measuring distances with a 50ft chain, the rest was sketched by eye.
This is the origin of the OS Map.
Born from a military desire to control, the bright orange Explorer maps now form an integral part of our freedom to roam, to adventure and explore Britain. In less than 300 years these maps have completely reversed their philosophy and we should take a moment to celebrate the possibilities that lie within their folds.
Every time I pick one of the maps off the blue bookcase that stands in the corner of my office I experience the tiniest flutter of excitement. It means I’m heading outside, it means my rucksack and my precious Scarpa boots will soon follow. It means I’m going on a journey. Thanks to Roy and his ability to dream big and achieve bigger I’m able to explore an empty valley on my own in an afternoon, knowing I’ll make it home. Or I can cycle the length of the country knowing exactly what obstacles I’ll meet each day. I can chose somewhere to pitch my tent before I even leave the house. Isn’t that amazing?!
In 2017 we’re so obsessed with surveillance, with who is tracking us and that nothing is unknown but why not highlight one positive in the culture of fear and control. Every detail of the landscape is known and available to us, from the farm wall to the footbridge or bridlepath that might guide us to the breathtaking view over our home town. Having that knowledge gives us a freedom that didn’t exist in the past. So next time you reach for your OS take a second to thank William Roy and the explorers who’ve made your adventure possible.
Happy travels!
Nicola: We’d love you to start by telling us about your journey and work as a painter and print maker?
Deborah: The course of my art has been a convoluted one! In my 20s and 30s I painted mostly in oils. I would paint the plants, vegetables and flowers I grew in my cottage garden in Norwich, where I then lived. I exhibited in galleries in East Anglia and at the Mall Galleries.
A move to Diss prompted a change in direction. I trained to be a teacher of English, as literature is my other absorbing love. It was not an intentional break from art, but teaching consumed all my time. It left little space for my painting and drawing, which went on the back burner for many years. As time went by I felt a gnawing need to return to it. So I began creating small paintings, sketches and Lino prints again.
This year I finished teaching. I have resumed my art career full time and am relishing every moment of it! My work now goes beyond my immediate environment to encompass the local landscape of the Fenland and Breckland.
I go out to sketch and return with handfuls of seedpods, grasses, feathers and other detritus. Sometimes they spark a series of paintings, such as my current ones of hedgerow plants. Or they simply decorate my studio poised to inspire. I love the small, subtle details of our native flora and enjoy making detailed sketches of them. In paintings I like to show the insects and bugs we live alongside. I will often bring home empty snail shells from my walks as reference material.
My bird prints have come from a lifelong love of birds. Norfolk couldn’t be a better place to study birds. I try to visit the North Norfolk and Suffolk coast whenever I can. Here I sit in the bird hides, draw and observe. In winter it is such a magical place.
I love the process of printmaking. I especially love creating Lino prints. I find them both absorbing and meditative. I make sketches from a wide range of sources. I use my own photographs, as well as the bird's behaviour and habitats, to capture their character. I use a converted mangle, a somewhat eccentric beast, as a printing press. I never fail to enjoy the reveal of that first print of a series.
Nicola: From where do you draw your inspiration?
Deborah: There are so many wonderful printmakers. I love the work of Thomas Bewick, Clare Leighton, Agnes Miller Parker and Charles Tunnicliffe, whose bird art is peerless. His work shows such a deep understanding and knowledge of birds. I would love to have the chance to go out sketching with him!
I also enjoy Japanese prints for their simplicity and use of spaces between subjects. Literature, especially nature writing, is also a significant influence. I love thepoetry of Edward Thomas and Robert Frost for their observations of the natural world. I love the writing of Alison Uttley and Flora Thompson. They record the seasonal changes so beautifully. I also love the work of Richard Mabey, whose books are a source of constant reference. As well as the late Roger Deakin who lived close by.
The local landscape is also of great importance to me. I am very lucky to live near Redgrave and Lopham Fen, a local Wildlife Trust. I walk and draw here regularly –it is my local patch. In the winter I love the soft, muted colour of the reed beds and the birds that haunt them. It is a place of constant joy
Nicola: You live in Diss, a small market town in the Waveney Valley in the UK. Can you tell us more about your town, your home and your creative space?
Deborah: Diss is a small market town that sits on the border of Norfolk and Suffolk. Its most arresting feature is “The Mere”, a six-acre lake in the centre of the town that my garden borders. This lake brings in hordes of ducks and other wildfowl that share the garden with Alan,my ginger cat. Alan is often seen making a running dash at them to let them know whose garden it really is. My home is a small 18th century cottage that was once a blacksmith’s. The blacksmith had a pet raven working alongside him, in what is now my book room. It has had lots of additions over the years and is rather an architectural hodgepodge
My studio is an outbuilding, tucked into the top of my sloping garden. Although it is damp and cold in winter it has lots of light. It is blissfully cut off from distractions. That is, except for the bird feeders outside my window. The garden used to be part of a market garden and some of the old, gnarled apple trees remain.
Nicola: Can you tell us about the process of your work from the time of inspiration to the finished artwork?
Deborah: Most of my work comes from the jottings and drawings I make in my sketchbooks. I try to draw as much as possible. This could be quick sketches of birds flitting about, or more detailed plant drawings. Some develop into prints and oil paintings, even if years later. Others are made simply for the sheer joy of drawing.
I love the way drawing makes you look at something.It shows if your mind drifts for even a second. Drawing trains you to keep focused and be mindful at all times. When drawing and preparing a print of birds I love to research and understand the subject. I have an ever-increasing library of natural history books. I love to look at the work of Victorian naturalists. I also find the Observer series and Puffin Picture books of nature irresistible.
Nicola: When you aren’t creating what do you enjoy doing?
Deborah: I am very much involved in nature conservation, including the local Wildlife Trusts and Butterfly Conservation.I am very keen on moths and keep a moth trap to record what visits the garden. It constantly amazes me what nocturnal creatures roam the garden. I am also a keen gardener and grow as much of my own fruit and vegetables as I can.
Nicola: You say you seek the overlooked and celebrate the small joys in life. Can you tell us what this means to you?
Deborah:I like to draw on those plants, insects and birds that aren’t always noticed. I want to encourage others to stop and take notice of the small wonders around us. I rarely return from a walk without seeing something new and love togo home and discover more about it. Many native British plants aren't showy and their delicate, subtle beauty can be missed. When out walking I try to record the insects I see. I'm often found crawling about in hedgerows or bogs, trying to catch sight of some elusive creature. I would love to encourage others to see and share these small joys aswell.
Nicola: And if our readers want to know more about you and your work, where can they find you?
My work can be found on my website or on Instagram. My prints are for sale on Etsy and on Folksy.
The days are getting noticeably shorter and winter is coming. It’s always tempting to stay indoors and draw the curtains, to sit in a pool of lamplight and cocoon yourself away from the cold and the drizzle. The winds and driving rain have all but stripped the trees of their autumn finery and the world is once again grey and brown and unwelcoming.
It’s a strange time, this epoch between the golds and bronzes of October and the frost and sparkle of Yuletide. Creeping chills and damp trying to insinuate their way into the house. That feeling of trying to push away the gloom as thick blankets of cloud sit low and oppressive.
A walk may not seem like a tempting prospect. The last few leaves are fluttering down to join the rest, now sodden, on the muddy earth. Jewel-like orchard fruits are gone too, either harvested or blown onto the ground to rot where they’ve landed. So what can we see on days like these? What little – to coin an Instagram hashtag – flashes of delight?
Well: a lot of green. Lichens and mosses, dusting and carpeting tree trunks and stone walls with rich velvety textures. Emerald and verdigris, teal and chartreuse. Look too at the evergreens: the dark glossy leaves of the holly, the silvery needles of the firs.
Those pale and empty skies act as the perfect foil to a flock of geese flying overhead in a V formation – one of my favourite sights whilst out walking in ‘almost winter’. And, of course, bare branches mean you’ll see more life in the trees too: squirrels darting about, inquisitive robins keeping watch over their jealously-guarded territories.
Try to embrace the starkness and the shorter days. The moody light, the glimpses into little habitats which are usually hidden from view by foliage. Small woodland pools, scattered with penny-like birch leaves, reflecting the weak sunshine and almost pearlescent trunks. Tiny kingdoms thrive on the top of fenceposts and along fallen trees. Even the decay itself, as the vegetation starts to change colour and collapse into itself, has a beauty all of its own.
Two tots tumble across the green scattering stacks of crisp amber leaves. The horse chestnut
shelters grandad as they play, a perfect leaning post.
Stiff like starfish they run, bundled in playsuits, hats & wellington boots. Hunting for treasure, squeals echo across the square as they succeed. A dog pricks its ears.
Deep brown conkers clatter together in pockets. At home, they will sit on a shelf until dry, dull, a memory of autumn.
Nicola: You describe yourself as a nature-inspired creative. Can you tell us about the work you do and what drew you to be an artist?
Victoria: As a child, I spent my free time creating, writing & on road trips with my Dad in the countryside. I believe my calling has always been a creative one, but it took me years to accept it.
I was raised believing a ‘proper’ job was required for life, and that art could only be a hobby. Although I was never discouraged from creating as a career, I was never pushed in that direction either. It’s only since becoming a mother I've realised I want my daughters to know having a creative career is more than ok. That it’s actually a blessing.
I’ve recently discovered a love of Pyrography. Burning wildflowers onto a wooden hand mannequin, or a tree slice is a meditative process for me. I've written a children’s picture book I intend on illustrating when I get the chance. I just need more hours in the day or better time management. One or the other! I’m excited about this book, as I want to share the message of slowing down and appreciating nature with everyone.
Nicola: Can you tell us about where you live, the space you work in and what a day in your life looks like?
Victoria: My day starts between the hours of five and six in the morning, and coffee is an essential part to that. It’s a morning ritual I don’t think I could ever break. Although I will never admit to being a caffeine addict! This is my time before the family wakes and the morning rush commences.
I wouldn’t say I’m a morning person, but I find if I have time to wake at my own pace my days run smoother & I'm less rushed. I spend this time drinking coffee, doing yoga, meditating or catching up on Instagram. My working hours are less structured these days. This is because I now have a baby and have started college, so two days a week I'm studying or on placement.
I’ve never been the 9-5 type, so I grab my creative opportunities where I can. This is often in the evening when the children are asleep, or a day when I'm childfree.
I have a little studio in my home. It's great for convenience, and to be able to shut the door without tidying it all away from little hands or the dog. I do dream of having a studio with a view. I live in Cumbria where I'm surrounded by countryside, hills and all the inspiration I need. To have that on my doorstep would be the ultimate dream.
Nicola: From where do you get your inspiration? And how does it influence the work you do?
Victoria: It’s all about escapism. Being able to have that moment of calm, even if briefly. I try to emulate that in my work. There’s something freeing about being out in the wild and feeling you’re the only one around for miles. To be free of the thoughts of the busy lives most of us lead. It’s all about being present in the moment.
It’s taken a lot of practice and soul searching to realise what my goal is with my art. Over time, and during many walks in the forest or trips to the fells, I have come to realise this is my inspiration. My home is full of little treasures I collect, like jars of heart-shaped stones or shells. Jugs full of feathers and the odd dried poppy head. This is my way of bringing the outdoors in and keeping that little bit of inspiration close by.
Nicola: You talk about deciding to leave your rushed and busy life behind in search of simplicity. Can you tell us more about this story and why living a simple life is important to you?
Victoria: I can’t say I lived a typical, fast-paced life like some. I’ve never been a city girl, but I’d spend my days rushing about doing things I thought I should be doing. I realised I was putting my own dreams on hold. It wasn't intentional, but I was focusing on other people and burning myself out in the process. It left very little time for me. I didn't think I needed time for me.
When my life changed dramatically over the space of a year I found myself in the midst of grief and self-discovery. Losing both my parents close together taught me the importance of a living a life well lived. It taught me what mattered most.
It taught me what I wanted for my children. I realised that if I lived an intentional life it would guide them towards doing the same. I can't say I've got it sorted. I'm very much a work in progress, but I'm giving it my best shot!
Nicola: Your work and life philosophy is to be true to yourself, follow your passion and create your own path. I love every one of these. Can you tell us how you incorporate this philosophy into your life and work?
Victoria: I used to spend so much time doing what I thought others wanted from me. Thinking that because I could create that product or that style of artwork, it would be my ‘path’. The problem was it never sat well with me. I was churning out artwork I didn’t like, and it was a light bulb moment when I realised I didn’t have too! It sounds silly but others influenced me. I never allowed myself the time to create what I liked or what I wanted.
It all comes down to confidence. Having the confidence to just be you. Realising this was eye-opening. Having this confidence keeps you on the path you’re supposed to be on. The best part is that happiness follows. I only wish I’d discovered this sooner!
Nicola: For our readers who have a creative dream, but don’t feel they have the courage to pursue that dream, what would say to them?
Victoria: By all means work in a job that pays the bills and brings in the cash. It’s a part of life, as we need to earn money. But don’t let that stop you from creating the life you want. That idea floating around in the back of your mind, the one that pops up saying “I really want to make/sew/paint/do that” … find the time to do it. You’ll be surprised at how making time to create the things your heart desires opens doors for you.
You’ll start noticing little synchronicities pop up in your life and the next thing you know you’ve opened an Etsy shop, or you’re meeting other like-minded folks for coffee each week. They’ll know someone who knows someone and little by little your dreams will become a reality.
You’ve absolutely nothing to lose!
Visit Victoria's website, Feather & Wild, or find her on Instagram and Twitter.
Falling, falling… literally and figuratively falling.
In autumn, time falls back, at least on the face of the clock.
When you spend enough time in rural Romania, your soul will fall back in time, as you see the villagers with strong horses pulling carts up to the forests to harvest their firewood, and the few surviving looms being warped once again – maybe for their last time, until the creative renaissance sets in and young people begin weaving hemp and nettle cloth anew.
Now is the time when everything seems to fall into place, and fall out of it at the same time.
Autumn has long held the number one place in my heart for the most enduring and endearing season of all. Until now. Or rather, just this once I am taking the liberty to change my mind.
Fall can be beautifully coloured, as most years it is, but every 40 years or so nature decides on another plan. While not an entirely sinister plot, one can be frightened in a storm if they happen to be caught out in the pounding hail and slapping rain. As fall was just setting in, my husband, daughter and I were happily expecting to spend the first night in our new home as the clouds rolled in, faster than we have ever seen before, sweeping like billowing smoke over the mountain crest.
As we trudged onward in the blinding storm, unable to see or hear each other, we were unaware of the trees falling down around us. In just 20 minutes the wind took its chance, sweeping gates off of their feet and uprooting glorious walnuts and ash, breaking firs clean in half. Clay tiles took their own fate to fall to the earth as well…
The ferocious storm, a reminder of a changing climate and the effects of unconscious consumerism, will remain in our memories for a long time. Just as there have been hurricanes and forest fires this season aplenty, life carries on and after a time everything falls into place once again.
The walnut that fell? Well, that will be firewood for next summer, but at the moment it is feeding us with oyster mushrooms that spontaneously erupted when we lovingly carried it into the wood shed. Life goes on.
Along came the rain, for more than a 24 hour stay, and do you know what appeared in abundance at the bottom of the creek? Clay. Perfect for building, sculpting and playing with. It has been there all along, buried under layers of rocks, now it is accessible for those who need a handful or two for a wood oven repair.
Every time you fall down and pick yourself back up, is a chance to start over. It is the ultimate opportunity for change. Any season, a single day, or a unique experience can tell us that maybe life has a different path in store for us, a challenge if you will. Since life really is about the journey, just follow along and you will find out where you are meant to be, if only for a moment, or many years into the future.
An entire year we have spent now in Breb, Romania and it has perhaps been our most adventurous year yet. We have weathered the storms together, harvested the powerful nutrients from wild herbs, and burnt the alder and beech firewood of local forests for comfort and warmth.
Everything we need in this world is right here, around us and within us.
These are the directions if you want to reach YHA Black Sail, one of Britain's most isolated hostels—one that could be mistaken for its Scottish cousin, the Bothy. Under the protective bulk of Great Gable at the head of the Liza river, sits a one-story building; clad in Lake District slate, it’s a welcome sight for walkers coming down the Ennerdale Valley, or over the hills from Wasdale, Borrowdale and Buttermere. Black Sail sits at the convergence of many trails making it a special kind of secret. If you know it’s there you’ll have no trouble finding it.
A dreary Monday in October is an unusual time to explore this lesser-known corner of the Lake District but we set off undeterred. As we walk, the path plays hide-and-seek between the pines. One minute we’re tramping rusty gravel along the riverside, next we find ourselves squinting at wet grass for signs of wear. Like a stereoscope we’re transported to Norway, to British Columbia, to Sweden and back to Ennerdale under honey leaves and a retreating fern line. We’re not aiming for Black Sail but we’ve heard rumours and as the rain seeps under our cuffs, the lure of the hostel grows.
Our plan to climb Pillar, on the north edge of the valley, is scuppered by low cloud so we content ourselves with gazing up at the sawtooth ridge swirling in a cloak of fog and rain. We’re entranced by a valley that couldn’t be further from the pastoral fells of the eastern lakes; Ennerdale is imperfect, the water has a grey tinge and its flanks are swathed in a forest that’s broken only by streams rattling down with unpredictable intensity. We emerge from the trees and a game of ‘imagine you’re in Scandinavia’ to the scream of a chainsaw and west coast accents bouncing of Kirk Fell. Forestry work brings us sharply back to reality. We might be in the wild heart of an adventure but life goes on for the guardians of the valley so we move swiftly past. I’m wet and keen to find the hostel.
The river Liza is silent now we’re walking above her thrashing, autumnal water and as if in defeat she begins to diminish until a kissing gate tells us we have arrived at the top of the valley. The corner of a roof is just visible in the dip ahead. We stop and take a moment to enjoy the almost perfect crown of peaks bearing down on us. Great Gable remains under cloud cover – the moodiest of the Cumbrian fells and for that one of my favourites – but the green, marbled tops of the others are momentarily visible creating the impression of being in the bottom of a huge bowl. This feeling increases as we descend to Black Sail and duck into the open door, the next sheet of rain at our heels.
We enter a stark room of exposed brick, oddly matched chairs and a log burner that sits like a king toad opposite the door. An assortment of clothing has been draped over the ancient frame beside the fire and I notice a man wrapped around himself in an attempt to keep warm. “The kettle’s just boiled if you want tea.” His accent is Dutch. He inclines his head towards a doorway leading to a well-equipped kitchen and honesty cafe.
As we cradle scalding, enamel mugs with sleeved hands, waves of rain and fog drift past the open door offering us only glimpses of the fells but we can feel their weight through Black Sail’s damp walls. Even inside there’s no forgetting where we are. We’re at the end of the valley and the only way out is over the hills.
