Waters above! eternal springs!
The dew that silvers the Dove's wings!
O welcome, welcome to the sad!
Give dry dust drink; drink that makes glad!
Many fair ev'nings, many flow'rs
Sweeten'd with rich and gentle showers,
Have I enjoy'd, and down have run
Many a fine and shining sun;
But never, till this happy hour,
Was blest with such an evening-shower!
From "Poems of Henry Vaughan, Silurist, Volume II.
This was not an April shower, but a March one; a morning but not an evening shower yet I'm sure Henry Vaughan would have appreciated it, as I did, seeing the raindrops on the willows shining on the osiers. Laudato Si'!
If Christmas day does not allow a walk in the countryside or by the sea, the 26th will have to see us on our feet. That is how we were in 2021, despite the mud underfoot, the puddles almost big enough to count as floods and a sky 20cm above our heads. A short walk to Harbledown and Golden Hill, which did not live up to its name today.
On Golden Hill
Jewelled raindrops on the Hawthorn.
Looking North across the mist from Golden Hill, and below, looking East, a white house just visible through the mist.
Let’s hope the rain allows another walk before the holiday is over. No white Christmas here!
There's nothing like the sun as the year dies,
Kind as it can be, this world being made so,
To stones and men and beasts and birds and flies,
To all things that it touches except snow,
Whether on mountain side or street of town.
The south wall warms me: November has begun,
Yet never shone the sun as fair as now
While the sweet last-left damsons from the bough
With spangles of the morning's storm drop down
Because the starling shakes it, whistling what
Once swallows sang. But I have not forgot
That there is nothing, too, like March's sun,
Like April's, or July's, or June's, or May's,
Or January's, or February's, great days:
And August, September, October, and December
Have equal days, all different from November.
No day of any month but I have said —
Or, if I could live long enough, should say —
"There's nothing like the sun that shines to-day."
There's nothing like the sun till we are dead.
Edward Thomas.
Edward Thomas challenged his melancholy by getting out of doors, with friends such as Robert Frost but often enough alone. November sun in England, especially against a south wall, or south cliff, is noticeably warming.
Mid-November last year we went walking and foraged damsons, sweeter than they would have been a month earlier, but recorded that in prose, not poetry.
‘There’s nothing like the sun till we are dead’, and then? Why then we shall learn who the sun is like.
And there shall be no night there;
and they need no candle, neither light of the sun;
for the Lord God giveth them light:
and they shall reign for ever and ever.
Revelation 22:5.
I’m considering turning the shed into a boat. The Stour has found its way into Westgate gardens in Canterbury, so the park will probably close tomorrow as there’s more water falling upstream as well as here. The ducks don’t mind.
It was the first rainy day for weeks; in two hours of walking on paths that had been busy by viral standards last time we walked them, I scarcely met a score of fellow walkers. It was a few degrees cooler than the preceding days, and wet. As I reached Blean church, big heavy drops drove me under the yews; I began looking for passion flower carvings without success but enjoyed seeing the lichen again and these bluebells of different colours.
Many times have I cycled past here, usually going to or from work, but never noticed these, partly because the church is at the top of a hill and all my attention would have been on completing the climb. Since it was the virus that drove me out here on foot, this is a going viral post, Stay safe, let your heart be unconfined!
We have had enough rain and wind this month – February fill-dyke – to make a few patches of glorious mud where people like to walk. And where dogs like to walk, run and chase each other.
This morning I was walking home during a half-hour respite from the rain and noticed four dogs out with their male humans, careering about and enjoying themselves while getting very muddy.
Mrs Turnstone wondered what reception they would be getting when they arrived home. Had men and dogs been sent out while someone else was cleaning the floors? Was there an old towel by the back door for rubbing down paws and underbelly? So long as it didn’t mean a bath, the dogs would not mind, but ‘Keep him off the armchair!‘
Mrs T has been so busy with grandchildren that she has had no time to worry about the frogs that enjoy life in our pond enough to lay their eggs with us every year. And No Worries this year, because when she went out into the garden, between the showers today, she heard a croak, followed by a splash. Let’s hope he has an amphibious Valentine waiting to meet up with him.
A railway journey across Manchester on one of the darkest days of the year. Since I was visiting my mother for her birthday, I resisted the temptation to continue towards Blackpool North (Pole), but the humour was welcome on a bleak morning.
It was also good to see this note from Sam on behalf of the Samaritans, who are well aware that this season is not festive for everybody. Sadly, the railway is often a suffering soul’s chosen suicide spot. Sam’s message may persuade someone to ring them, as may the message on many train tickets.
By the time I was making my return journey, the weather had turned from a saturated mist to a greasy drizzle. Walking to the local station with LED headlights shining in my face was no joy.
But Saddleworth Catholic church of the Sacred Heart already had their crib on display in the porch. A reminder of the hope that is in us.
Christian or not, we are given the virtue of hope to see us through the dark times. Christian or not, a helpless babe is not hopeless. He or she reaches out in trust. For those whose ability to trust has been eroded through others’ inhumanity, a word, a smile may make a difference. Few of us will ever find ourselves stepping in to prevent a suicide at the last moment, but we may, all unknowingly, help to do so before that.
From across the main road, my view of the crib was no better than the photo, but I knew what I was looking at: even in the darkest, murkiest times, there is hope.
On a bright morning after torrential rain, I walked home along the city wall. The sun lit up the golden maple on the ramparts. That is the bandstand on the lawn below.
The red maple is at the junction of Black Griffin Lane and Saint Peter’s Street.
Both trees are having their moment in the sun, while their leaves are still expanding and allowing as much light through as they reflect.
It was also good to see this note from Sam on behalf of the Samaritans, who are well aware that this season is not festive for everybody. Sadly, the railway is often a suffering soul’s chosen suicide spot. Sam’s message may persuade someone to ring them, as may the message on many train tickets.
By the time I was making my return journey, the weather had turned from a saturated mist to a greasy drizzle. Walking to the local station with LED headlights shining in my face was no joy.
Will Turnstone 