There was a break in the rain this morning — a thinning of grey, a small patch of blue, and a brief wash of golden light that was enough to call Claude and me outside. It felt like a small mercy. Claude, who has flatly refused to leave the house while it has been raining, seemed especially relieved.
The banks along the lane looked bedraggled, weighed down by days of rain. Hazel catkins hung low, their tiny pink buds quietly promising spring. The diamond patterns along the buds were edged in cream. Above the treetops, crows flew wildly, and then — quite suddenly — a robin sang, joyful and unguarded, as if he too had been waiting for the rain to stop.
I paused by the Devon bank where a Deer fern sat resolutely in the mossy bank. Its rough texture caught against my hand, and I remembered reading that deer were once said to rub their shedding antlers against it. The thought stayed with me as we walked on.
At the entrance to the field, on the floor, just inside the gate, I noticed a long yellow catkin lying on the muddy ground, looking uncannily like a caterpillar. I looked around, puzzled — there were no nearby trees in bloom, and it felt far too early in the year. I made a mental note of its softness and that clear lemon yellow graduating to cadmium and then pink, then took a photograph to return to later, to draw.
The trees revealed themselves in winter. The horse chestnut stood in naked clarity, its bark twisting and turning as it climbed. Further down the field, a beech tree dripped steadily, moss-covered branches heavy with rain, each drop catching the light. The lime looked tangled and compact, reaching upward, while the oak stood open-armed, its limbs twisted wide toward the sun. Winter, for all it withholds, gives us the gift of seeing these differences clearly.
Claude gave chase to a squirrel — enthusiastically, if optimistically — arriving several trees too late. I suspect the squirrel had packed its suitcase and booked a ferry to France by the time Claude reached the base of the tree.
In the ivy that threads through the hedge, a family of blue tits chirped busily to one another. On the oaks I noticed several galls, reminders of the small parasitic gall wasps that cause these hard round brown growths. It brought to mind the oak gall ink waiting in the studio, I must experiment with it soon.
On the walk back down the muddy lane toward the village, a brisk, flinching movement high in the boughs caught my eye — a tiny wren. I had never noticed one so far from undergrowth before. It worked its way up the bark, deftly picking off insects. Perhaps, today, it felt the safer option than being amongst the wet leaves on the ground.
Dark clouds gathered on the horizon. I thought of the studio, dry and waiting, and suspected Claude would agree it was our safer place to be this afternoon. There’s a storm coming soon…
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