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~ poetry in the land, the land in poetry

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Tag Archives: friends of the lake district

Let’s not get too romantic

17 Monday Aug 2015

Posted by somewhere nowhere in cumbria meadows, landscape writing

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cumbria meadows, friends of the lake district, high borrowdale meadow, nature writing

I was talking to a friend about being in the cut meadow last weekend and she asked, with a tone suggesting it was a bad thing, ‘why do they have to cut it?’

I know I have a tendency to wax on about beauty and stray into the romantic (I certainly did when I wrote ‘lie me down‘ when I was in fact, er, lying down in the meadow) but there is a very practical side to meadow life – it’s not all about dreaming and buzzing bees. So, for anyone who doesn’t know the ins and outs of meadow management, I thought it worth a few words to explain that upland hay meadows here in England (and in any other parts of the world) do not exist because they have been left alone. Quite the opposite – a meadow that is diverse and successful in terms of the types and numbers of flowers and grasses is the result of partnership between land, human labour, and well-thought out grazing patterns.

‘If man had not taken hay from meadows, or grazed the land,’ writes John Feltwell in Meadows, ‘there would be no meadows, simply woodland and forest. There would always have been light woodlands studded with carpets of flowers in the spring, and clearings of wild flowers …. But the majority of meadows as we know them today have been fashioned by the hand of man and by his beasts.’

High Borrowdale upland hay meadow

before the cut

With the origin of meadows steeped in history – certainly as old as Saxon times and more probably going back to the Iron Age, with the creation of cutting tools – Britain’s meadows not only shaped the way villages were planned, but also seeped into literature. ‘There is probably no other country,’ says Feltwell, ‘which has such a meadow heritage locked up in its way of life.’

cut hay meadow

after the cut

Meadows are still part of this country’s heritage although, sadly, they are more prolific in literature than in the current landscape (as I said in an earlier blog, it is estimated that only 3% of meadows remain today, compared to the 1950s). But where they do exist, timing grazing before and after the flowering season, and leaving the full growth for long enough to allow seeds to fall and settle – is vital to their continuity and improvement. Without this management, too small a number of species dominate and the richness of variety fades, in turn offering less variety to moths, butterflies and other invertebrates.

In a couple of areas in High Borrowdale where the tractor was unable to cut – marshy and sloping ground – and where I saw a rambling celebration of betony, vetch, clover, harebells and valerian among grasses – the lack of cutting can result in less variety. Keeping a meadow abundant and diverse is hard work.

Anyone fancy popping over with a scythe?

—

john Feltwell’s Book: Meadows, A History and Natural History, Alan Sutton, 1992

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After the cut

10 Monday Aug 2015

Posted by somewhere nowhere in landscape poetry, poetry

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friends of the lake district, nature blog, nature poetry

meadow notebookThis weekend in the meadows, the change was extreme. Cut low, the valley’s delicate face was pale, as if shaved by a razor. Vast swathes of yellow green seemed empty, but when I looked closer, the stubble was strewn with remains: yellow rattle cases, shriveled clovers, desiccated daisies.

The edges and slopes that escaped the cut are still covered with long grasses, harebells, betony and meadowsweet, all battered by the racing August wind that shouts life into them.

betony

betony

I had hoped to be around for the cutting of the grass and when I heard that it had gone ahead in a dash to beat the rain I felt sad. I was somehow attached to watching the cut. I felt it was an important part of my time with the meadow, and would mark a closing.

I arrived at the lay-by on the A6 with a sense of emptiness and melancholy. But I surprised myself. In the simple act of walking down from the road to the slow quiet of the riverside path, with butterflies playing light and shade above the grasses and dragonflies rising stiffly into the sun, my mood lifted. The Borrowdale Valley has never failed to infuse me with sense of peace and fullness.

When I crossed the bridge and approached the gate into the meadow, I came to a line of frayed linen canvases. They have been subjected to a particularly wet and windy August but are mostly still legible. I carefully took them from the fence, and put them in my bag.

faded bunting in high borrowdale meadow

Through the gate I paused. In the green between me and the barn my mind’s eye saw the fullness of daisies, knapweed, sedge, hay rattle, clover, sorrel … but they have had their day. They have shed their seeds and now sit tight in plastic black wrap ready to nourish the Wilson’s herd over winter.

The gates to the meadow are open and this year’s growing lambs are welcome to stroll on in and will soon begin to nibble and fertilise the ground. The valley is still alive with birdsong and the uncut fringes of the meadows are abundant. I lay down low beneath the heads of grasses and flowers being thrashed by the wind. Tormentil has spread, taking over spaces once covered in bedstraw. Canary-yellow vetch is thriving. Meadowsweet is spreading its heady smell (although you have to get close, with the wind as it is, whipping the air away so fiercely). Some yellow rattle has yet to dry and release its seeds.

I retraced the steps I had taken so many times in July, walking towards the derelict High Borrowdale farm beneath the sycamores. When I arrived, I felt a familiar sense of gentleness and peace in the enclosed farmyard (now a nettle garden / moth nursery). I pulled up a chair, sat down and took out a snack – a ritual breaking of bread with the valley – and then simply sat and watched, listened, felt.

For my last visit to the toft (farmstead) I wanted to pause and reflect. I must have been sitting for an hour, writing, watching the sky, staring at the single tree that breaks the skyline high on the fell beyond the first field, listening to the sheep, listening to the wind. The wind plays many tunes: a solid rush in the pine plantations on the other side of the valley, low gusts along the wall around the barn, soft rustles in the sycamores above. It’s enough to keep me, at least, entertained for quite some time!

Eventually I locked the barn door for the last time.

high borrowdale barn lockedI walked back into the meadows, gathering in frayed and faded bunting, rereading what others have added to it over the last few weeks. I took the herdwick wool that the bunting was pegged to and wrapped it around the stone gate post – it will last at least a year, if left alone.

I walked along the track between the meadow fields, slowly, my gaze taken to the fringes still rich with flower. I walked into the open fields, unobstructed, and felt them flat and sharp beneath my feet. Guilly (energetic spaniel), ran as if he’d never run before, head down, mindlessly chasing the scent of rabbits. I walked around the pile of black bags containing the meadows’ flowers and grasses. I didn’t expect the black bags to be singing – the wind tugged and pushed at loose ends of plastic, and squeezed into the gaps between bales like an insistent, curious toddler, making low howls and groans as it did.

sileage bags
One last time, I had to go down to the river. It have spent many an hour there, reflecting on what I have written, filling notebooks. I wanted to sit on the cool boulders one last time, listen again to the watery symphony, and look through the bridge which frames the river and the line of fells beyond.

I used the last of the wool on which bunting had hung to wrap a stone, and then hid it. This may last three or more years, staying quite still while the seasons change and the valley’s colours brighten and fade. I will be back to find it.

stone woven with meadow memories

Now that I’ve finished visiting the meadow, the next stage is to bring my writing together. And make some new paper – I am boiling up dried ex-meadow to combine with new paper as I write. Please excuse a pause while I do this …

 

 

And now, poetry

05 Sunday Jul 2015

Posted by somewhere nowhere in cumbria, meadows, poetry

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friends of the lake district, harriet fraser, john clare, nature writing, poetry

John Clare quoteThe whole point of being in the meadow, for me, is to write poetry. Of course there are loads of benefits that come with being there, and all of them, so far, positive.

My two days there last week left me in a state I can only describe as ‘meadow-mind’. I slowed down, I forgot about roads, emails, anything beyond the meadow really. High Borrowdale Valley is like a cocoon, and I was cosy. I entered a slumber-like frame of mind and wandered in the meadows, along the track and beneath the trees, down to the river. I walked in rain, in full sun, in mist and in moonlight. I let the valley seep into me. I watched chimney sweep butterflies setting their black against the green. I traced a bee’s pollen-heavy journey through a patch of white clover. I wondered what the birds were saying, and which birds they were. When it’s blazing hot, their song becomes quiet – when the evening or a cool mist draws in, they chatter incessantly.

My own poetry is forming. My notebook is filling. I will work on it next week when I will be in the meadow once again. I will also be exploring ways that the meadow flowers might contribute to the poetry. Could they write for themselves, and if they could, how?

For now, I wanted to share a poem that emerged during the open meadow day on July 1st. It was a day of sunshine, heat, storms and discoveries, and the sharing of poetry both old and new. We had a bit of a play as well, and did a ‘black out’ exercise, also known as ‘found poetry’. From the same piece of original writing, several very different poems emerged. Each one has its own poignancy. This one was uncovered by Jane Exley. 'Found Poetry' in the meadow

‘Me a do double u’    by jane exley

gather three weeks
and spread them with rain.

There a hay crop and clovers grew,
followed by betony,
a long richness of strength –

depend on each flower
depend on the complex
beauty of life,
precious.

Flowers by name, poetry by nature

19 Friday Jun 2015

Posted by somewhere nowhere in poetry, wildflowers

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friends of the lake district, lake district writing, nature writing, poetry blog, UK meadows, wildflowers

The language of the meadow is seductive, suggestive. I’ve been reading through the High Borrowdale ecological survey from 2014 and playing with the names out loud and in my mind – is that strange? I don’t think so.

Some of them feel so good to roll around your tongue. Sorrel, yarrow, fecue, bent. Some paint instant pictures. Dog violet, melancholy thistle, meadow foxtail.

If the names were all in Latin they might make scientific sense and allow classification, but they would lose the sense of our connection to them. The people who named the plants we know today did so laden with stories, intention, local knowledge. Selfheal and eyebright speak of their use. Then there are flowers like lady’s mantle, ragged robin and butterfly orchid that are named for their appearance.

The names of grasses feel a little more simple, giving down-to-earth descriptions: sharp-flowered rush, rough meadow-grass. I like the sound of sweet vernal grass and crested dog’s tail, and the name Yorkshire fog instantly conjures up the scene of a misty field top on a chill Yorkshire day.

Soldier beetle on Cow Parsley

There’s something mystical, something mythical even about the names we ‘commonly’ give the plants around us. And I enjoy the way that no plant has one, single, definitive name. Common mouse-ear is also known as chickweed or starweed – the last seeming most appropriate with the delicate white flower opening like a silk star.

I’ve just been to visit a teacher at one of the schools I’ll be welcoming into the meadow, and we leafed through some wildflower cards that listed names for each plant. Imagine we were to name them all again, reflecting our own encounters with them, perhaps for the first time, with the striking up of a new relationship. When I’m in the meadow I will be inviting visitors to do just this – the new names will be catalogued on paper made using the river water and the mulch of fallen leaves, stalks and petals.

In the invention of new names our thoughts, like bees, will flit and buzz as they are drawn to brightness, seduced by scent, driven by something beyond reason. I hope we’ll be surprised by some of them and as we gather them, the new names will become part of the meadow poetry.

meadow grasses

Thank you Rob Fraser for the wonderful images. Beautiful.

Forward dreaming

01 Monday Jun 2015

Posted by somewhere nowhere in meadows

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cumbria, friends of the lake district, nature blog

Right now it is raining, heavily. The land is drinking it in. The meadow flowers are waiting beneath the green before emerging to dance in full glory. I am looking forward to the end of the  month and to indulging myself in meadowtime in July.

Back in February, I went to High Borrowdale to explore. The land was quiet, as if sleeping. The river was not. It sung, with the birds and the breeze, and the valley felt alive. I walked in with Rob and wrote about it in a separate blog which you can read here: ‘The Other Borrowdale‘.

high borrowdale meadow sign

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  • Meadow : the Book
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  • Let’s not get too romantic
  • After the cut
  • Process
  • A written meadow
  • A new word
  • New Names
  • Open Pages
  • What’s in a name?

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