Up the HIll and Back to the Hedgerow

There is a paradox at the beating heart of our selves: the things we most need to keep us at our best are often the first things we neglect. I took myself finally back to my hedgerow universe. The weather was not the best, but the air though grumbly was dry and as soon as my feet hit the familiar walk up the hill, I felt myself loosen back into an easy stride and my world to open up. It has been so olng since I last visited the hedgerow that the colours have shifted. Most notably, the dochans have gone rusty--a colour akin to the rust on old anchors or metal bits off the side of buildings, but a colour somehow more alive than any metal-hugging rust. I like to stop and admire it. Perhaps someday I'll capture it in a dye pot or a mix of wools that get felted into a companionable union of colours, but for now I smile at it as I head to the top of the hill.

The leaves are still holding on most of the plants, but they have taken a beating from the winds, bruised and brown-tipped with the pummeling. Next to these battered leaves almost in defiance of the poor weather, a hearty spray of bright red berries on the hawthorne. I wish I had my camera, but now I have a good excuse to come again and hopefully to get back to the pattern of walks that give me so much pleasure.

I have to remember that all bad weather is good for something--our wet summer seems to have been good for spiders. The lane is full of gossamer threads. And now I see that the loch is full of snowy white birds. Now perhaps I'll borrow a camera with a stronger telephot lens and try to capture them. Yeats had his wild swans at Coole; I have my swans on Loch Heilan.