Blithe spirits

I have the babble of a stream on my right which seems to have woken the birds - a jay cackles, a song thrush drops to the ground by a bed of wild garlic and a single golden saxifrage, a raven cronks and blue tits chatter nervously in the hedge. I see some weary snowdrops, silently thankful that winter has loosened its grip, and then turn my attention to the hill ahead.  The taller cousin of Wenlock Edge takes you up towards Bourton Westwood at around 258m. The far off song of skylarks teases me as I climb. I challenge myself not to look at the view until I reach the top.

            North, the last of the snow is retreating on Caer Caradoc, but opposite, the softly folding south Shropshire landscape - Spoonhill, Corve Dale, Aston Hills and the imperious Clee – whispers of spring. Now I see as well as hear the skylarks, their soaring flight and trilling song both noticeable against the cold wind. Is it the words of the poets, or their increasing rarity, or simply their illusiveness? I don’t know, but there’s something magical and ethereal about skylarks which have taken this walk out of the ordinary.

Winter's Tail

As the shafts of light force themselves through the dreary covers of winter a great haze is produced over the Shropshire landscape. The view across the Corve Dale becomes a dappled patchwork of greens: bright, new shooted fields merging into deep hued pine plantations, bounded by the remote wilderness of the Clee. Only the skylark's song is clear as I walk back to Bourton, a crisp endless trill as the bird rises up and into the strong easterly headwind.

            Even now I can’t escape the snow. There are paths still unusable with drifts which the sun has not yet shrunk and everywhere grimy snow-ploughed heaps refuse to yield. Daffodils are struggling to lift their heads after being flattened for so long under the weight of white; grass which should be green and springy is lank and dull.

            Why are the fields so dry after the snow, I ask myself, and then I realise my position - 250 m above sea level. The wind has done its work on the sloping ground and gravity is doing the rest. The rutted tracks and field edges below have streams of water running down them; water which will flow down into the haze until it reaches the Corve. What is usually a tinkling stream is today a torrent.

Afternoon shadows lengthen and I decide to follow the water home, determined to see not the remains of winter but the signs of spring - primroses, celandines. I have never been so happy to see the wearied leaves of a plantain as it pokes out from the deep banks of snow.

Is there a green hill far away?

Humans are not very well adapted to snow. I envy the coots - their great galoshes of feet enable them to skip lightly over the drifts that have swallowed up our road. I, on the other hand am forced to plough on, the snow coming up to my knees.

            The adverts for creme eggs are the only thing to suggest spring is here. Is it here? Where are the daffodils, the daisies, the buttercups, the violets, the primroses, the nesting birds, the frogs, or the sun? Winter’s icy grip has hung on to Easter, with its worst snow falling in March. Snowdrops and crocuses seem to cryogenically frozen in time, and the shoots of hawthorn in the hedgerow or apple blossom in the orchards are nowhere to be found.

            A jay breaks from the wood opposite our house, its grating call echoing off the metre high snowdrifts butressing the hedge. A mixed flock of finches have been disturbed and scatter to the pine plantation. The stream in the verge is still flowing and is visited by a song thrush, but even he can’t stand the easterly wind for long and flies to a more secluded spot. In Bourton churchyard a mighty yew has been split asunder, centuries of growth shattered by the weight of snow. The wind picks up again, the drifts are moved like dunes in a desert, and the snow continues to fall.