Showing posts with label countryside. Show all posts
Showing posts with label countryside. Show all posts

Tuesday, 21 June 2016

land or water


My early morning walk can go one of two ways - land or water. Turn right at our gate and within ten minutes we'll be at the lake-shore with only the birds and insects for company. Take a left instead and we can walk for miles along lanes heavy with the sounds of bees among the honeysuckle. It is windy and cool. Almost like early autumn instead of high summer. In fact the wind has rustled off quite a number of leaves and the roadside is strewn with them. The clouds have been hanging low over the fields for days, giving the impression that there will be thunder. The rush and noise of silage time has finally been eclipsed by more usual somnolent countryside rhythms and we heave a sigh of relief.

Thursday, 18 June 2015

fields



How close are you to a plain, open parcel of land marked off for cultivation? We are surrounded by them. Vast ones opened up for dairying, small ones enclosed by dense bird packed hedges, ones which lead on to others, a patchwork across the countryside. At this time of year the urge to be in them is strong. The grass has been cut for silage, leaving dry golden stubs. It is surprisingly satisfying to walk in a field which has just been cut. The smell is subtle, herbal, green. The boys throw handfuls of dried grass which the baler missed at one another and roll down the gentle slope of the field. Within a day or two there is a greenish tinge to the field ~ growth is continuing, a second cut is inevitable before summer is out.


Field names are so interesting, a lyrical intangible finger of the past pointing to something gone. With farming changing so rapidly and small fields and their hedgerow boundaries under continuous threat, it makes sense to record these names before they disappear. Names can be prosaic meadow field, river field, hill field, some relate to size the ten acres, or their use cow field, turnip field, milking field or, of course, they can be in Irish, or reflect the field's geography or its owner. The boys are forever drawing maps of places, real and imaginary, perhaps we should map our local fields, find their names before it's too late.