An Autumn Ritual
Autumn nears, it is mid-September about an hour before sunrise. To the east a faint orange glow and deep blue sky above. Small clouds fleck the dark sky like sheep on the moors. The diesel engine rattles down narrow dark country roads. The trees are scattered along the horizon as black silhouettes past the expanse of stubbled fields newly harvested of wheat, oat, barley, and bean. The flick of headlights up and down as the early commute from the villages rushes past. I am not in so much a hurry and impede those impatient drivers traveling in my direction this early in the morning. They must wait for a clear stretch of road to overtake.
The radio is off only the sounds of the engine, tires and wind. Looking about the scenery in case there is something worth stopping for, the quiet morning roads are good for this. The weather was forecast as fog and though not immediately apparent the further northwest my progress the hazier the air becomes. Descending from the table flat grain fields down towards the fens where they grow vegetables as well as grain the air thickens and the horizon recedes studded by wind turbines where windmills once pumped the marshy bog-land dry.
The sky slowly brightens, the roads straighten on this flat land but the road surface undulates like the waves of the shallow sea that 500 years ago might be 30 feet overhead. Above the flat fields these elevated roads dip and roll; the soil underneath still compacting irregularly after all these centuries.
The air is scented with the recent plowings and harvesting. Earthy one moment, sweet light fog dampened straw the next and then pungent with the smell of onions or scallions freshly harvested. The dark block of woodland appears through patches of thicker mist scattered over the fields. A bridge over a canal that was once the Nene river moved by man further north now transporting surplus water to the sea; the mirrored surface reflecting back the dark blue of the pre-dawn sky.
A turn onto a narrower road into the birch woodlands. Pull into a wider section for parking. All alone. The engine off. I pull on my backpack with gear inside and grab he tripod. Head down the trail into the wood. It is quiet and peaceful now the road and engine noise is behind me. The buzz in mind from the drive quiets as I stump along these peaty trails. The occasional car on the main road, the hiss of of steels wheels on rails in the further distance.
The compacted peat of the trail does not betray my footsteps. The stands of ferns reach chest height either side of the trail. The air is thick and slightly hazy between the quiet birch trees. Here in the forest the warmth of the previous day is retained and the patches of fog out on the surrounding farmland are inhibited from forming. Walking further a sudden start of an animal sounds like a deer in the thick ferns. Peering into the sound no sign of movement.
Further down the trail behind me I hear the first of many alarm barks of the muntjac I flushed. They continue as I walk onward a rough stricken cry unlike any other animal. At night it would be terrifying especially if you didn’t understand the diminutive source, a small pygmy forest deer introduced from Southeast Asia. When you do see them, when you are walking very slowly and quietly they appear timid carefully pacing each footstep and always on the lookout for threats. These are Reeves muntjacs escaped from an estate where they lived in 1925 and now they occupy all of England as well as some parts of Wales and Scotland. It is not unusual to see them in back gardens where I live as well. For now the receding bark is all that disturbs the peace.
I walk past a pond and look from the hide briefly to a pair of swans and smaller coots and ducks making quiet satisfied sounds in the pre-dawn light.
I am out scouting for my woodlands photography. Fall is the short season of color and reliable fog. Though there is some fog on the fenland fields the woods shrug it off with the heat trapped by the thick foliage. I head out to a covert where the birch thin and eventually to the edge of the forest. Perhaps some fog will find refuge there.
Across a ditch and the trees thin and the haze in the air thickens but not quite as fog. Down the straight track due east I head into the brightening horizon where I anticipate the sunrise soon. A bank of cloud on the horizon will delay the sunrise and any warm light that might illuminate the forest. I am hear for this too. A little color.
There is the incessant coo of wood pigeon and the panicked scattered wing beats thumping and squeaking like hinges; they burst from tree tops and sail off in the distance. Wood pigeon are great pigs of birds appearing so fat and stupid they seem to be unable to lift themselves from a branch except with great effort. In the spring their soft constant cooing competes with the more intermittent and much rarer call of the cuckoo. I have not heard a cuckoo in months however.
I come to the edge of the forest and upon a drainage ditch. Here again at the edge of the fens looking across the shorn fields of stubble towards the horizon and a few copses of trees. It is lovely time to be out this morning alone in the silence which is about to be broken.
The waterfowl at rest overnight on the fens are waking. They have spent the night out on the remote stubbled fields where they had been gleaning what the combines could not harvest the day before. I suppose they are safe out there as the fox lacks cover to make a stealthy attack and sound travels so well here over the flat open spaces.
Flocks of them, geese mostly, squabble in the dark fields, then rise above the horizon squawking their chorus of encouragement to each other. They follow the leader as he turns and circles them toward some patch of water on a lode or drain or canal. The first group encourages others as the horizon reddens and softens towards orange one flock then one by one more lift from the surrounding fields heading off in diffferent directions. One flock swings overhead towards the birch forest behind me aiming for the pond in the middle of the forest. On my way here I peered through the hide at the pond. A single pair of silent swans and some quiet tittering of some coots. They are in for a break in their quiet morning for in a few moments the great spread wings of the geese and brash honks will herald their arrival and the end of quiet. More will follow and the pond will be in a continuous state of rambunctious noise, squabbles and conflicts until evening sees them again commute back to the fields. Wings will slap the water as they briefly lift and the skid to land on a less crowded section of the pond.
I am more here to reconnect and observe than to photograph. I have come looking for the promise of fall and color. Unlike recent visits I have brought color film and my large format camera carried heavily in my pack. The camera is difficult and unwieldy. A complex way to make images. However in the right time and space, often solitude, it is contemplative. Focus and immersion and being in the natural element makes it calming and almost meditative. I am here too to reconnect with this beast of a camera. To renew muscle memory, to make mistakes before the better mornings come. I walk back into the forest and resume my wandering.
As the sun makes its way up it passes through the canopy in places and presents its warm color on the oak and birch. I reach the western extent and find myself at a hide on the edge of the forest. It is open and I take advantage of the height it offers. It overlooks a reedbed for bird watchers to observe. All alone in the creaky wood house I raise the window and setup my camera and tripod. The sun is much higher now and is finally streaming through a hole in the clouds. Streaks of ‘god-light’ stream from the heavens over the fens and fields. It is not woodland but it is fen and pretty and provides practice and context.
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| Trundle Mere Velvia 50 6x12 |
From here I make my way back to the car through the center of the forest. I note and discover new areas. Across a road it has been a long morning and I have walked more of this wood's 450 acres than I ever have in one day. Others are about now. The friends and dog walkers that frequent this place. The birdsong, honks of geese, and barks of Muntjac are supplemented by the conversations of friends, or people calling to their pets. I pass through a clearing into a quieter section again and take time to setup for one last photo. The rising sun sets a green glow in the path ahead and I capture this from the ground to the clearing blue sky. Birch and pine trees frame the path.
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| Holme Fen Path Velvia 50 6x12 |
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