A nature reserve on the Somerset Levels

The Somerset Levels lie across the neck of land that separates Devon and Cornwall from the rest of England. Originally marshland, they were drained by monks in the Middle Ages and are now used mainly for grazing cattle. They do still flood, most notably recently in the winter of 2013-14 when the village of Muchelney was an island for several weeks and the inhabitants had to go shopping by boat.

Thanks to the BBC for this map

They aren’t startlingly pretty or dramatic like other places in this country but I love them. I think this is because they give the impression of being closer to their natural state than most British countryside. There aren’t many houses, for obvious reasons, and keeping the water out is a constant battle – involving sluices, pumps, sea defences, ditches and dredging. It wouldn’t take long, one feels, for the area to revert.

    Because the Levels are so different from hilly and increasingly busy Devon, Frog and I often visit on our ‘days off’, having lunch in Glastonbury with its delightful eccentric inhabitants and then walking. One place we’ve never been able to walk however is a nature reserve that we pass on the road as dogs aren’t allowed – until last week when Frog’s recent retirement meant that we could go out on the dog’s day-care day. Now at last, I thought, I could experience the real wild Levels.

    Somehow though I was disappointed.

    Perhaps it was the fence around the edge keeping out predators like foxes. Perhaps it was the quantities of serious birdwatchers with their telephoto lenses. Perhaps it was the neat walkways and the signs everywhere telling you what to look for.

    I felt like a zoo animal, confined to an artificial re-creation of my natural habitat.

    Of course at the moment reserves are vital for preserving species, but I can’t wait for the day (which has to come) when the countryside is reversed, when wildness is the norm and reserves are where we grow our food. (For more on this see https://www.rewildingbritain.org.uk/ .)

Here, anyway, is what we saw.

We started off at the reed bed. The swishing noise of the wind through the reeds was lovely.

The reed walk

Then we walked past some ditches and pools.

A secret willow-fringed pool

Purple loosestrife, a damp-loving plant

I had to look up this butterfly when I got home as I don't know much about butterflies - and I think it's a painted lady. I knew the plant however. It's hemp agrimony -  another damp-lover.

Then we sat on a floating platform on the edge of a small lake which reminded me of the Norfolk Broads. (I had difficulty taking photographs because the sun was so high and strong that all I could see on the screen was myself. The picture below may be slightly wonky.)

The small lake

At one point we had to cross a track or ‘drove road’ as they’re called on the Levels. Drove roads look inviting but they aren’t public footpaths and are often blocked with gates, barbed wire and ‘private’ notices. True to form there was a big notice here warning visitors to cross quickly and not stray up the track - for their own safety and that of the cattle driven along it. Hmph.

The out-of-bounds drove road

We ended up at the bird hide and information hut. As I read the board, I noticed movement above. Oh how clever, I thought: there’s a moving exhibit. When I looked up I realised that it wasn’t just moving. It was alive. And, judging by the amount of droppings on the floor, had made the hut its own.
    But it wasn't an endangered species, and it certainly wasn't on the board's list of creatures to look out for.
    That's real nature for you, I thought - it doesn't follow the rules.

    It was the best bit of the walk.

The anomalous pigeon

Rolf Lidberg and his trolls

Two years ago Frog (with a little help from me) knocked down the wall between our bathroom and the smallest bedroom in our house. A year later the builders began work on our new, expanded bathroom. Now, two years later, the new bathroom is finished and I have begun sorting the debris that resulted from the building work and from emptying a bedroom.

Two years ago the bathroom and adjoining bedroom became one . . .

Because the bedroom was so small, it was used mostly by visiting children, with the pictures on the wall reflecting this. Among the debris I rediscovered these enchanting troll paintings, which last saw the light of day a year ago as illustrations for my series of blog posts on the visit Frog and I paid to Norway, the land of my mother’s mother. 

I have researched (and blogged here about) a Scandinavian print of my mother’s of which I have only a copy as all five of us children wanted to give it a home after my mother's death. I hoped to find an original print of my own but unfortunately I haven’t yet done so. 

'Happy families', a Scandinavian print of my mother's

The troll pictures are small posters which Frog and I found in an Exeter shop about thirty years ago. Now, after our visit to Norway and with my new-found enthusiasm for that part of the world – so beautiful, wild and uncommercialised - I wondered if we could do some research on these pictures too.
 

‘D’you think we could find original prints of these?’ I asked Frog last week, and the next day through the magic of the internet he came up with the name of the artist, Rolf Lidberg.

I then did some research of my own and discovered from Wikipedia that he was Swedish and lived from 1930 to 2005. He illustrated five children’s books, whose English titles are: Trolls (1984), A Troll Wedding (1992), The elf book (1995), The Troll Valley (2001) and The trolls go fishing (2001). We think our pictures probably come from the last one. Cards of the illustrations and secondhand copies of the books are available but again, as yet, we haven’t found any prints.

My mother did read Norwegian books to us when we were children, translating them as she went, including a mysterious one about a Mrs Green, a Mrs Brown and a Mrs White, but the Rolf Lidberg books are too recent seeing as I was born in the 1950s so I never came across them. I also have vague memories of carved wooden trolls appearing on the table at Christmas, as well as small gnomes which my mother called 'nisse’ (pronounced 'nisser'). (It’s only recently that I've discovered that 'nisse' is a Norwegian word and that ‘Nissen Huts’ are prefabricated barrack-type buildings designed by a Colonel Nissen, not log cabins at the bottom of the garden suitable for little people as I had always imagined.)

According to Scandinavian folklore, trolls are scary human-sized creatures who live in the woods, but what could be more adorable than Lidberg’s trolls, with their patched clothes and sweet smiles? Lidberg himself, according to Wikipedia, was hunchbacked and sported a bushy beard. Was he modelling the trolls on himself and if so isn’t that a wonderful example of celebrating ourselves as we are and not worrying about conforming to conventional ideas of beauty?

It’s a shame that the word ‘troll’ has now come to mean something quite different.

. . . and here as it looks today is the same part of the bathroom as that in the picture above

Highly Sensitive People

Every couple of weeks since April I’ve been seeing a spiritual healer (Therese) - who works at a local health centre thanks to an enlightened doctor. Even though my physical complaints haven’t gone away, I feel much happier. This may be because of the healing and it may also be because of the conversations that Therese and I have. I can talk to her about all the things that really interest me and which you don’t mention in normal company for fear of being thought mad (such as seeing things, hearing things, writing, spirituality).

Therese has introduced me to the concept of the Highly Sensitive Person (HSP) which is a newish definition and describes about one in five of the population. Even with this large proportion, sensitivity is not usually valued in our society and many HSPs struggle to fit in and become ill as a consequence - often chronically.

In order to address this, a friend and one-time pupil of Therese, Mel Collins, has written The Handbook for Highly Sensitive People, cover below.

There is a questionnaire at the beginning of the book, designed to help the reader discover whether or not they fall into the category, and I thought you might be interested in seeing it. (Excuse my erratic scanning and I hope Mel won't mind me reproducing part of her book.)

I don’t know about you, but I ticked every statement but one. That was number 19, and when I mentioned it to Frog he said I should have ticked that one too because he’s been insensitive in the past. (I couldn’t possibly comment.)

The concept and the book have been something of a revelation to me. They’ve shown me that I’m not deranged, or damaged – as I’ve always thought I was. The way I am is innate. I can’t change it. I can even be proud of it since HSPs have much to offer. Many of them are artists or teachers, in health care, fighting for social justice or against the mistreatment of the environment, animals and children. As the book says, sensitivity is a gift, not a flaw.

Do have a look if you’re interested in finding out more.

Incidentally, the Foreword is written by the broadcaster Jeremy Vine, an HSP himself.

Saying goodbye to THE BANKER'S NIECE (for the moment)

I probably won’t be posting any more extracts from the novel on this blog. This is because I shall soon start having to give away major plot points and this will spoil the novel for people who come across these later chapters without having read earlier ones.

About a third of the book is still to come. For those of you who’ve stuck with it so far, thank you. I know it’s hard to keep tabs on the plot when you’re having to read it in such a disjointed way but rest assured that everything in the novel is connected and everything is there for a purpose. All will be explained and ends tied up (I hope) – in due course.

When I’m feeling strong I might explore ways of publishing the novel as a whole. I’ll keep you informed.

That’s today’s position anyway. I may change my mind. It has been known.

In the meantime, here are three pictures from recent dogwalks.

Wild 'dog' rose in a field hedgerow

A misty view from a nearby National Trust park

A drove road (ancient track) on the Somerset Levels

The Banker's Niece 30: Winter

An icy blast hits Jane as she gets out of her car in the carpark behind Courtney Manor. She shivers and zips up her red knee-length down-filled coat. As she crosses the cobbled stable yard, white specks skim through the air in front of her. Grey clouds bloom on the horizon, so dense they look like paint put on with a trowel.
    The coat is new and having its first outing, like the pink velvet t-shirt she wore two days ago at the party on Saturday. (Oh dear. The party.) Because the coat was new, she was nervous about wearing it, but for once, she thinks, she might have judged the Devon weather correctly. This is winter at last and the coat is perfect.

    It’s the only thing that is right however.

    Over the last ten days she’s spent precisely one day at work, and that was five days ago. For the rest of the time she’s been semi-comatose in bed nursing her head and her guts. Or disgracing herself in front of her colleagues in one way or another.

    And now, as she opens the back door of Courtney Press and is greeted by the familiar gust of warm, slightly stale air, she has the sense that she’s in the wrong reality. Her feet are touching the ground but her mind is elsewhere. Something inside her has come untethered. She doesn’t want to be here at all.

   

‘I’ve a treat for one of you two this morning,’ says Henry.

    Sam makes a face, and in spite of herself Jane wants to giggle.
    Neither Sam nor Henry has made any mention of the party and she hopes that they at least didn't notice anything. She does still have to talk to Lauren however - who of course noticed everything - and that's something she's not looking forward to.    
    Sam is looking effortlessly cool as ever in a baggy emerald-green jumper with frayed cuffs. Behind her the billowing curves of Dartmoor are lost in whiteness. Is it cloud or snow? The hairs on Jane’s arms prickle. She thinks again of Mole and the Wild Wood*.

    ‘Colin Fletcher –’ continues Henry.

    Sam groans.

    ‘Colin Fletcher’, repeats Henry, ‘is coming down today to “talk money” and he wants to take one of you two “lovely ladies”, as he puts it, out to lunch.’

    ‘Jane,’ says Sam.

    ‘Sam,’ says Jane.

    ‘Jane, I think, given the success of Spiders,’ says Henry, tapping his pen. It's his only sign of annoyance this morning - so far. ‘We need to capitalise on that. See what other “non-fiction” ideas he has.’

    What is it about Colin that makes Henry talk in inverted commas? Perhaps he doesn’t like the man either. That makes three of them then.

    ‘No,’ says Jane.

    ‘No what?’ says Henry.

    ‘No, I won’t go to lunch with Colin Fletcher,’ says Jane.

On the scale of things that happen to women, or even on the scale of things that have happened to her, it doesn’t come anywhere near the top, so it surprised her at the time how upset she was  and how long it took her to recover, and it surprises her now that she’s still affected.

    She and Colin had been to The Bell in Dulverton, ostensibly to ‘throw a few ideas around’ (Henry’s words) about future projects. In reality, Colin spent the whole lunch complaining to Jane about his love life.

    On the way back, a mile or so from Courtney Manor, he pulled into a track leading to some woodland. Then, while Jane was still trying to work out what was going on, he grabbed her chest with one hand and stuck his tongue down her throat.

    Gagging on the stench of beer and sweat, she somehow managed to unclip her seatbelt, open the passenger door and fall out of the car. She scrabbled away as fast as she could, got to her feet and ran, thanking God that she was a trousers and boots sort of woman, not a high heels and tight skirt one.

    Colin accelerated after her in his car, threw her bag out of the window and shouted, ‘Bitch. I thought you’d be grateful.’

    Back at the office Lauren helped her clean herself up and tried to persuade her to go to the police.

    ‘And tell them what?’ asked Jane. ‘Nothing much actually happened.’

    ‘They might have a file on him,’ said Lauren. ‘His behaviour might escalate.’

    Jane suspected she was right, but she couldn’t do it. She blamed herself for letting Colin drone on at lunchtime and giving him false expectations. She couldn’t face having her own morals put under scrutiny. She couldn’t face talking about the incident and having to remember it again and again in detail. She wasn’t even sure there had been an incident. Wasn’t it just part and parcel of women’s life?

    So, except for Lauren, she didn’t tell anyone.

‘Whyever not?’ says Henry.

    ‘He smells,’ says Jane.

    Sam sniggers.

    Henry’s head snaps up and he looks at Jane for the first time that morning. She doesn’t meet his eye.

    ‘He’s got a goatee,’ she continues, gaining momentum. ‘His teeth are yellow, he’s got stains on his trousers –’

    ‘Typical author then,’ says Sam.

    ‘Jane,’ barks Henry. ‘I always thought you were a professional. You can’t let personal feelings –’

    ‘And he assaulted me last time we went out together,’ she says.

    ‘Assaulted you?’ says Henry.

    Something unfamiliar rumbles in her chest.

    ‘Yes me,’ she retorts.

    ‘Whyever didn’t you say something at the time?’ says Henry.

    The rumble in her chest is making her breathe more heavily. She has to speak in short bursts.

    ‘Because I thought you wouldn’t believe me. Because I thought you’d take his part. Because I didn’t want to antagonise him. Because I knew he made a lot of money for the company. Because I was embarrassed. Because I’d only just started working here. Because I didn’t want to make a fuss.’

    She can hear her voice becoming shriller. If she had the time, she’d copy Maggie Thatcher and practise lowering her voice to make it sound male and authoritative. But she doesn’t and this will have to do for the moment.

    ‘Well if that’s the only problem, you take your car this time,’ says Henry.

    ‘Henry!’ shouts Sam. ‘You can’t say that.’

    ‘No, it’s not the only problem,’ says Jane, standing up. The rumble inside her has turned into a roar. She doesn’t care what her voice sounds like any more. ‘I’ve had enough of being an editor. I’m fed up with massaging authors’ egos. I’m fed up with writing other people’s books for them and them getting all the credit. I’m fed up with other people’s books. I’m fed up with being grown-up and sensible and well behaved. I’m fed up with everything. I’m off. Goodbye.’

    She gives the door of Henry’s office a good slam behind her. At least she can do that properly.

She slews down Henry’s drive, which is already powdered white. At the end she pauses. Left takes her south and home. Right takes her north, towards Exmoor and the unknown. She turns right. Moly would be proud of her*.

    She zooms over crossroads, not bothering to look at the signs. She doesn’t know where she’s going. She doesn’t want to know. She just wants to get away.

    Each road is steeper and narrower than the last. She drives in a daze, whisking past farms and hamlets, trundling over tiny stone bridges, creeping through forests as dark as night. The landscape is nothing like the Devon she knows. She feels as if she's gone back in time, to an era when humans had barely started to put their mark on nature. 
    Sleet turns to snow. The wipers pile the snow into drifts that collect at the bottom of the windscreen. Clio's engine races as she loses her grip on the roads.
    They rattle over a cattle grid and suddenly there are no features at all. Just naked hills all the way to the horizon. A white ocean. For a moment she can't breathe.

    They swoop through the white ocean as snow falls so thickly she can hardly see ahead. Clio slides from side to side, up and down. Wind catches the car and tries to turn it over.
    Jane's stomach hollows. Where is she? What has she done? Should she stop or should she go on?

    The road dips abruptly. Jane knows this only because first she feels weightless and then she’s thrown against the steering wheel. She tries to brake but Clio presses on, scrambling over a series of bumps, and Jane has the impression they’re not on a road at all.

    A wall of whiteness at least as tall as the car rears up in front of them and Clio heads for it as if it were a waterhole and she a wildebeest dying of thirst.

     They plunge into the whiteness and judder to a halt. The engine cuts out. There's total silence. A blue light fills the car.

    Jane turns the ignition off and then on. Clio gives a polite hiccup. Jane jiggles around in her seat trying to shake the car in case something has come loose, waits a few moments for Clio to catch her breath, then tries again. There's not even a hiccup this time.

    She pulls the door lever and leans against the door. With a crystalline scrunch, it moves quarter of a centimetre. She tries the passenger door and that doesn’t move at all. She presses the button that opens the boot and it clicks instead of burping as it usually does. She turns round to give the tailgate a push. It doesn't budge.
    She can't start the car and she can't get out.

    She takes her phone out of her bag. There's no signal.

    She thinks of people stuck in avalanches. Don’t they have to stick their ski poles out in order to get some air? 
    She can't open a window without the ignition but she could try and open her door again or even smash some glass, but then she might be inundated with snow and/or freeze to death.

    Which would be worse, she wonders. Dying of suffocation or dying of cold?
    And does she really care?
    She slumps forward, rests her head on the steering wheel and closes her eyes.

    

* From The Wind in the Willows by Kenneth Grahame

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