The Greenfinch

Greenfinches used to flock to our bird table, especially when we put out sunflower seeds. Then, about twenty years ago, they vanished. They had apparently fallen prey to the parasitic disease Trichomonosis which they were thought to have caught from pigeons, and their numbers had crashed by 60 per cent. I added them to my list of birds I no longer see, like swallows, barn owls, thrushes and pied wagtails.

At the end of March I was staying with my brother D at his farm in West Sussex, most of which he is now leaving to nature. The birds were in full spring throat and in among the dizzy-making tangle of sounds I caught something new - an insistent but gentle chirring noise. I didn’t know what it was and neither did D – who is an expert on birds – but Merlin, the trusty smartphone app which identifies birdsong, told us it belonged to a greenfinch.

I started to hear the noise everywhere, in the garden at home, on my long rambles every day with Ellie (who is now 15 and not showing much sign of slowing up). The greenfinch became my bird of this glorious spring, my bird of the year.

If you’ve read previous posts, you might remember how important affirmations are to me, particularly since my husband Frog died, three and a half years ago. I recite them to myself every day and hope that one day they will stick. Some I make up myself, some come from that inspiring book You Can Heal Your Life by Louise Hay, 

and one – the queen of them all – comes from a medieval woman mystic whose name I’ve forgotten.

A few days ago I was dozing in the garden and the greenfinch was chirring as usual, and the sound was so beautiful and loving and warm that my half-asleep brain connected it with that queen affirmation. The greenfinch was chirring ‘All is well’. He was telling me that he and his species had come back from the brink, and so could I.

Crab-apple blossom (I think) in a hedgerow a few weeks ago

Norwegian Independence Day, vintage hi-fi and trying to live on an even keel

Today is Norwegian Independence Day, a yearly event marking the end of nearly three centuries of control by Denmark. In Norway it's a mad happy day, filled with parades and parties.

Here is my Norwegian flag flying on the edge of the garden, the first time I've hoisted it myself as flag-flying was Frog’s domain.

The Norwegian flag has double significance for me as, unbeknownst to me, Frog had ordered me one just before he died and it arrived the day after he died, along with some brackets for hanging spotlights, which was a project he was engaged on at the time. (As you can see, his death was a surprise to us both.)

Frog was a hoarder and I’ve been clearing his stuff continuously for the last two and a half years. On Wednesday the lovely AtkinsAuctions from Axminster, whose strapline ‘Old style values, New style auctions’ describes them perfectly, arrived to take away Frog’s collection of what’s called ‘vintage hi-fi’ but most of which he still used. I’m hoping their online auctioneering will reach the geeks, and Frog’s equipment will go to good homes.

Even though I have exciting plans for the space that’s left, it was a sad and momentous day and yesterday my back gave way as I was clearing weed from the pond. Was it connected to the loss or was it the result of all the outdoor work I did last week when the weather was so beautiful?

Either way, it’s given me the day off today, which is actually rather nice, and all sorts of sedentary possibilities have been flooding in, including this blog post.

I do tend to drive myself, probably in order not to think and feel too much, and have begun to veer between manic activity and depressive slump. Not good or pleasant. So, in an effort to get out of that pattern, I’ve cut my coffee consumption by half (from a double espresso at breakfast to a single one). It seems to be doing something.

Ellie’s a bit like me, in that she finds it hard to slow down, even at the age of 14, but here she is recently in peaceful mode.

A winter's walk by the sea

I’ve been getting in a terrible tizz about my future – to move or not to move, whether it’s OK to sell some of Frog’s stuff (do I want to keep it as a memento or is it better to move on?), how long will it be before I’m too old to manage on my own and what will I do then, ?

So yesterday, the dog and I took off for a walk by the sea.

During the walk I met a lovely woman and we had a long talk that started with our dogs - what else? -  and went on to range from reincarnation to quantum mechanics, stopping off on the way at Tolkien and Philip Pullman. As Bilbo Baggins used to say, you never know what's going to happen when you step outside your front door.

The weather was perfect – bright but not too sunny, a light wind, moderate temperatures – and there weren’t many other people about. All my worries blew away and I wanted to keep going all day but I realised that I’d come out without any money and no map and had left my water bottle in the car. 

So after a couple of hours I took the sensible option and walked back to the car along a filthy farm track, my feet squelching in a mixture of animal excrement and mud. I was glad of my hefty boots and knee-high waterproof socks.

Next time, I'll go better prepared.

Probably.

It's hard when the way ahead is so unclear.

June to January - a round-up

I haven’t been blogging much recently, mostly because Frog’s death (2 years ago) has made me less confident and more negative (What’s the use? Etc etc.). Also, I have twice as much to do as before and I don’t know how to do half of it.

Recently however, as I feel stronger and more capable of dealing with my new life, I’ve been looking for something extra. Or, rather, I’ve been scratching around frantically, trying to fill the emptiness left by Frog’s departure.

Two days ago, two things happened. First, a cousin heaped praise on my pictures and my writing (I think she was talking about my blog). Thank you, A. Then, a friend sent me a link to a scheme in which each day different writers and artists suggest creative things people can do. That day’s piece was by Michael Rosen, former Children’s Laureate, and I found it inspiring. Thank you, C.

I took that conjunction as a nudge from the universe. I had been thinking about writing. Like being out in nature, it takes me to another world, it gives me faith, and I’m a dead loss at 'good works' - things voluntary and for the community which are the usual solution for people in my situation. I have been keeping a sort of diary for the last 2 years but that's definitely not for public consumption and I wanted readers. The first line of a novel did come into my head and I already had a vague plan for one but I became overwhelmed by the enormity of the task. Blogging seemed to be the answer.

So here goes - a round-up in pictures of the last 7 months.

  

June and a heatwave. Ellie takes advantage of the garden's shade-sail. 

                 October and a muddy, misty dawn. I’m up early these days and it has its advantages.

 

November and autumn colours. (Spot the dog.)

 

The ever-photogenic canal in early December, where I bumped into a friend who made me coffee beside the water with his wind-up machine that ground the beans and frothed the milk. Frog would have loved it.

Mid-December. Sunset, with crows in my wild cherry tree. I once freed three crows that I found trapped in a crate for some nefarious purpose, and I believe that crows now look out for me because it has become imprinted in their lore that I'm a friend of their species.

Dusk on Christmas Eve and a walk with my family in Kent’s beautiful North Downs.

New Year. I have a cold and C brings me a jar of her home-made onion pickles, which she says are good for infection. I put some on my wintry salad of red cabbage, toasted pumpkin seeds and raisins. It is a new taste sensation.

By the sea last week. People are swimming, some in wet-suits and some in nothing but bathing costumes. Brr. But I’m sort of envious.

Wild Norway

I made it to Norway eventually and swept into a round of parties, meeting cousins of all shapes and sizes (my maternal grandmother having been Norwegian). The weather was atrocious – even worse than in the UK – but here are some pictures of the beautiful landscape.

 

On the first day I walked with my brother and sister-in-law and two English friends of my aunt to this lake, which Frog and I had found near the hotel five years earlier. In spite of non-stop rain, I thought the lake was prettier this time. Perhaps the heatwave on my previous visit had withered the greenery.

 Lake, jetty and granite

The jetty is for swimming. The Norwegians are very hearty and, even though the temperature was about 14, as we walked back two boys were leaping in and out of the water.

The rock in the foreground is not broken concrete but granite, which comes to the surface everywhere.

 

Here is the hotel garden on my last day, when of course the sun came out, and here is another lump of granite. How the trees manage to grow on it, I have no idea.

 

Hotel garden

As children, we spent our summer holidays by the sea in Norway and clambered over the rocks in bare feet, as this was the best way we found to grip them.

Also on my last day, I found this enticing path signed ‘Kyststien’ which I guessed meant coast path. I wished I’d found it earlier.

 Coast path

Most of the interior of the country (below the treeline) is forested with pines but here, by the coast, were some broadleaved trees – oak, silver birch, rowan. Also scrumptious wild raspberries, another feature of my childhood.

  

This is the beach in front of the hotel, but I didn’t brave the sea.

 

Hotel beach

On my penultimate day, I went for lunch with one of my aunt’s daughters. She lives on the outskirts of Kristiansand.

Here is her view.

The view from my cousin's house

 

And here is the path from her garden to forest and mountain.

The path from my cousin's garden

On my last morning, I walked round Kristiansand with my brother and sister-in-law. 

Here is the harbour, not what you’d expect next to a city.

 Kristiansand harbour

People were picnicking and swimming.

As you can see, nowhere in Norway is far from nature, although according to a cousin that is changing as the population expands.

That breaks my heart, as (in my experience) Norway is one of the last wild places left in this part of the world.