It’s a grey morning, although we keep getting glimpses of the summer to come. As the seasons unfold in our new house, with its new garden, in our new location, there is much to observe, learn, and anticipate. It is very exciting.
I’ve been remiss in capturing these events and feelings in writing both public and private. I have at least tried to keep up a decent pace in photographic form – again both public and private. But it’s impossible, this relentless tide. You can only stare at the waves for so long before you have to grab something and wedge it into the ground to try and demark things somehow, disrupting the flow – at least briefly.
Or, more realistically, awkwardly disturbing the natural flow of things before getting overwhelmed and retreating and quietly observing once more.
Despite my lack of writing about things, I of course continue to read and capture stray signals of a wide-ranging cast of characters who inspire, tickle, and infuriate me with their seemingly effortless greatness. But deep down I know how much effort goes into it. I raise a glass to each one of them.
As usual, Mr Reeves has come up with the goods – providing me just what I needed to read and hear at just the right moment – and Mr Rukavina has yet again surprised me with unexpected flattery and kindness. Perhaps I should stop being surprised by now.
I can see dunnocks entering and leaving the hedge outside the window of my home office. It’s extremely satisfying to think they are nesting in there, though it is not without a small background radiation of anxiety. I shouldn’t worry. The birds have been doing this for a long time. Much longer than the time I’ve become aware of it.
The sparrows in the back garden continue to rampage through as many mealworms as I can give them. We recently spotted a terrace of birdboxes under the eaves of a nearby house, which was especially nice after reading this recent Country Diary on the nesting of sparrows (or spuggies!).
Meanwhile, Lev Parikian’s recent entry for that column, in which the lyrical writer simply loses his shit at the prospect of nesting blue tits, perfectly captures sentiments shared by myself and M.
Spring festivals – both human-curated and entirely natural – continue to explode around us with an energy I try to feed upon.
It’s nearly the middle of the year, and I am nearly another year older. Projects and priorities simultaneously come into focus and then blur or shapeshift when I try and catch sight of them again. Crafty devils.