The Storm in the Woods

and the flowers that survive

“April, come she will
When streams are ripe and swelled with rain…”  ~ Simon and Garfunkel.

It has been a week of hailstorms, damp woods and soggy flowers defying the rain. On Wednesday I set off for the hills, hoping for some streams of sun rays through the woods on top of the ridge. The walk there took me through some farm fields where I was happily distracted by the lambs taking their first rickety steps across the uneven grass. Glancing up, I noticed that the sky had turned a shade of dark bluey charcoal. It looked slightly ominous, but it’s an area of big, wide skies and I thought it would pass over, on the other side of the valley.

I reached the woods and felt glad to be back exploring the familiar paths that had once been on my doorstep just a few years ago. The wild garlic leaves covered the entirety of the woodland floor, with paths that you could just about see - thin brown lines snaking into the distance. Looking up, the trees were still bare. Their leaf buds hadn’t quite opened to form the lush canopy that would otherwise have sheltered me from the storm that was now directly overhead.

I hadn’t considered a hailstorm in April, so I was mostly unprepared and therefore willing to hedge my bets. As the thunder cracked its way through the air I noticed that I wasn’t far from a large tree whose trunk had split almost in half and whose upper boughs had toppled over a path. It looked like it had been previously struck by lightning, which in my mind somehow made it a safer spot to shelter under. Maths isn’t my strong point, but I thought the odds were in my favour. How many trees get struck by lightning twice?

It proved to be a dry and cosy place to perch under for half an hour or so, with a staggering view of the woods being assailed by the whims of the tempest. Ants hurried along the underside of the trunk, while the spiders took shelter and huddled away in a corner of the bark. There was another world keeping me company under there, and I was feeling exhilarated to be in the thick of it; enveloped by this surge of elemental power.

Once the storm had made its way over to the other side of the valley, I started gathering up some wild garlic leaves, shaking off tiny rocks of ice as I went. As cold as I was, there are fewer thrills than being outside, surrounded by nature during a storm. My body was shivering with euphoria as much as the chill; my skin was vital with energy rippling through each goosebump. I felt heady and fully awake in every sense of the word.

Rain (and even hailstorms) aside, this is the time of year when I want to push hard on the brakes and slow everything down so that I can eke out more time in this, my most favourite of months. I keep notes in a physical nature journal so that I remember the time with as many of my senses as possible:

The feel of the ridges on a hazel leaf.
The sound of the stream as it laps against the banks burgeoning with extra rain water.
The pungent savoury taste of wild garlic after being crushed in a pestle and mortar.
The shimmering light as the hailstorm clears and the sun glints on wet leaves.
The ‘bread and cheese’ smell of the hawthorn flowers just starting to permeate the breeze.

I’ll take the rain (and hail) showers if it gives me more green.

Amazingly, after the storm there were still some blossom petals on the plum tree and blackthorn bush. White and green seem to be the dominant colours of these early April days. All this new growth has been showered with rain and battered with hail in a surprise weather front; the flowers are sodden, but still beautiful. I picked a few little sprigs of whichever plants I could see around me and headed home. Now dry and laid out on paper in a gentle pool of sun, I was able to record them in my journal.

I didn’t manage to capture any photos of the storm because I dropped my camera lens in the mud. But I recorded a little sound note of the experience on my phone:

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