The woods in May

cow parsley, feathers and chalk streams

I’ve noticed that I’m not the only one who's disappointed when May draws to a close. The month feels like a time when paradise has arrived on earth. If only it could last just a little bit longer. By the time June rolls in, a slight panic makes its presence known to me as I realise we are halfway through the year and only three weeks away from the days becoming shorter — albeit gradually. It's as if my mind is blind to the fact that we still have a full summer ahead of us. 

To try and gently knock some sense into myself, I paid a visit to the chalk stream near to where I live. It’s a soothing place far away from any roads and only reachable by a hilly hike. At this time of year along the route, the hedges seem more white than green, with the lacy froth of cow parsley spilling over onto the already overgrown footpaths. Meadows filled with campion and oxeye daisies lead down to the water’s edge, where damselflies and kingfishers make their home. 

The unexpected heat of the day and the blue sky had brought more walkers than normal to this little sanctuary. As picturesque as it was there, I knew I needed to be far away from people to try and re-balance my mind. We cut away from the track earlier than planned and found a path leading to a beech wood, although not before quickly dipping my toes into the cool water — I wasn’t brave enough for a full body immersion.

(Below you’ll find a little recording of the chalk stream as it flowed over some stones.)

Walking amongst trees always feels like a balm to me, but especially in May when the burst of new life creates a fullness overhead, boughs heavy with late blossom and thousands of newly fluttering leaves. The wood was bathed in early golden hour sun and this is where we stayed for a while, resting in one of the many pools of light under the leaf canopies. 

Why is it that we feel it’s such a luxury to spend time doing very little in a beautiful place? Unless it’s in a nicely boxed off fortnight called a holiday. I get quite fed up with the guilt-trip that my mind sabotages these calmer, inactive moments with. 

On our way back up through the wood, my forever treasure-hunting eyes scoured the woodland floor for interesting shapes and colours, and were rewarded with two feathers. One I recognised as a red kite feather, the other looks like it fell from an owl or a pheasant, I don’t know for sure. Both were slightly raggedy and trampled on, but no less lovely because of it. I have a large collection of feathers, but I still get the same ripple of excitement when I find another. I tucked them into my nature journal before the breeze blew them out of my hands and back into the undergrowth. 

I always wonder how these delicate little filaments are strong enough to keep a bird up in the air: to look at a feather in your hand, it seems impossible. It's one of life’s marvels, like the intricate markings that distinguish one species of bird from another.  Maybe one day I’ll get around to painting these. But for now they’re safely archived in my own little home museum of natural history.