Birds, Breezes, Burns and Beauty

        The sun shone in a cloudless, azure sky. It was Spring and new life was appearing everywhere.  Buds were straining to burst into rosy flamboyance on the rhododendrons. The purpling of the heather was still someway off but it could not contain its excitement now that it was free from its wintry burden.  It danced with joy, flexed with anticipation, hugged the peat, no longer a frozen prisoner, now an emancipated freedom. The old Scots Pines dotted about the landscape had the air of the ‘seen it all before’. They patronised the earth with lordly condescension. They accepted who they were, superior to all, forthright through the ravages of winter, above the angst of the rest of the plant world which somehow had to cower beneath the ice and frost, had to shrink from the Arctic onslaughts, had to niche sleep, nook nurture to survive.

         The burns, no longer frozen, chuckled their ways down the mountainside, joyous in their renewed freedom. They trickled over rocks, danced over moss, rested in pools, greeted insect life with tolerance, cosseted their fish with maternal love. 

     As the day moved forward, swishing sounds arose from the tops of the trees, a gentle breeze kissed lovingly the upper canopies. The birds at dawn had announced their presence and continued their meandering  murmurations, bursting with susurrating  song, fluttering  wings, twig-lifters, fly-catchers, nest builders.

     I have walked through beauty like this, sat on the banks of beauty like this, listened to the sounds of beauty like this and been calmed by beauty like this.

    On a morning such as this many years ago, I woke early in my tent, pulled back the flap and eagerly reached for the day.  I pulled on my boots, rushed a breakfast that was never a breakfast, threw on my pack and walked off.  I followed the stream upwards. It was a gentle climb. Slowly the vegetation became less varied. I knew that soon it would be only rocks and heather.  I decided to make the most of the surroundings before I left them. A wee hillock, a rise to the side of the path looked like a place to sit and contemplate.

     It is not easy to sit or lie on a peaty bed of heather.  For one thing there are the mighty midgies, almost no-see-ums, which settle and irritate warm flesh. But the breeze sends them scurrying, the draft frees us from their nuisance. But halting is not easy for another reason. Walking through inordinate beauty is a drug. The next corner always beckons, gentle ascents demand the other side, we always want to be other than where we are.  So it took a conscious effort to force myself to sit for a period of time, that was something more than moments.  I tried not to look at my watch. I lay back and talked to myself about where I was and how when I returned to the maelstrom of life these moments would be an ointment to soothe; a balm in which to bathe; a hot bath in which to sud and soak and ease.

 I looked up at the Scots Pine its angled branches showing neither science nor purpose. It was a tree that could be whatever it wanted to be.  It was answerable only to itself. Passing passerines were welcome to perch in its branches; the golden eagle or osprey were allowed to settle on its top branches to watch and scan for prey. Insects were welcome to feast on its sap and twigs. Nothing threatened its majesty; its longevity and strength bestowed aristocracy. It provided shade from the sun, shelter from the rain, its generosity provided food for many.

Rolling onto my side I saw the peaks of Cairngorm and Ben Macdhui glistening white with the remnants of the winter snows. Over millions of years weathering had gnawed at their rocks, chipped away at their Himalayan heights until they were now gnarled diminished ancestors of their former selves. But they were magnificent in their own way remnant foothills of higher worlds in many different countries but with the wisdom of the elders; no longer the rash avalanches of youthful exuberance; the devastating rockfalls of freeze and thaw; the creeping groans of glaciers; the killing zones of thin air. The jagged presence of an alp or dolomite were not there.  Their youthful exuberance had given way to a gentler, wiser old age. They could rest in the knowledge of their experience; smug in their ‘seen it all before’;  they were the old man at the corner of the bar, scorning the loud music, waving away noisy venturesome foolish youth. They sat and watched and smiled with smug benignity but every so often a cold killing blizzard blast sprung forth and reminded that here was a dog that may be old but still had tricks in its coires and glens.

And through all these thoughts there was the constant joy of birdsong. Not the single cuckoo or grating squawk of a seagull  but so much variety,  so many different tones, all mingled together calling for mates and nesting and eggs and rebirth. Nature’s joyous renaissance coming alive in the Spring. And I the privileged interloper, forcing myself to be still, reaching for tranquillity, determined to milk the horizons for every last drop.

I think, Dear Friends, of what these excursions into the natural world have given me over my life. They have brought me to an indescribable place, a place of joy, wonder and calm, a place where the cares and anxieties of the world rise up from the ground like a bird in flight. My worries take off like a skein of geese honking its way northwards. There is a spirituality in nature which no manmade religion can give; no dogma or doctrine can furnish. In the great outdoors there is fact based on life and death, reality and being. There is no faith in a god required; no need to prostrate oneself before a mythical being. Nature tells us tooth and nail what works and what doesn’t. It is the solid basis for our being; the essence of our substance. It is our heaven and hell, our checks and balances.  We are a part of all it is and we need to ensure we do not stay apart from it for too long.

Thanks for reading.