Today was one of these days, we knew it would be as the sky had been clear for over 24 hours, a high pressure sitting over us keeping the weather still and cold, turning the wet, muddy moor to glistening iron. Olive succeeded in getting us up and out before the sun had climbed over the hills at the eastern end of our valley, she had us striding toward the sunrise wrapped up warm in the silent grey world. The crunch of leaves underfoot in the woods opposite the house is different when they are frozen and the ground beneath them is hard. Ice crystals push the mud upwards in tiny geometric towers which crumple satisfyingly beneath your boots. Even the deepest mud has a soft solidity about it, still giving just a bit under your weight so every step is a reminder of the drop in temperature. The beauty bestowed on the world by frost is a universal treasure but here in Simonsbath we have a special treat which I've never seen anywhere else; we have 'hair ice'.
As they emerge like a breath these strands of soft snowy ice curl and twist to form extraordinary shapes along the length of the branch. They really can look like a white beard emerging from an old man's chin! I love to pick up these branches, carefully so as not to break the magic, and gently touch the iciness to my face where it disintegrates without me even being able to feel that it ever touched me, such is the fragility of this phenomenon. You can blow them away like a dandelion clock, they are weightless. Olive on the other hand likes to pounce on them and dig away at what she hopes is snow (Olive loves snow even more than she loves frost, perhaps more than anything else in the whole world!) and then looks puzzled as the whiteness disappears beneath her big fat paws.
After climbing through the woods this morning we traversed along the top of the valley, weaving amongst the gorse which still has a few yellow flowers clinging on amongst its thorns, their coconut scent long gone with the summer heat and today looking like sweet flowers of icing on a cake. Other than their frozen droppings there was no sign of the rabbits who live in the beech hedgerow up here. Usually they dart between their burrows beneath the twisted roots of the ancient hedge and the thickets of gorse and bracken a few feet away but today I imagined them nestled below ground out of the cold. From up here we could look down on the valley below to our right, at the dark river snaking through the white marshy meadow.
As soon as the pink orange peeped above the hillside this morning Nick had to head home and dash off to work (the temperature on her car's thermometer read minus nine!) but Olive and me had the luxury of a long walk along the valley with not a soul in sight. Not a human soul that is; we were watched from the far side of the river by the woolly black cows who had a thin layer of frost highlighting their backs and plumes of warm breath rising from their noses. Other than them there were only a few crows and wood pigeons around, a buzzard meowing somewhere below us and some pheasants screeching and flapping out of their hiding places in the bracken thanks to Olive's persistent hunting. Otherwise it was so still and quiet that the river seemed to be tiptoeing through the white landscape trying not to disturb the early morning peace and even the sun went back to bed, disappearing behind a narrow bank of cloud almost as soon as it had shown its rosy face.
Once we reached the rocky knoll where we like to sit on warmer days soaking in the wondrous view we headed steeply down through the dead bracken, Olive making her obligatory visit to the badger sett which must smell irresistibly strong to her whiskery, sensitive nose. Cattle and horses have recently trodden this narrow zig-zag path, churning it into lumps and holes which are now frozen solid and threaten to break an unsuspecting ankle so I picked my way down carefully.
Olive hurtled. Oh to be as sure-pawed as a small sturdy dog! Now in the valley bottom we followed the bridleway, close to the river where the coldest air had settled overnight. That line "earth stood hard as iron" was written for a day like this, a track like this, rock solid underfoot, dotted with frozen puddles and with icicles encasing the reedy grasses where tiny streamlets flow off the hillside and cross the path via stone-rimmed channels to make their way to the river below.
The best kind of frozen puddle is one where the ice is white and you can tell just by looking that there is actually no water beneath it. My Dad had a childhood friend known as Adger who called this 'box ice' and that term has stuck with me as if it were the official name of this particular form of ice. If the inuit language has 50 words for snow it seems entirely reasonable to have a word for the kind of ice you have to stamp on regardless of your age. No box ice today though sadly. No satisfying stamp and shatter. I also love those puddles where the water beneath the ice forms swirling patterns and almost-concentric rings as if this is its one chance to appear artistic and glamorous instead of merely muddy. If you step gently on those puddles, not hard enough to break the ice, the water beneath sometimes shifts and releases bubbles which try in vain to escape their icy prison, changing the black and white patterns right under your feet. And no one else sees that precise moment but you. These unpredictable little experiments are what make a frosty morning walk so exciting to me!
We walked as far as the old disused mine and dwellings of Wheal Eliza where a friend recently found a dead otter lying peacefully in the grass. Sad that it had met its end but so good to know there are otters in the valley. Here we turned to head home but instead of retracing our steps along the track we first circumnavigated the large hillock of Flexbarrow where again the cows had badly churned up the narrow path, their deep hoof prints frozen solid making walking difficult for a while. The river here is at its most peaceful, hidden from the main path (and therefore from the majority of walkers) it feels as if it keeps its secrets here, especially on a day like this. There are often herons along this stretch and I once saw a female goosander leading her brood of 8 ducklings downstream. It's a perfect spot for a summer picnic but today the air seemed even colder here, trapped low between the steep slopes of Flexbarrow and Great Woolcombe so there was little temptation to stop except at the place where the water tumbles white and briefly excited over rocks and forms a pool which is good for a dip when the days are longer. The icicles here were spectacular, splashes held in freeze-frame lined the banks; no Christmas tree decorations could ever come close to this sparkling finery so I was compelled to slow down to take it all in.
Climbing steeply back up to the track once more the light changed and I realised that the sun had emerged from the cloud and was finally hitting the floor of the valley turning the slate grey river to a soft smooth band of gold. Everything began to sparkle and glisten with rainbow flashes and just as I thought how little wildlife we'd seen a dipper flew fast and low upstream below me making me smile before it disappeared round a bend and ducked into the bank somewhere. Now the sun was up I half wished that we'd come out a little later so as to enjoy this light for our whole walk but then I would have missed this moment; the sudden magic as every blade of grass, every reed and twig began to shimmer and shine. It felt like a real treat to witness this awakening especially as it didn't last long; the cloud soon closed in again and stayed for the rest of the day.
As we got close to the village we scrambled back up through the woods where now a few small birds had emerged to dart around looking for breakfast, their feathers fluffed up to trap warm air after what must have been a long cold night for them. The branches dressed in hair ice, now over 24 hours old having not melted at all yesterday, were still adorning the leaf litter and as I was coming from another direction I found lots more in a haphazard woodpile, glowing bright in the shady woods. I took one last look at them before clambering down the wall and crossing the road into our drive to turn my attention to a massive breakfast and a pot of coffee.
No comments:
Post a Comment