More to a Map than Meets the Eye

I love maps. 

 

Unfolding a map, laying it out on the table or floor, leaning over it and tracing the different paths, the course of rivers and streams, and identifying the other physical features builds to the anticipation of the planned walk.  Scanning a map with my eyes, knowing that the next day my footsteps will be in contact with that ground, know directly the nuances of the landscape, adds to the excitement.  Maps may stop you from getting lost but you can also get lost in a map.  They are not purely functional things but are like books, a source of idle pleasure, learning and appreciation for the wonders of the earth.  They give lessons in geography and geology, in natural and human history.

 

Maps can be perused during long winter days when the weather forces you to stay indoors and without leaving the house, you can wander about the hills and valleys, through towns and along riverbanks.  They can take you outdoors to places you have never been to envisage the scene in your imagination, invite you to remember and walk again along paths previously trod and touch the summit cairns of mountains already climbed. Maps are invitations to venture anew and to look backwards, to step outside and to turn inwards. They can be enjoyed alone or shared with others, indoors or outdoors, in winter or summer, day or night.

When I am following the paths, tracks and contours of a map,whether with my eyes or feet, I am blissfully happy.  Yes, maps do a lot, and there is much more to them than meets the eye.

 

Of course, I am not alone in my love of maps - that great walker and writer, Robert Louis Stephenson, also shared the same passion.

"I am told there are people who do not care for maps, and find it hard to believe.  The names, the shapes of the woodlands, the courses of the roads and rivers, the prehistoric footsteps of man still distinctly traceable up hill and down dale, the mills, and the ruins, the ponds and the ferries, perhaps the ‘Standing Stone’ or the ‘Druidic Circle’ on the heath; here is the inextinguishable fund of interest for any man with eyes to see or two-pence worth of imagination to understand with!"

(Robert Louis Stephenson)

Riding Out the Storm

 

Yet another storm.  They’re naming them now. We are only in January but already have reached the letter J.  Today Storm Jonas arrived in the area, and without seeming rude to Jonas, it really would be better if he had stayed away.  A storm by a different name but bringing the same as the others; gales and rain.  

It is becoming all too familiar now – the blanket of grey cloud that throws a half-light across the days, the sound of the wind roaring across the fields and hills, and the incessant rain beating on the windows and soaking everything, animate and inanimate, plant, animal and human.  So yet again, the wind gushes through the tree-tops flinging the branches from side to side, and rocking the trunks so violently that I am amazed that more of them are not felled by this invisible force.  The bodiless roar is almost deafening at times as it rushes along the lane, building momentum as it goes, before slamming  into the group of trees at the bottom.  It ploughs into them with a howl like a battle-cry, and the firs and birches whoosh, rumble, and clamour back in defiance. 

From its vantage point in a solitary rowan nearby, the raging battle is quietly watched by a ring-necked dove. 

I notice the dove as I finish securing the shed-door against the storm.  It sits with its underbelly covering its claws and its feathers fluffed out for warmth, hunkered down against the wind and rain.  Though the tree rocks fiercely, it simply rests there swaying in tandem with the branches, watching.  From time to time, it closes its eyes, a picture of serenity and repose amid the drama of raging forces.

Mini rivulets of water run down my coat onto my legs, soaking into my trousers, sneaking under my hood and the wetness cools my skin. My face tingles under the slaps dealt out by the wind and rain.  I head inside to the warmth and comfort there. Glancing back at the rowan tree, I am again struck by the stillness of the dove amid the turbulence of the scene.  I leave the bird sitting quietly in the tree while I go indoors to read and write and ride out the storm in my way, just as it is doing in its way.   

Around us both, the wind continues to roar and rage, and the rain fills the streams and rivers and soaks an already saturated landscape. Jonas will be with us for a while.