Field of Gold

Gold coins, gold rings and trinkets? No thanks, give me a field of golden barley...a gift from nature.

There is a field of barley growing alongside a road I regularly walk and I cannot pass it without stopping for a while to savour the whole scene and soak in the atmosphere.  Something about it arrests my attention and calls to something deep inside me  I think many people feel the same way and it was such a place that moved Sting to pen that beautiful song 'Fields of Gold.'

Each time is a new experience as the weather creates a different vista.  I think a field of barley shows us the subtleties of the atmosphere as few other natural features do.  Of course, trees move and bend according to wind direction and strength, sometimes being tossed about in gales or the leaves barely moving in a gentle breeze.  Perhaps it is because barley is smaller, more fragile and flexible that it is so responsive to every movement of the wind and air currents.  Growing in dense rows, the sheer quantity of barley is dramatic in itself and there is no finer site than the spectacle of the wind gently blowing and the sea of barley flowing in one direction as though an invisible hand is gently brushing across the tops. Looked at individually, the ears have a certain beauty and the ‘beard,’ the long tufts growing above them, give a feathery look to the plant.  The ‘beard’ is unique to barley and is what distinguishes it from wheat.

Yesterday evening was sunny and hot and we went for a walk, passing this barley field.  It was about 8 o clock and the sun was slowly sinking in the sky.  The effect of the sun’s rays was breath-taking as it cast its light through the ‘beard’ giving them a ruby hue transforming the field of gold into a field of strawberry-blond. Depending on the time of day, the degree of sunlight, amount of cloud, or presence of wind the same field is almost an entirely different place in look, sound and mood. 

That field to me is like a picture.  It is framed by hedges and fences with a wider backdrop of trees, fields and fells. It is always lovely and a pleasure to contemplate but unlike other great works of art, this one is fresh, vibrant and ever-changing.  But then it is painted by the greatest of all artists, the hand of nature.

Fields of Gold performed by Eva Cassidy

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bQB45Vk62ps 

Long Meg Stone Circle, Cumbria

An ancient place with an air of mystery...Long Meg and her daughters, a stone circle  that entices...

 Long Meg with Lake District fells behind her 
 

Today is the Summer Solstice and yesterday I visited Long Meg and her daughters, the stone circle not far from Penrith, Cumbria. 

Several people were already gathered there, obviously intending to stay and watch the sunrise this morning.  Walking around the circle, I had clear views of the surrounding fells both the Pennines and Lake District fells.  Blencathra stood in majesty with a crown of cloud atop its summit.  At such moments, it becomes obvious why such a location was chosen by our ancestors for their important monuments.  I sat on one of the stones and looked at the mountains, the lush fields, the huge expansive sky, the floating clouds and all the while was conscious of the age of the stones and that sense of mystery that emanates from the circle.  It hints at timelessness and the unknown.   

I have been to the circle many times and no longer wonder and speculate about the people who created this monument as I used to do.  No, the history and intellectual ponderings have been quietened by the feeling of the place. To sit silently, listening to the sounds of nature and letting eyes wander to sky, mountain, earth and clouds is enough.   

To feel this place is to understand it. 

William Wordsworth visited Long Meg and the circle and was inspired to write:

A weight of Awe not easy to be borne
Fell suddenly upon my spirit, cast
From the dread bosom of the unknown past,
When first I saw that family forlorn;
Speak Thou, whose massy strength and stature scorn
The power of years - pre-eminent, and placed
Apart, to overlook the circle vast.
Speak Giant-mother! tell it to the Morn,
While she dispels the cumbrous shades of night;
Let the Moon hear, emerging from a cloud,
At whose behest uprose on British ground
That Sisterhood in hieroglyphic round
Forth-shadowing, some have deemed the infinite
The inviolable God that tames the proud.

The Old Stomping Ground

  A true friend and an unique character, my tribute to Socs who shared our lives for 16 years...

    
Where are you now, my friend
Since our sixteen years together have come to an end?
Have you returned to the old neighbourhood?
And the gateway at which you once stood?

Do the people there catch sight
Of the cat from number three, silhouetted in the moonlight?
Chide their foolishness and turn inside
As you slink into the shadows and hide?

Do you now lie under the privet hedge?
Bask in the sun on the window ledge?
Along the pavements do you still walk?
Pounce on leaves that you joyfully stalk?

Do you sleep in the plant pot under the stars?
Stretch out on the bonnets of neighbours’ parked cars?
When your wild spirit broke free did it soar?
Back to the old place, there to be, forever more?

  We relocated our new home,
But the gardens and fields you never did roam.
The hearth and fire were all you sought
As you clung to life and bravely fought.

Tired and worn, you still followed me around,
But now you moved without a sound.
I watched as your wildness and life ebbed away,
As my wild tiger became a kitten again with each passing day.

They say animals are the truest friends,
And that a broken heart soon mends.
But Socs, my old pal, I miss you in spades,
And the memories and love never fades

I hope you have returned to our old home,
Strong and young again, able to roam.
I will forever hold open the door and see,
You walking through with a 'meow' just for me.
      

Socs was brought to my house by a friend who, knowing how upset I was at the loss of a previous cat, thoughtfully got him for me.   Two weeks earlier, I had attended a party with her and had encountered him there for the first time. Seeing how smitten I was with him and knowing he needed a home, she had hatched the plan of uniting us.  However, arriving on my door-step she didn’t receive the reception she had expected, as my initial reaction was a firm “thank you for the thought but I don’t want any more pets.”  I brought her in for a coffee and the kitten was let out of the carrier to bound around the room.  Of course, before the kettle had boiled he was firmly in my arms, all thoughts of the pain of loss gone, and our lives together had begun.

What a character!  For the first five or six years he was a very independent cat with something of a wild streak.  His mother had been rescued, and on being taken to the vet was found to be both pregnant and terminally ill.  The decision was made to allow her to have the kittens as the birth was imminent, and she received some treatment.  It was believed that she had lived wild for a time and the  father was probably feral.  This may account in part for Socs' personality and behaviour in those early years.  

We often hear it said of someone that he/she was 'here before.'  This was the case with the tiny kitten and so he was named Socrates because of the pensive way he sat and reflected for long stretches at a time.   Once out of kittenhood, he became very much his own cat.  Occasionally he sought cuddles but mostly he behaved in an aloof, majestic manner reminding us daily of his kinship with the king of the jungle.  His body language, his walk, his whole demeanour, his day-to-day behaviour was that of being removed from the crowd.  He ruled the road with a blood-stained claw and woe-be-tide any cat that peeped around the corner, let alone was brave enough or daft enough to place a paw onto his territory.  They say a neutered cat quietens down and if this is true, then I dread to think how many more skirmishes he would have fought had he not had the procedure carried out. 
 
In his sixth year, he mellowed and his behaviour changed. He sought out soft beds, cushions and warm laps.  He allowed himself to be stroked and cuddled and in time, this extended to everyone; neighbours and passers-by.  There were frequent reports of surprise visits to neighbour's sofas and beds for which I apologised with some embarrassment, but everyone seemed to enjoy these casual visits from the unexpected guest.  Over the years, his social life and invitations were greater than my own and neighbours enquired after him as naturally as they did about the rest of the family. People could not pass without giving him some attention.  It was as though having realised the joy to be had from being stroked and cuddled, he sought to catch up on the many he missed in the previous years of self-imposed aloofness.  But the outdoor life continued in the main, and on mild nights he slept under the hedge or in the plant pots, used the privet canopy to watch the world go by or the rain dance on the pavement. And still, he vigilantly patrolled his territory.

The years went by and awareness of the passage of time spurred us on to pursue the dream of relocating to a rural area.  We joked about Socs retiring to the country where he would wander over his estate and be lord of all he surveyed.   Fate however had other plans and four weeks before the move, he fell ill and never fully recovered.  He moved into his country home where he lived as an invalid, pottering about the house and stepping just outside to lie in the sun.  There were to be no great adventures, no long strolls or marking out his new domain.  All of that was now in the past.  He slept most of the day, his whispers and toes twitching in his sleep as he stalked his foe and walked old roads in his dreams.  His new found pleasure was the wood-burner in front of which he lay prostrate or sat upright peering into the flames, like an ancient Egyptian paying homage to the god, Ra.

Socs has gone but his spirit is around me, memories of him are etched in my mind and my love for him is buried deep in my heart.  One small animal brought and taught so much in his time with us.

In memory and thanks to Socs.