Late evening in June.

I am sitting on a wooden bench with a soft throw over my knees and a final cup of tea to end the day.

The light is fading and the Blackbird sends out his alarm call. When all else is quiet and settling for the night, the Blackbird’s call can be heard as sudden and urgent. It accompanies a swift movement, a flight across the disappearing light of the sun. A last call before the earth plunges into darkness and the shadows are no more.

Then all falls silent and the soft paws of the fox, the badger, and the silent glide of the owl are felt rather than seen.

I have travelled alongside the Blackbird’s call since stepping away from the fast road of noise, high expectations and modern-day life. The path I travel meanders alongside the fast road of contemporary life. Sometimes I must cross the bridge and return for a while, but my feet are always drawn back to the mossy, green path. A different, slower route filled with birds singing in spring and soft snowfall in winter. So, I can breathe fully, can feel the soft earth beneath my feet and the Blackbird’s morning song that carries me sleepily through the morning dawn.

It was not always this way.

I travelled the fast road of overwhelm, expectations, and voices speaking over one another for so long until one evening I heard the shrill call of the Blackbird and he seemed to be calling to me. As a child I ran barefoot through long grass, rode bareback on a pony, swam wild in the sea. I knew all the names of the birds, knew when the swallows would arrive and where the wild rabbits could be found. As an adult came long days filled with expectations and tiredness. The tiredness did not allow me to notice the Robin, to hear the Blackbird.

Until I stopped.

Until the main road of life became so fast, it left me behind and I found myself on the kerb, disconnected from all that rushed forward without me.

That evening, as the day folded in and dusk settled, the Blackbird’s call came and I began to remember. I turned away from the road that had left me behind and towards a path within the trees. It was mossy beneath my feet, and the sound of birdsong filled the air. Water ran alongside the path, a meandering river and a flash of a Kingfisher was seen through the trees.

The path wound ahead as far as I could see, twisting, turning, surrounded by nature’s soft healing and seasonal wisdom. I began to connect back to the seasons, to the soft turning of the earth and I began to see my time as precious. In the distance I could see others, others like me who were already on the path, they stepped lightly, loosely and seemed peaceful. Some travelled with others. Some, like me, were alone.

Finishing my tea, I quietly get up from the bench and notice the stars have arrived. All is silent now, the warmth of the day a hanging memory as I hear the hoot of an owl in the nearby churchyard. The darkness is absolute, but I feel the Blackbird near, his message hovering in the air.

I stand for a moment longer beneath the stars, feeling the warmth and peace of the night and as I gently turn away, I hear the river alongside the mossy green path singing upon the breeze.

Thank you for taking this gentle rest with me. I am humbled you have joined me.

If you would like to travel alongside for longer you are warmly invited to subscribe to receive my weekly free Nature’s Seasonal Letters. I would be honoured to walk this path with you.

Sending seasonal warmth to you all

Clare

The wind has changed direction.

A storm came last night, washing away the heat of the last week leaving the earth feeling cleansed and renewed, to begin again. With it has come a cool breeze, one that speaks of freshwater springs, purple heather and mountain songs.

The rain has washed away the footsteps of the past. In the last few days, busy families have walked, laughed, and enjoyed the sun. Now the dust has settled in new places; it has shaped and shifted, guided gently by the early summer winds and the welcoming rain. The storm came to claim the land once more, to allow it to breathe and to feel peace.

It is early morning at sunrise, and I have paused alongside the river, to be present, to allow tumbling thoughts to quieten and to fade. Having taken my boots off, I am barefoot upon the grass so my feet can sigh alongside the flowing water. Sitting down quietly upon a fallen log, I smell the wild honeysuckle upon the breeze. Its perfume is exotic; it mingles with the smell of wet leaves and soft soil and smells of the languid nights of summer to come.

I watch the sunlight dancing upon the water and notice how loud the river seems. It too has been awoken by the storm, it’s quiet meandering has been shaken as the water tumbles with passion, wildness and joy. It sings of crashing waves, of sandy beaches, it sings of remote places far, far away.

Stooping to do up my boots, I leave the flowing water behind and turn away from the rivers song to walk into the trees. As I look up at the vibrant leaves above me, I sense a threshold between seasons, a pause and a slowing of energy. A deepening breath, a waiting for what is to come. I notice how the bird’s songs are quieter now, how there has been a shift in energy.

During early morning walks, I have heard the whispers. Have felt the long sigh before the pause. For birds have mostly fledged, seeds from Spring flowers are being dispersed and soon natures most important task will be complete. The rest that follows, the pause within the summer heat is when I can almost hear the Robin sleeping. I sense the spring flowers drooping their heads in a final bow, gently letting us know the performance has ended.

As I pause to brush my hand against hanging leaves I refect on how time seems to tumble over itself, in a race to get to the longest day. Flowers seem to open overnight and all is so vibrant, so bright whilst reaching for the sun. But I sense a bittersweet taste in the air, I feel it with the change in the wind’s direction.

The sun filters through the leaves and I am brought back to the present moment. I notice as I walk on how the wind has eased, and a deep peacefulness has settled within the trees. Soon the longest day will arrive, and the earth will pause beneath the summer sun. But today there is only birdsong, green leaves and the soft whisper of the breeze through the branches.

The wind has changed direction, and I find myself at a threshold.

For when the earth turns once more, it will nod with deep acceptance towards the sun as it casts its shadow to what must come.

Thank you for taking this gentle rest with me. I am humbled you have joined me.

If you would like to travel alongside for longer you are warmly invited to subscribe to receive my weekly free Nature’s Seasonal Letters. I would be honoured to walk this path with you.

Sending seasonal warmth to you all

Clare

My tea is warm in my hand as I slowly meander through the woodland trail. It is midday and the sun is gently filtering through branches making the late Spring leaves glisten and shine. Every shaft of light, every glimmer is unique and fleeting, like the soft rays of the sun before they are hidden by cloud.

It has been a cold May, but Summer is upon us. Next week temperatures will soar, the soil will warm and flowers will open and turn towards the sun. Where nature glistened it will shine, where energy simmered, it will overflow and where the sun gently touched, it will embrace the soil with full arms of warmth and light.

The path gravitates upwards, and my footsteps sink into the soft soil of recent rain. All thought is paused as I guide my feet step by step, over twisted roots, over emerging, tangled brambles. I walk towards an ancient Oak which shelters a makeshift bench; a few logs tumbled down in winter storms but now the perfect resting place for a pause to view the land and to feel its whispers.

I take off my rucksack and loosen my walking boots and lean back against a solid Oak; I can almost feel the old tree’s heartbeat. So strong, vast and comforting as I close my eyes and allow my mind to empty whilst listening to the wisdom of the forest.

I can hear a Robin’s song from far way carried on the breeze. Distant traffic hums and a soft breeze nudges my face, carrying promises of what is to come. I can sense the retreating footsteps of Spring, her innocent laughter echoing through the trees, her maiden footsteps light and playful. She has played her part, has set the scene of new beginnings, growth and expanding light.

As I take a deep exhale I sense another is near.

With wisdom and age, she walks steadily on a well-known path; where Spring laughs, she smiles with knowledge and grace. Her warmth wraps the earth within her cloak of abundance, maturity and vitality. She is here to protect, to nurture and to provide guidance with a well of overflowing love. As I open my eyes, I feel Mother Earth near, her presence solid, comforting and alive with the smell of wildflowers on the breeze. The cold air begins to retreat, and I sense a warm sigh as Spring settles for a moment within Mother Earth’s warm embrace.

Yes, Summer is here; present in her wisdom, warmth and gentleness.

Taking out my flask of tea, I notice how fragments of thoughts come, weaving between the sound of leaves rustling and a distant chirping of the Wren. I am drawn to the changing seasons, to cycles ever turning; to the changing direction of the wind. To wild, untamed places where you can hear echoes of those gone before. To songs on the wind, to ancient ruins of what once was. To thresholds holding what was and what is to come.

The trunk of the Oak holds me as I adjust my seat, and gaze across the landscape at the fields, the distant hills and the river winding forever on. As I listen to the Blackbird sing on a gentle swaying branch, I sense the transition, the overlap of Spring into Summer. How the blossom falls like gentle rain, how the wild garlic flowers fade back into the soil. As the Blackbird falls quiet, I sense the air is warmer, and I see how the river shimmers as the sun becomes stronger and I feel Summer’s earthy, grounding footsteps near.

As I stand up to continue on, I am sure I hear a distant laugh, a laugh that speaks of youth and new beginnings. It becomes fainter on the breeze and I notice how the breeze lifts the last of the blossom so the river can gently drift it away.

Thank you for taking this gentle rest with me. I am humbled you have joined me.

If you would like to travel alongside for longer you are warmly invited to subscribe to receive my weekly free Nature’s Seasonal Letters. I would be honoured to walk this path with you.

Sending seasonal warmth to you all

Clare

The wind has returned.

It ruffles my hair and touches my face with cold, lingering fingers as I walk across the ancient footpath that crosses the old churchyard. I am wearing a thick jumper, a light jacket, soft walking boots and a woolly hat. They are in-between clothes, for these early mornings are a quiet cross-over time when the last of the cold Spring air lingers before early summer emerges with a blaze of soft warmth, bright light and tumbling flowers, as if she overslept and is late to arrive.

I pause before I reach the old church gate and listen to what I can hear beyond the wind. Lambs bleat in the distance, geese call as they fly overhead and the Blackbird, a constant during this seasonal time, sings from his perch high upon the old fir tree that sways backwards and forwards as the wind plays, laughs and tussles. The blackbird clings on, his song carrying over the church steeple, far, far away, down into the valley where the river joins his soulful notes with her soft, ever-flowing song of times long gone and of hearts lost and won.

As I pause a moment longer, I hear a rustling from the undergrowth. Silently and slowly a Muntjac deer tiptoes out, nose to ground as he senses the earth, the land, the morning dew. I wonder what it must be like to have not two, but four feet grounded into the earth, to feel the heartbeat of the earth herself, to listen rather than speak, to sense rather than shout. The Muntjac suddenly turns, and I find myself looking at beautiful, brown eyes, eyes that sing of the earth’s beauty, of cycles of grief, sadness and renewal. The deer breaks the gaze and silently disappears back into the trees, to places hidden and unknown.

He leaves behind a soft energy, like a whisper on the breeze.

Continuing through the gate, I notice how the last of the Bluebells are fading, how the wild Garlic flowers are retreating once more into the soil. Their time to bloom has passed, their fleeting purpose over for another cycle, another turn of the year, it is as if saying goodbye to old friends, knowing when we meet again, we will not be the same. The earth renews, but it never stays the same. The constant and the change live as one.

I close the gate softly, turning my back to the wind, and feel a gentle warmth on my face as the sun rises for a new cycle, a new day.

Thank you for taking this gentle rest with me. I am humbled you have joined me.

If you would like to travel alongside for longer you are warmly invited to subscribe to receive my weekly free Nature’s Seasonal Letters. I would be honoured to walk this path with you.

Sending seasonal warmth to you all

Clare

My footsteps make no sound as I walk gently through the trees.

It is early and the sun has yet to rise. I look up through the branches and see the faint pink mingled with soft cloud and trails of mist that seem ethereal and from another time and place. The Sun is making her journey towards me, her tender rays ready to warm the earth, to shine through the mist so it retreats down into the thick tree roots and fertile soil. Sinking my hands deep into my pockets, I pause and listen to how the earth sings without the noise of human voices and machines. How the earth, at this early hour, belongs to nature as it has done since the very first dawn of time.

The Dawn Chorus is all consuming allowing any thoughts of the day ahead to quieten so the awe of the moment can be felt. When the sun does come the singing will be over, the woods will quieten and noise of modern day will begin to take its place.

But for now, I am humbled to be part of this in-between time, part of this new day as it gently unfolds. As I pause for a moment longer, deep within the trees, I feel as though I have stepped unseen through a hidden doorway, a doorway to the past when the land was filled with trees, birdsong, soft earth and a gentle breeze on the wind.

Taking a step over the deep roots of an Oak I reflect on the rising energy of this time. I can feel it, can sense it deep within. My own energy is rising too, a deep knowing of how the time is now. The rising, the growing towards the light. And the need for vibrancy, for the earth’s soil to warm and soften, to loosen its grip and welcome new life upward.

Looking up I watch as the Song Thrush bursts into song, his notes carry over the trees and down into the valley below. As I part the leaves to look down, I see sheep pausing, their shaggy heads glancing up towards the sky where the Sunrise, a silent light that builds every second begins to emerge and transform the landscape with its warmth and beauty.

The Thrush, with one last poignant note, startles and flies down to feed, As I stand, at the edge the trees, I feel part of the awakening dawn, part of this unique show of beauty and light. I do not feel separate from the thrush, the sheep, the beauty of the sun. I feel part of it, part of this moment in time.

Putting down my rucksack, I gently sit down on a blanket of soft moss. Taking out my flask of hot tea, I pour myself a cup, still listening, still mindful of what I can see, hear and feel around me in this spot of natural wonder and beauty.

It is the earth that has led me back here, back to this place of stillness and remembering. Step by step, breath by breath, I have begun to find my way again. Leaving an overwhelming and busy career, I have found solace and peace with the changing seasons, with the cyclical turn of the earth. In a world that is unstable and ever-changing following nature’s voice and wisdom has provided much healing and peace. It is a never -ending journey of connection; of discovery and of awe. I do not travel, I simply find where the Thrush sings, where the Buzzard soars and where the Bluebells shine in my local patch, no more than a mile from my tiny, rented cottage.

Finishing my tea, I notice how the birds have fallen silent now, the sheep have begun feeding again and the sound of distant traffic is heard upon the breeze. The quiet magic of the dawn has passed.

But it will return; the soft window of time, and the birds will sing again with joy and quiet as they always have.

And I will return too.

Thank you for taking this gentle rest with me. I am humbled you have joined me.

If you would like to travel alongside for longer you are warmly invited to subscribe to receive my weekly free Nature’s Seasonal Letters. I would be honoured to walk this path with you.

Sending seasonal warmth to you all

Clare

In this letter, I share discoveries of my nature -wellness journey alongside the changing cycles of the seasons.

Midday in late Spring

I sit beneath an ancient Elderberry tree in blossom that clings to the edge of a hillside. I have spread my throw on the warming earth and take out my flask of hot tea as I look across at the view of tumbling fields, patches of woodland and dotted sheep underneath a vast, cloudless blue sky.

I have been walking for over an hour, setting out later than usual and although the nights are cold, the sun is warming up slowly, like a tended fire which gently flickers and grows, spreading warmth, light and comfort across the land.

The hill sits quietly behind the village where I rent my tiny cottage. I can see it from my allotment where I tend to my hens and grow my vegetables. Reaching the top is a steady climb on a narrow path through fields of Cow Parsley and lambs jumping with joy. The top of the hill is flat and long, lined with bushes and brave trees that are bent in shape due to years of ferocious winter storms.

As I take a sip of tea, I lean back against the twisted Elderberry trunk and close my eyes, allowing my senses to hear rather than think, to listen rather than speak. I hear a pheasant call, a Skylark’s song and feel the breeze gently across my face as it travels along the hillside, carrying the scent of blossom, fresh earth and new beginnings. I open my eyes and notice how vibrant the trees are, their green uncurled leaves shining proudly from the light of the sun.

Reaching for my journal I reflect upon my nature - wellness journey, my return to a slower, rooted life where nature, the seasons and simpler ways of being have brought presence and peace in a world full of noise, to do lists and thoughts that race ahead.

I know now we cannot push against the tide. To force, to tighten, to stretch. To surrender is to gently exhale and move with the ebb and flow of our lives. The tide will flow anyway, will bring us to shore. It is up to us how we arrive there.

Adjusting my seat, I watch a Buzzard soar across the hillside. Majestic and free, he disappears over the hillside towards the village. I reach for my pen and begin to write, thinking of how slowing down, noticing the rhythms of the seasons has allowed me to feel content with less, happy to live with daily routines and rituals that change with the turning of the earth.

With the sun warming me, and the first Swallows swooping, I begin to write my list:

Waking with the light: Since I began to look after rescue hens, I learnt quickly how they, like all birds emerge with the light. During the long winter months, my rhythm is slow and I sleep late like the birds and the wintry sun. After the Spring equinox I find the light quickens and nudges me earlier and I wake to the Blackbird’s soulful notes seeping through the old, wooden-framed window. I let out my waiting hens so they can forage and enjoy the soft morning sun on their backs. During these lengthening days, my morning routine is one of tending before sitting in my small courtyard garden with my first cup of tea and watching the sun softly emerge from over the roof tops as a new day begins and the human world around me begins to stir and wake.

Noticing seasonal changes in my local patch. We do not need to go far to see how nature changes; in Winter it can seem all is dormant but in Spring, life in nature returns. I only need to look up and notice the birds, how the Swallows have returned once more, how the geese are leaving for warmer climates and how the foxes are raising their young to feel a lift in spirits and energy. Seeing this cycle of new life is a joy in a world that can feel shaky and unstable. Noticing the clump of Bluebells swaying in the breeze, the Blackbird’s song and the Wild Garlic flowers is a familiar, yearly pattern that grounds, feels familiar and brings daily, new sightings of joy.

Being Present: Living alongside the seasons means I am present to the unfolding around me. The glimpse of a Tree Creeper or the flash of a Kingfisher are fleeting seconds that allow the thoughts to disappear as awe and wonder take over. I know the sights I have seen and the way I have seen them will not appear again. All sightings in nature are unique, even the ancient old Oak Tree changes day by day.

Stepping away on the ‘Mossy Green Path’ My ‘Mossy Green Path’ is an imaginary one I have written about before. I visualise a winding path beneath the trees. To step on this path means moving away from the turbulent demands of modern-day noise, rush and requiring more than is needed. This path is slower, simpler and allows time for noticing, pausing, resting and being with the ebb and flow of the changing seasons.

Being Outside and working with the earth. I learnt a long time ago that to be well I need access to the outdoors. As the light grows and I emerge earlier I find my time outside grows too as much planting needs to be done if I am to harvest food throughout late Summer and Autumn. Putting my hands in the warm and nourished soil reminds me of simpler times when the sound of a pony and cart was heard through the village and a horse gently ploughed instead of loud machines. There are quiet times when working with the soil that I feel I have stepped back in time; a simpler time, a time connected deeply to nature, when communities would have gathered to celebrate the arrival of Spring and the abundance of the growing season.

I hear a sharp call above me and see the Buzzard has returned. She settles on a tree- branch along the ridge and I feel humbled to have her company. I pause for a while enjoying the fragility of the moment before the Buzzard takes off and I know it is time to walk down the hill and to return to my cottage. To make a simple lunch of soup and bread and eat in my courtyard garden whilst my old dog and the Robin faithfully keep me company. Stretching, I put away my tea, my journal and pen and stand up to take one last look at the sweeping landscape beyond the hill. Next time the land would have changed again, and I pause as I hold onto this memory as the Sun reaches out and warms my face.

Holding onto the peacefulness of this place, I turn the other way to what waits for me below.

Thank you for being part of my journey and sitting with me Beneath the Trees. I’m so glad we are walking this quieter, mossy path together.

Until we gather again, may you find small moments of stillness in your own days.

Sending seasonal warmth and love,

Clare

I awake in the dark and wonder what has woken me.

I tune into the quiet of the night and hear the soft hoot outside my window. So close, like a breath on one’s face, a night-time companion when the world of light sleeps. Fully awake now I am still, so still so I can hear again the gentle call, a messenger at my window, sending comfort, quiet company and wisdom. The call comes again, louder now and in the distance, I hear an answer. As I turn over in my warm cocoon, I sense the soft calls are not for my comfort but for another. A true soul of the night. I am accepted though, my wakefulness, my awe of a sound as ancient as the old Oak Tree herself. I am humbled to be witness to the Owl, to feel within its call a mystical wisdom mirroring magic and an inner light. Hearing my soft breathing I listen for the call and sense instead a departing. Of silent wings spread wide and lit up against the brightness of the moon.

I awake to a different sound. The dawn chorus stirring me from my disturbed sleep, my natural alarm clock to rise with the light. The morning has tiptoed in and as I make my way downstairs, I see the Blackbird is already foraging, looking for yesterdays apple that has long gone. Reaching for a fresh piece of fruit I cut it up into pieces and pulling on my jumper and boots I open the back door so I can place the apple for the waiting bird. As I make my way back inside, I pause and notice how the light is in-between day and night. That precious time when night is past but one can still see his shadow before the sun rises quietly, humbly and without ego. I listen for the Owls but their calls are silent now, their soft bodies resting high up within the pine trees that hold their secrets close within the old churchyard that backs onto my tiny cottage.

I reach for the kettle to make a flask to carry with me to the allotment. These early mornings hold a sacred energy before the world awakes and I am keen to be part of the soft unfolding of the day, a quiet time when nature is active and humans sleep. Reaching for my coat I open the door once more and make my way across the church path, noticing the light frost that lingers on the growing grass, on the crumbling, mossy stones. I carry my warm flask in my hands, and it feels comforting and like home.

As the earth warms up and nature begins its cycle of growth, I find there is much to do at my plot of earth. As the earth loosens and stirs there is a small window of time when the poppies begin to leaf, when the bees begin their earnest search for pollen and the first butterflies are seen, that seeds are gently sown, so that a quiet, humble harvest can happen in the months to come. It is a quiet ritual, one done alongside the soft sounds of lambs bleating and a chilly breeze with a warming sun.

As I pass the old Yew Tree and reach the gate, I notice my hands are dry from planting, dry like the soil that I find such comfort in. I think of how later today I will have a Robin for company whilst I gently cover seeds with rich soil, mulched from last year’s Autumn leaves. Soft, Spring rain will nourish, the sun will warm and the seeds will awaken and reach for the sky.

I walk gently alongside the path, leading to my plot of earth noticing the Bluebells glistening in the morning dew. Pausing I place my flask down on my old green chair and watch as Goldfinches flit through the air. As I pour my flask of tea I sit down on the chair and close my eyes briefly, thinking of Cycles and Soil and how all is connected. All has its place and its time within the gentle turning of the seasons; rest and renewal, growth and decay, new life and loss. All of it matters. All of it belongs, woven together like threads in a quiet, living tapestry.

Opening my eyes I slowly make my way towards my hens who will be waiting to emerge for the day, with such joy and life. As I walk, feeling the spring-soft earth beneath my feet, I sense something beyond the rush of modern life, a quieter rhythm of purpose. A gentle unfolding that tends to life and growth without hurry.

While traffic speeds and planes pass overhead, and footsteps move quickly by, there is another pathway, softer, slower, unfolding at our feet and within the trees.
A rhythm as old as time itself, a seasonal knowing that needs no phone or map.

We only need to step outside. To pause. To let our thoughts settle. To breathe, soften, and notice.

To witness the growing season, of new life emerging, and the solitary song of the blackbird as the sun slips quietly beyond another day.

Placing my tea down, I gently open the hen coop and watch the burst of energy emerge as the hens embrace the light, a new cycle of a new day and I smile as I look up towards the trees.

And sense the Owl quietly sleeping.

Thank you for taking this gentle rest with me. I am humbled you have joined me.

If you would like to travel alongside for longer you are warmly invited to subscribe to receive my weekly free Nature’s Seasonal Letters.

For those who wish to journey deeper with me you are invited warmly to join my paid membership, ‘Beneath The Trees.’ Fortnightly personal letters sharing my journey of a slower rooted life and return to nature. I would be honoured to walk this path with you.

Seasonal Warmth to you all

Clare

In this letter, I share my journey alongside rescued hens at my allotment and how they have provided healing and peace.

Early morning as the light softly emerges.

Dawn slowly breaks as I quietly tread across the churchyard towards the allotment gate. This is a daily ritual, greeting the soft emergence of light. After two years of this quiet routine, something has shifted. I feel I have opened a new doorway, a sacred time when I have the earth, the weather and the trees to myself before the modern day comes rushing in with its noise and bustle.

Today it is mid-April, and the light is ever quickening. I seem to get up earlier each day, hearing the dawn chorus notes slip through the gaps in my window frame, nudging me and waking me slowly so I can pause for a few minutes in the magical time between darkness and light. The Robin is first, followed by the Blackbird and the Song Thrush, my natural alarm clock reminding me I am needed; there are hungry beaks waiting at my humble plot of earth.

The sky is clear with a pinkish hue where the sun will appear and light the land with the first soft rays. As I reach the gate I look up and think of her silent journey towards us and how the late frost on the soil will begin to fade; how it loosens its hold, slipping back into the soil, the stones, the roots, nothing wasted, nothing separate, all woven and connected.

Walking through the gate, I hear the hens greet me from within their coop. I am a little late this morning as they seem louder than normal and I quicken my pace to open the door so they can emerge in single file, always so full of joy, full of delight at the prospect of a new day where they can roam free and at peace.

Stooping down to feed them their treats I reflect on this area of earth and how it has been transformed to become a haven for both rescued hens and wildlife. A sanctuary from the outside world as if discovering a secret haven, one where the bees hum, the lambs bleat, wild rabbits leap and the smell of bluebells carry on the wind.

There was a time before the soft, morning calls, the clucking of hens, the gentle sowing of seeds that I trod other wild areas. An urban lake with a flurry of sea birds so far from home and yet thriving, a canal towpath with the blue flash of a Kingfisher and the turbulent, atmospheric waves of nearby beaches. All beautiful, all there for me to return to for quiet and solace.

But this space, and these hens, are different.

I am custodian of this half acre of land, to looking after the soil, to showing the rescue hens a natural way to be. Somewhere along my path, this became my role, to care for the wildlife here, to plant fruit trees for the future and quietly sow wildflowers for the bees.

The hens came as a gift, an unexpected twist in the path of planned life. My growing patch was enough and yet there it was, an overgrown patch of land, neglected, needing care and most of all needing life. I could see memories of hens long gone; a broken feeder claimed by weeds, an old coop overgrown with nettles and other odd items discarded and left. Empty beer bottles, a half sack of mouldy straw as if the last keeper just placed down his tools and left without a backward glance.

Abandoned, forgotten and unwanted. I peered through the chicken wire and a whisper nudged and nestled within. The quiet voice made itself at home and was not leaving.

What if I could rescue hens and bring them here to live out their days in peace? Those that were broken and in need of love and nourishment. Could the land heal them too?

Two months later, gentle clucking returned to this piece of earth. Feathers were regrown and dust baths used for the first time whilst the soft rays of the sun soothed aching joints and restored and healed the four hens as they learnt to forage under the shade of the ancient apple tree as the Buzzard soared over their heads.

As I return to the present moment, I watch the hens finish their treats and head out to be with the soil. I take a deep exhale and feel the soft energy of this earth. How the Blue Tits flit overhead and the sun warms the land and how the hens are part of this soft, peaceful energy. How they live seasonally, simply and with joy.

Their mindful presence has taught me much about healing alongside the turning of the earth. With a smile, I slowly turn and leave them to their foraging, with the sun lighting the feathers upon their backs.

Thank you for being part of my journey and sitting with me Beneath the Trees. I’m so glad we are walking this quieter, mossy path together.

Until we gather again, may you find small moments of stillness in your own days.

Sending seasonal warmth and love,
Clare

Six am in the morning

The light is quickening now, the energy building daily and I confess I have stumbled to keep up. It is a familiar feeling, as I bring myself into balance with the ever-growing lighter mornings. Part of my nature – wellness journey is to live seasonally alongside the dark and the light, the ebb and the flow of the earth’s cycles. My hens at the allotment wake with the dawn and my morning routine in late Spring is a busy one; like the birds swooping back and forth feeding their young, every moment of daylight precious, every ray of warm sunlight a chance for growth to flourish as the soil warms and fully stirs.

I find some mornings the light is far ahead, and I struggle to keep up; it has swept the lingering darkness aside and arrives full of vitality and laughter as I gently emerge from my sleep and quietly step out to feed the waiting Blackbird. She comes every morning, a fledging, new to this world and still finding her way. She waits for the grapes I gently place under the garden bench so she can eat peacefully in the morning sun.

This morning I am on time, and I am packing my small rucksack for a walk across the local fields to the winding river and wild garlic which grows on its banks. Putting my warm flask into the bag, I reach for my boots and light jacket which I fill with sunflower seeds for any Robin who happens to land at my feet. Slipping out of my cottage I make my way towards the footpath, listening to an outburst of song from a hidden Wren.

For nature has come alive and there is much work to be done.

The window of growth, of rearing young, how the soil becomes warm to grow our food, is a short time in the cycle of our earth. I am always amazed at how quickly seeds germinate, how they seem to grow by centimetres each day, how they reach for the sun, the warmth and the nourishment they need.

As I reach the gate to the footpath I pause and notice how the grass is taller now, how it sways in the early morning breeze. Dandelions, bright and yellow open widely for passing Bees to forage and I look up to see the swoop of Sparrows as they fly energetically over my head.

So much energy, so much life.

Walking through the gate, I step out over the expanse of field, the feeling of space lifting my spirits as my morning, whirling thoughts quietly step aside and I am left with a feeling of peace as I become one with the land, and the soft breeze upon my face.

As I reach the woodland that takes me to the river I sense I am not alone. Looking up once again I see a Red Kite, gliding effortlessly against the sky. These majestic birds are rare where I live and I wonder who else has noticed the forked tail, the white markings and if they, like me are humbled to be part of the bird’s company for a short window of time. After a minute the moment is gone and I am alone once more, feeling the vibrant, strong energy left behind in the wind.

The woods are cool after the suns soft rays and my eyes adjust to the shady darkness. The trees are silent and yet I feel great comfort within their presence. I pause and lean against the great Oak whose ancient trunk is old and twisted. I can almost hear the secrets it has to say, the generations that have passed under it’s leaves. The laughter, the tears, and the quiet, solitary travellers. The Oak holds its stories of long ago, but I can feel the whispers of what was. Feel the brush of another age where planes did not roar overhead or motorbikes be heard from far away. If we look hard enough and stop to feel, we can sense a simpler past around us; the earth is full of footsteps, the echoes of those who came before us.

Leaving the old Oak behind I continue my way, following the footpath towards the river’s edge. I can hear the waterfall now, the forever flow of water tumbling down into the whirling pool below. Ducking underneath the branches of a Horse Chestnut Tree, I find myself next to the river herself and watch as the water matches the energy of Spring as it gushes over rocks and falls to the glistening pool below.

Sitting down on a nearby fallen tree trunk I take out my flask and lean against the Chestnut trunk, feeling held and grounded by the earth under my feet. As I take a sip of tea, I notice the Bluebells on the opposite bank and the smell of wild garlic.

I close my eyes and listen to the bird song, the river flowing to distant places and feel the rising energy of a new Spring Day.

Thank you for taking this gentle rest with me. I am humbled you have joined me.

If you would like to travel alongside for longer you are warmly invited to subscribe to receive my weekly free Nature’s Seasonal Letters.

For those who wish to journey deeper with me you are invited warmly to join my paid membership, ‘Beneath The Trees.’ Fortnightly personal letters sharing my journey of a slower rooted life and return to nature. I would be honoured to walk this path with you.

Seasonal Warmth to you all

Clare

In this letter, I share how I am learning to trust the path that beckons me forward.

Early morning and all is quiet.

I am sitting alone in my small courtyard garden next to the original stone wall that divides my tiny, rented cottage from a neighbouring, forgotten house. A house that has been empty for a long, long time. It is a large house, with many rooms and crumbling walls. It has tall chimneys where rooks gather at dawn. It has a sloping, crooked roof where soft moss clings. As I sit and reflect upon the silent rooms, I think of how both my own tiny cottage and the larger, empty house whisper of times past and carry within their walls secrets I will never know.

What I do know is that the cottage that waited for me, the cottage I now rent next to the ancient churchyard and the allotment ground where I grow vegetables and keep my rescued hen’s was once where the servants of the larger house lived. As I take a sip of my tea and pull my cardigan close against the chilly spring breeze, I close my eyes and sense the old stone walls around me. I listen for the whispers of the past.

I feel nothing but peace.

I have been in my ancient cottage for almost six months now, a quiet refuge sitting alongside the turning of the seasons and the phases of the moon. Since leaving my busy and overwhelming teaching career, I have stepped onto a new path; a mossy, green one that is slower, rooted and quiet. A path that winds far ahead over hill, stream and valley. A path where I can notice the bluebells flower and owls hoot at night.

And yet, even though the quiet has come and nature is close, I hold up a lantern as I do not know the way.

It is the turning of the seasons that has held me as I gently walk this new path; a path which beckons softly onwards, even though the way is not known, as I take one step after another.

My quest for daily peace and a life alongside nature has come with its challenges in a world that rewards productivity, noise and quick fixes. I am finding my way on this nature-wellness journey, step by step, feeling ahead for any mist and thorns that may disrupt my path, that may throw me off course.

After leaving teaching, I began to seek what I had loved as a child. Time outside, being alongside the wild and noticing shifts and changes. I began to know when the geese would leave and when the swallows would arrive. I looked out for the running hare and celebrated the first blackbird’s song as winter faded.

Along the path, I have found others like me, and collectively we travel a slower journey running alongside the distant, faster lane. A journey surrounded by trees and soft rays of sun.

I pick up my mug of tea and make my way to the edge of my courtyard garden to look up at the empty house, and think how once it was full of laughter, of singing and smoke curling from the chimney. Now nature has begun to claim it back. I feel I am not so different from the empty house. Since embracing a seasonal path and noticing the sunsets, the full moons and the owls calling at night, I feel I too am being claimed by nature, and like the house, I am allowed to feel peace.

And perhaps, like the empty house with its trailing ivy and crumbling walls, this is where it begins.

Not to look far ahead at a way we do not know, a way we cannot see, but to sense instead the peace of this moment. To notice the shifting light as day emerges fully, to look up at the singing robin, to pay attention to the blackbird’s call. To exhale gently as the owl takes flight, and to stoop down to notice the delicate bluebell and its time to shine.

The path I am on is slower, rooted and smells of wild garlic and pine. As I take one step after another, I realise I do not need to know the way.

The old house stands peacefully, its future unseen.

I hold my lantern gently and step forward into the morning light.

Thank you for being part of my journey and sitting with me Beneath the Trees. I’m so glad we are walking this quieter, mossy path together.

Until we gather again, may you find small moments of stillness in your own days.

Sending seasonal warmth and love,
Clare

The wind is cold as I walk alongside the winding, woodland path.

The sun shines bravely and, its warmth is felt briefly on my face before a gust of easterly wind extinguishes the soft, gentle rays, like a warm flame blown out leaving a raw, coldness behind.

The trail is on a hill, and I am surrounded by a covering of trees, and I notice how their buds have silently awoken with the promise of Spring. I glance below at the river meandering; quietly, peacefully through undisturbed and secret earth. Earth that belongs to sleeping foxes and badgers that wait for the soft fall of darkness and the moon to show them the way.

I pause to look down the valley, to be with the rivers gentle exhale as it quietly continues its journey. Alongside the water, vibrant leaves of Wild Garlic have emerged, their fresh, green growth pushing through the soil, making the air smell of wildness and damp, freshly squeezed earth. I smell garlic floating on the breeze and I think back to simpler times when villages would have rejoiced at the garlic and cooked on open fires.

I have walked this river for the last seven years and the leaves come up every March, a green blanket holding past secrets and future years to come. Their certainty of green renewal brings stability and hope in a world that is ever changing and shifting at our feet.

Looking up towards the trees I see I am not alone. A Buzzard perches, undeterred by my quiet presence as he surveys his kingdom, his world of rolling fields, woodland and vast, blue skies. I reflect on how he knows where the river goes, the places I cannot reach and do not know. Places where man has not stepped for years, small patches of untamed wildness left alone and at peace.

I continue my way, my boots sinking into the mud from the latest rainfall; rain that is soft and smells of fresh earth. Rain that waters the seeds, that gives them life. As I walk, I think of how nature quietly provides and how each season plays its part in the cycles of growth and renewal.

I reach the top of the incline and pause once more, taking off my hat and feel the wind whipping my hair. I reflect on how walking has been part of my nature – wellness journey, how the rhythmic movement of one foot in front of the other has bought peace and allowed the circling thoughts to step aside. During my burnouts and deep fatigue, walking gently, at my own pace alongside nature has bought fresh perspective and acceptance. Every walk invites presence and a gentle peace of mind.

Emerging from the trees I follow the stony path and see Bluebells have replaced the Garlic. Their sturdy clumps of pure joy sway in the breeze and I realise how every Bluebell is different, every flower unique in its own shining light. A light that shines for only a short window of time and I ponder on how nature provides beauty and glimmers that cannot be summoned by a flick of a switch or an instant download. That we must wait for the Wild Garlic and the Bluebells time, that we must go searching for the lonely Buzzards call.

I continue my way and hear a new sound, familiar and known. The sound of distant traffic. In another few minutes I will find myself back in civilisation, back amongst the to do lists and modern-day callings.

As I leave the Bluebells behind, I know there is still time.

The window is open for a while yet and I shall return to be part of Springs gentle unfolding. To be with the Wild Garlic and the Bluebells swaying on the soft, warming breeze.

Thank you for taking this gentle rest with me. I am humbled you have joined me.

If you would like to travel alongside for longer you are warmly invited to subscribe to receive my weekly free Nature’s Seasonal Letters.

For those who wish to journey deeper with me you are invited warmly to join my paid membership, ‘Beneath The Trees.’ Fortnightly personal letters sharing my journey of a slower rooted life and return to nature. I would be honoured to walk this path with you.

Seasonal Warmth to you all

Clare

In this letter I share how I came to find my cottage that nestles next to the ancient churchyard.

A year ago, at 6.30am in the morning.

I pull the car into a layby and pause to watch the sunrise. The soft rays tiptoe across the fields and transform the hovering mist into a translucent, magical light. Opening my car door gently, I walk over to an old gate and leaning against it I face the rising sun bringing warmth and promise to a new day, a day filled with emerging growth and spring energy.

Feeling the breeze nudge my hair, I return to my car and pause as a deer emerges from the undergrowth ahead. Our eyes lock for a second before she quietly slips back the way she came to seek other quiet places where the sunrise can warm her fur.

My mornings begin this way, alongside the turning seasons as I drive away from the sleeping town, through winding country lanes to a small village where I keep my hens and allotment ground. This is a transitional time, a time between leaving a full – time stressful teaching career to finding my way with a slower, rooted and balanced way of being. Nature has helped to heal, each sunrise showing me the way, so when I stumble and become lost in the fog, each new day is a fresh beginning. A chance to exhale, to start again.

I park up on the Village Green and quietly make my way towards the churchyard path where two, tiny and ancient cottages sit nestled before the iron church gate. Once belonging to the servants of a larger, nearby house they seep of memories and simpler times past. One of the cottages is empty and the for-sale sign stands amongst the unkept strip of front garden; there is a forlorn look about the house as if it had been waiting a long time for the right person to come along and care for it, to plant flowers so the butterflies would return and to open it’s windows so it could exhale and breathe again.

I stopped by the cottage, as I so often do and peered in through the living room. I imagined myself there, close to nature, my allotment and my hens, healing from burnout, writing and living closer to the earth; hearing the slow chimes of the church tower and noticing when the Swallows arrived from far, far away.

Buying my own home was not an option. Having left my career of over twenty years, I had to take a pay cut; to choose a new way of living on less so I could see the sunrises and hear the dawn chorus without rushing to the next thing. So, I could live alongside the earth rather than demands and goal- setting and high expectations I could not fulfil.

But life has a habit of showing you the path when you least expect it.

This is the story of how I came to live in this little, forgotten cottage, how I came to live closer to nature and how I began to heal and find a quieter way alongside the seasons.

Each morning I would walk past the empty cottage, I passed it through last Spring and through the heat of the Summer and as the leaves on the Horse Chestnut began to turn I saw the sign had changed from For Sale to Sold. And I, like the early leaves falling to the ground felt as though a dream was over, that time could no longer wait. As I gazed up at the sloping roof, the cottage, seemed to share my sadness and I knew we shared an understanding. The cottage knew I would have cared for its crumbling stones and bring in warmth, light and laughter, that I was the right person to care for it. We stood there together mourning what could not be.

And yet, a week later, as the last of the Summer flowers bloomed, everything changed.

A chance talk with a neighbouring kind soul told me that the cottage had fallen through. Was no longer for sale and was now for rent, waiting once again for new footsteps to walk through the old door. To put a match to the fire and to warm the cold walls. A gentle soul to take care of it, as part of their journey through life, to care for the cottage for a while. I felt as though time had shifted beneath my feet offering a second chance when I thought all hope was lost.

Because like the earth we tread upon, I do not believe we own such things. We simply pass through on our journey. We may stay many years, but we never own the land we sleep upon or the garden we tend. We simply live alongside it, looking after the stones, the soil, each other as the seasons keep turning and cycles ebb and flow as they always do.

The cottage, like my allotment, like the old churchyard had seen so may ages, so may footsteps come and go. And now I had a chance to be part of that journey, to be part of the cottage and its future story.

By the end of September, I had moved into my new, tiny home. Just me and my faithful dog who walks slower now and seems to suit the old cottage with his quieter pace of life. Being tucked away from any roads, the cottage is peaceful, like an old friend who has no need for words. We suit each other, the cottage and I.

I have created quiet rituals and live with the rhythms of the seasons. Having spent one Winter here the cottage has been a quiet refuge, a welcoming warmth each time I return from my work and from the outside world where I walk alongside nature, tend to my allotment, hens and watch for sunrises and sunsets.

Each season will bring new joy to see, feel, and sense. And although the old, stone cottage has heard the owls hooting at night, the geese leaving for warmer climates and knows when the fox will quietly pass by, it is happy to share them with me.

Thank you for being part of my journey and sitting with me Beneath the Trees. I’m so glad we are walking this quieter path together.

Until we gather again, may you find small moments of stillness in your own days.

Sending seasonal warmth and love,
Clare

The sun breathes softly across the room, it hovers in dark corners transforming them to light and as the old pine tree sways outside, the sun gently moves with it, casting a soothing energy across my face.

It is half past seven in the morning, and the calmness has come after the storm. Last night when all was dark, cold rain and high winds whipped around my cottage, battling against the windows and thundering on the roof. As I warm my hands on my mug, I think of the Robin, who sings so exuberantly outside my window. Where was he during the wildness of the night? Where was he when winter hovered like an unwanted guest who has outstayed their welcome?

I open my front door to scatter seed upon the path and as the Robin swoops down at my feet, I feel the freshly, cleansed air. I see last night’s rain formed in puddles and I watch the ripples as the cold breeze travels past, moving my hair and making me pull my long cardigan close. As I close the door, I see the Crocuses swaying in the wintry breeze, their resilience a message of brighter days to come.

We find ourselves, in a shifting, shaping and transitional time. We stand at a dancing threshold; we see the soft footsteps of spring, nature’s magic of buds unfurling and feel the first warming rays of the sun and yet as we turn our faces towards the light, the retreating figure of winter turns once more to look upon us, to scatter us, to send cold, buffeting winds and fierce downpours of rain.

I pull on my thick coat and woolly hat. They hang next to my lighter jacket and my yellow, cotton scarf, waiting patiently for the warmer days that beckon beyond the Winter, Spring threshold, beyond the icy winds and the primroses that bravely hold on. As I button up my coat and adjust my wool scarf, I know their time will come.

Today I walk the opposite way from the churchyard and my allotment. My hens, who live at my plot wake with the light. They have been pottering in their run for over an hour now as the gift of daylight stretches out longer each day, journeying towards the Spring Equinox with a pace that quickens each gentle sunrise. Falling on the twentieth of March, the balance between night and day moves ever closer and Winter will release his grip with a humble surrender to what must be.

I take a local path, cutting through alongside two old cottages, noticing the fresh grass growing through the gaps of the paving slabs, still damp from the recent rain. Reaching a gate, I quietly pass through it and here my walk takes me upwards where I know at the top, I will be rewarded with a breathtaking view.

Tucking my hands deeper into my pockets I allow myself to come out of thinking and into feeling as my footsteps ground into the soft earth and my face looks up towards the sun. I sense both Winter and Springs presence on this hill, the two seasons intertwined within the wind, the earth and the ancient hilltop itself.

As I walk, I reflect upon my journey to live a slower life. After multiple burnouts with teaching full- time I know I craved what I could not feel and see. The breeze, the open space, the vastness of the sky. Unless I have access to nature I fade, like a flower who wilts in unfertile soil, unable to breathe and be well. This is why I am drawn to wild places, where time is told through the seasons, through the return of the swallows and the flow of a river to the sea.

Taking the last few steps, I reach the flat expanse of the hill where I pause to catch my breath before finding stillness to gaze over the landscape before me. Villages nestle, woodland trees gather and a stream gurgles at the foot of the hill. Taking out my flask from my rucksack, I sit on a nearby fallen log and taking a sip of tea I silently wait.

I do not have to wait for long.

Emerging from beyond the edge of the hill and racing across the flat expanse of the land beneath me, I see her clearly. Feel her energy, the mystical power. Sitting upright to keep her in view, I see another, getting closer, paws grounding into the earth, gaining distance by the second.

Two Hares.

I gently stand for a better view and see the first Hare turn direction and circle around the second. A display of pure brilliance follows as the female stands on her hind legs and prepares to box, sending a clear message to the male with her dancing long legs and her graceful paws.

This sight, a dancing cycle that happens early Spring is a gift beyond any words. As I watch the male submit graciously, they both suddenly run, their powerful legs becoming small dots on the landscape, leaving only a trail of dust within the morning sun.

Sitting down, I feel strangely alone. The dust settles and the sun is shrouded by a thick, menacing cloud. I feel Winter’s chill nudging me, reminding me he is still present even in a faded form.

And yet as I walk back down the hill, towards the village and my waiting cottage, I sense a message carried by the wind. A message left by the soft rays of the sun and by the running Hares.

We are stepping over the threshold away from Winter and into Spring’s soft, dancing embrace.

Thank you for taking this gentle rest with me. I am humbled you have joined me.

If you would like to travel alongside for longer you are warmly invited to subscribe to receive my weekly free Nature’s Seasonal Letters. I would be honoured to walk this path with you.

For those who wish to journey deeper with me you are invited warmly to join my paid membership, ‘Beneath The Trees.’ Fortnightly personal letters sharing my journey of a slower rooted life and return to nature.

You may also like to read my past writings of this transitional, seasonal time here:

Sending seasonal warmth and love to you all

Clare

This first ‘Beneath the Trees’ letter is the beginning of the story. I want to share how a small intention, spoken aloud took root and became a real place of growth, peace, and nature connection.

Three o’clock in the afternoon, an early Spring day in March.

I am sitting quietly, listening to the robin singing outside my window. Despite the school-rush hour, all is peaceful. The church, next to my tiny and ancient rented cottage, chimes the hour and I close my eyes briefly, feeling as though I have stepped back in time, away from modern-day noise and notifications.

I realise, as I pause, that I have quietly stepped aside from the outside noise of daily life. I am living in a slower, more rooted way.

But it was not always so.

The life I live now, my tiny cottage, visiting my allotment and five hens on the other side of the churchyard, writing my nature letters is so removed from the life I led almost seven years ago that I wonder who that person was: the frayed, tired, quiet soul who commuted and worked long hours teaching in a primary school before falling into bed exhausted. Over the years, I became disconnected from nature. My only free day was Saturday, spent cleaning and shopping, while Sunday was devoted to preparing for the week ahead.

In September 2019, I finally burnt out and began my slow recovery. I returned to the one thing I had loved as a child: nature. I noticed the blackbird’s song, the early morning sunshine on my face. I sat on a garden bench and listened to the distant traffic commute. I realised I had stepped off the societal path and was walking a forest trail that felt overgrown and at times very foggy. I could not see the way ahead, but there were trees, so many trees and their presence held me grounded, held me firm, so I would not stumble and fall.

I switch on the kettle and reach for a cup. Outside, two squirrels chase each other, living fully in the present moment with ease and joy. As I slowly make my tea, I think back to how I came to care for the allotment.

When I first left teaching, I stayed with family, as my own home had to be sold; I could no longer afford it. Life had changed dramatically. Once predictable, it was now slow, and I searched for quiet and meaning again. As a child, my parents had an allotment, and I remember how wild it felt. Living in a built-up town, stepping into such a space felt like leaving the concrete world behind, entering a haven where all you could hear was birdsong and the digging of spades.

Over coffee two years ago, I suddenly announced to my sister, “I am going to get an allotment.”

I had not planned to say it. It simply came out, as if channelled from far away, choosing that moment over a frothy, oat cappuccino. My sister raised her eyebrows. Allotments here in the UK are hard to come by, with waiting lists of ten years in some places. Yet the sentence lingered with me, like a gentle friend who stays present without needing to speak.

Placing my tea down, I reach for my coat and softly close the front door. I walk over the church path and through the allotment gate. Throwing treats to my hens, I sit in my green chair and reflect on how I came to be caretaker of this plot of earth and how, in turn, the plot cared for me.

It was a hot, sunny day in August, and we had not had rain for weeks. Sitting outside the village community shop, I noticed a small postcard pinned to the window:

Allotments available in village by the church. Contact Sue. £25 for half plot, £50 for full plot per year.

I had forgotten my announcement to my sister. Yet here it was, a quiet confirmation of what I had spoken aloud. I took a photo of the notice and contacted Sue that evening. By the next afternoon, I was sitting in a dusty, green chair, looking at an overgrown, disused plot, marvelling at the abundance of Brimstone butterflies and wild poppies swaying in the breeze.

Having no garden of my own and living then in a busy town where highways never slept it felt like coming home. It felt like the plot, which needed deep care, had been waiting for me and we were going to heal and soothe each other from modern day struggles.

That was two and a half years ago and since then my journey has continued with taking on the disused and forgotten chicken area followed by restoring a gentle garden of wild flowers for the visiting Bees.

Feeling chilly, I get up from that same green chair and notice fresh rhubarb peeking through a raised bed and green shoots on the nearby raspberry bush; signs of new beginnings and warm, sunny days ahead. As I gently close the gate and walk back through the ancient church stones, I notice wild primroses where I had not noticed them before.

Perhaps you have noticed how life sometimes unfolds in quiet, unexpected ways?

Thank you for being part of my journey and sitting with me Beneath the Trees. These letters will arrive every two weeks for those who choose to subscribe and continue walking this path with me.

Next time when we gather Beneath the Trees, I will share the unexpected story of how I came to find my tiny cottage beside the churchyard, a place that felt as though it had quietly been waiting for me.

Sending seasonal warmth and love,
Clare

The morning light awoke before me.

A gentle, softening that quietly nudged and brushed against my face; a light that whispered of opened flowers, of warming soil and of young birds flying free for the first time.

It tiptoed through my stone cottage, brushing the cold stone with rays of soft warmth and expanding its energy of hope and renewal into every wintry, dark corner. The light came in through the letterbox and under the crack in the door; it hovered over the fireplace and settled down in my comfy chair like an old friend who had arrived earlier than expected and now patiently waited.

As I stirred from my sleep I thought of Spring and how its arrival comes with a warming, gentle laughter and light footsteps that quicken with each passing day. How the energy of the earth changes from a dormant slumber to an awakening growth.

After so many weeks of rain and Winter’s icy breath lingering, I had dreamt of this soft light, this calling to awaken, to stir, to move once again. Like the green nettles emerging from the soil, my dreams whispered of new life, growth and a tilting of the earth towards the sun.

Opening my eyes, I felt Spring’s soft cloak smelling of fresh green grass and springy, fertile soil. Feeling a brief, lingering chill, I sensed Winter’s icy footsteps had retreated and his blanket of frozen earth had thawed, making way for Springs warming rays to wake the sleeping soil.

Awakening fully, I walked softly downstairs to open my curtains, to gently welcome the new day.

I am greeted by a beautiful song of exuberant notes and energy. The Robin is joined by other birds, all celebrating the new cycle, a time of new life, of growing light and new beginnings. Daffodils sway in the gentle breeze and as I open my window I can smell fresh coffee from a neighbouring garden.

With the arrival of March came whole days of soft sun and blue skies. I felt a deep release, a shedding of the old as I finally put away my thick winter coat and woolly hats. This act felt like a sacred ceremony, an ending that needed to come to make way for the new.

As I pull on my outdoor boots to step outside, I take a deep inhale of the fresh morning. The air speaks of growth and renewal with trails of woodland bursting into life and song. I exhale deeply releasing Winter and look up at the sky, a soft red in the distance promising a day of new warmth and light.

Spring has returned as it always has.

Thank you for taking this gentle rest with me. I am humbled you have joined me.

If you would like to travel alongside for longer you are warmly invited to subscribe to receive my weekly free Nature’s Seasonal Letters. I would be honoured to walk this path with you.

Sending seasonal warmth to you all

Clare

A Late February morning at 6.30am

I had slept in.

Stirring, I felt rather than saw the translucent light from behind the curtains. The peace surrounding me felt different. Quieter and precious. As I opened my eyes a Robin began to sing, his sweet notes a beautiful melody for the start of my day. Reaching for my thick cardigan and warm socks, I remembered it was Sunday and the village slept like a gentle dawn.

Padding down to the kitchen, it was already light, a soft hovering over my courtyard garden, as if the dawn had tiptoed in through the gate whilst I slept, quietly, peacefully and unannounced.

Switching the kettle on I reached for my boots and slipping them on I opened the backdoor to walk into the garden to meet the new day, to say good morning to the earth. Although the light was soft and still, I was greeted by a chorus of birdsong; ecstatic and abundant, moving and beautiful. A show just for me, as others slept on.

Above the melancholy sound of the Blackbird and the exuberant notes of the Robin, there was a louder song that seemed to tower above the trees themselves, a song that seemed to carry over the nearby hill, towards the flowing river who would take the notes far away towards distant places I do not know. I gazed up and saw the Song Thrush; such a small bird, his silhouette perched on the nearby Pine. His song was a message; a promise of what is to come.

As I closed the door and reached for the kettle a word came to me, a word that the joyful birds, the warming earth and the morning dawn seemed to echo.

Awakening.

Like a spark turned into a flame, the earth herself is awakening and turning towards the sun.

Sipping my first cup of tea I reflect on my own Spring awakening and how this Winter has seen me cocooned under thick wool throws with a roaring fire as cold rain and icy wind claimed the land. Having caught a bad bout of flu I hibernated like a curled-up dormouse only emerging with layers of thick clothing, a person from any time or place and part of the ancient landscape as I walked my elderly dog over the churchyard to tend to my waiting hens.

During this Winter I have felt comfort in small, quiet sounds that are timeless and suggest to me a whisper of the past. Memories of peaceful, simpler times when keeping warm and waiting for Spring was normal and time passed through the gentle turning of the earth and the slow return of the light.

The old church clock chiming the hour, the owls’ quiet calls when I could not sleep. The flickering of a candle, the crackle of wood on the fire and the gentle snores of my faithful spaniel.

These daily sounds anchor us in the present; they become familiar and needed in a world that can be demanding and loud. As I look out of my kitchen window, I hear the migratory geese flying over my roof. A sound of old and one which transports me to how the land was before modern day life. Before the sound of traffic or machines. A time when stories were told around the fire and a comforting, ticking clock told the time.

Finishing my tea, I reach for my coat and closing the front door I walk through the iron church gate and into the sleeping ground of old headstones of bygone times. But where there are memories of the past, there are calls of the present and I look up to see the Song Thrush still on his spot, claiming his kingdom through the magic of his song.

Reaching the allotment gate, I pause and notice how the Snowdrops petals are wider, how they are loosening their grip. I notice how some have begun their journey of returning to the soil, their late Winter cycle waning now, their time nearly over. As I walk through the gate and hear the welcome sound of my hens, I notice a new life has emerged from the soil and a new cycle has begun.

I stop to welcome the yellow, wild Primrose.

And I sense on the early, morning breeze new life around me.

It is time to awaken.

Thank you for taking this gentle rest with me. I am humbled you have joined me.

If you would like to travel alongside for longer you are warmly invited to subscribe to receive my weekly free Nature’s Seasonal Letters. I would be honoured to walk this path with you.

Sending seasonal warmth to you all

Clare

Early February morning at dawn.

Rain is falling; it travels down the windowpanes; it falls into puddles and on the soft leaves of the fir tree standing outside my front door. Daffodils, newly opened sway gently and snowdrops pause, like little lanterns held up within the dark.

The log burner glows and a thrush begin his song; the notes are carried away on raindrops, over the church steeple and far away to the distant trees where a fox pauses with one paw raised before disappearing silently into the hidden undergrowth.

Holding a cup of tea under a thick throw, I am listening to the dawn. Sensing and feeling the quiet, the soft presence of time itself. Once we remove human noise, we can hear nature speak. We can listen to its messages, its wisdom and feel, like the fox, a stirring within our hearts of what is to come.

It has been almost two years since a nudge, an awareness came for me to return to a simpler, quieter way of being. That modern, fast – paced life was drowning out seasonal rhythms, that a noisy, productive way of being was not allowing me to thrive. It has been a journey of ebb and flow, a practice of taking steps tentatively, to seek guidance alongside daily rituals, to find peace and joy in the turning of the days, and to carve out time to pause, to reflect and to move with intention.

To move mindfully, to uncurl gently like the emerging daffodil as it begins to unfurl.

Placing my cup down, I stoop to put a log onto the fire. Watching the flames flicker I reflect on this Winter and how it has called for deep refuge, retreat and patient waiting. How the darkness came early, how the quiet was absolute. And yet, as we travel these February days, Winter has released his grip.

The earth is no longer resting, it is emerging.

Like the daylight that greets us earlier each dawn, we can see the path through the forest, the way towards the Wild Garlic, the Primroses and Bluebells. Not yet visible, we feel them breathe, we sense their awakening from within the soil. In a world where certainty is unstable, these seasonal awakenings, as old as time itself give us a solid ground to tread, a way to follow, a way that has been carved out before.

I carry my tea to the window and look across at the fir tree and marvel at its ability to just be. Droplets of water glisten at the edge of pointed leaves like glimmering faraway lights and the damp bark is a smell of old, reminding me of forests long ago, of land covered in leaves, of wolves and full, round moons.

A log crackles and falls into the fire as I gently open my front door. The robin, my early visitor is waiting, and I scatter seed on the doorstep. As he swoops down a gust of icy wind reminds me of Winters presence. I look the other way and see the line of daffodils, not yet open but a yellow promise, like the sun, a reminder that Spring, with her light step and green rich cloak will come and her footsteps will warm the earth’s soil.

The Robin flies up into the trees, and I close the door with a gentle exhale. The room is warm, comforting and I have no desire to leave it yet. Wintering this year has been a daily ritual of keeping warm in an ancient stone cottage with drafts in every corner. And yet part of me has welcomed this season into my home. The rattle of the windowpanes during recent storms, the heavy rain on the roof and the steaming of my dripping winter coat after returning from feeding my hens. Seasonal reminders that seem to slow down time, to allow for a presence of what is, to mirror Winter’s company by feeling cocooned and warm.

As I carry my cup into the kitchen, I see the rain has eased. The sky has lightened and I hear another sound in the distance. It gets nearer and nearer, and I open the door to see the Winter geese flying overhead, their sound becoming more distant as they disappear over the hill and far away. To me they seen to be carrying a message within their calling; an urgency that tells me time is running out. Winter’s breath of ice and glory is almost over. Winter is living on borrowed time.

And yet, as I make my way back to the warmth of the fire, I am content to be with Winter a little longer. Spring will arrive on time and until then I will wake each day with the lengthening dawn.

Thank you for taking this gentle rest with me. I am humbled you have joined me.

If you would like to travel alongside for longer you are warmly invited to subscribe to receive my weekly free Nature’s Seasonal Letters. I would be honoured to walk this path with you.

Sending seasonal warmth to you all

Clare

One O Clock in the morning and all is dark.

I awake to hear the rain heavy against my single – glazed window and hear the latch rattle as the wind circles the cottage with restless energy that comes and goes with bursts of fury. Raindrops thud against the roof, cold and relentless; they pour down the guttering and the walls of the house to become part of the flow of endless water streaming past my front door.

Huddled under a thick winter duvet, I listen to the elements as their mighty power claims the darkness and Winter’s pointed staff of cold, icy rain, foreboding dark clouds and buffeting wind takes over the land.

There is a special magic about being cocooned, warm and safe whilst late Winter storms rage and battle. Winter’s spirit gains strength within the dark and I feel there is a message within the winds roar and the rains descent.

A final blaze of glory, a ferocious window of letting go of what remains; before the tide turns and his reign of ice and cold is over.

As I listen to the sounds as old as time itself, I think of those wild ones outside, hibernating, staying warm and safe within their protective cocoon provided by nature and the earth herself. I realise how I too must mirror their breathing, their warmness, their need to bury deeper into their dens. I wonder if they know this storm is one of the last, that Winter is living on borrowed time. I sigh and turn over, sending a quiet message to those patiently waiting.

Not long now.

I awake to the Robin singing. It is still dark, but the air is lighter. All is calm and I hear only stillness and gentle notes. I gently pad over to the window and peer out. The clouds have long gone and fading stars look down upon me, far away lights of glimmer and hope. Reaching for my thick jumper, I pull it on and make my way downstairs, to open the back door, a ritual I do every morning to sense, welcome and feel the morning air.

The storm gone, has left a cleansed feel, as if the old has been swept away, leaving only glistening dewdrops and silent, still trees, waiting patiently underneath the light of the far-away moon. As I breathe in the coolness, the aliveness, I hear the early alarm call of the Blackbird announcing the beginning of a new day, a day where Winter has retreated and a whisper of Spring is promised on the breeze.

Closing the door quietly, I switch on the kettle and as I gaze out towards the dawn, I reflect upon the coming of Spring and how the light slowly appearing is a promise of what is to come. Despite the storm, nature has shifted, has turned away from the icy hold of Winters grasp. I sense a longing, a looking up at the sun, a patient waiting for her soft cloak of smiling warmth and growth.

As I sip my tea I look out and watch the light gently emerging. Like a glimmer, that becomes a spark, that becomes a flame I watch as the sky becomes brighter and listen as the birds sing ever louder and the Snowdrops become visible like white beacons of hope outside my window.

Putting down my mug, I gather what I need to make my short walk over the village churchyard to the allotment and my waiting hens. Emerging with the dawn, they too have felt Springs message on the wind, they too have stirred and felt the rising energy alongside the growing light.

Closing the front door softly behind me I walk quietly through the ancient churchyard, vapours of mist hang below the stones and water drips from nearby trees. The dawn chorus is louder now, and I feel lifted as I reach the old gate. Pausing for a moment, I look up towards the sky. The darkness is now gone, and I sense without seeing the soft presence of the sun. With almost a month of daily rain, I sense the gift of respite, that Winter has, for the time being surrendered, to allow hope for what will come.

As I walk through the gate, I feel the familiar rays of long-ago warmth on my face and notice how, overnight, a yellow primrose has emerged from hibernation and has turned its petals towards the sun.

Not long now.

Thank you for taking this gentle rest with me. I am humbled you have joined me.

If you would like to travel alongside for longer you are warmly invited to subscribe to receive my weekly free Nature’s Seasonal Letters. I would be honoured to walk this path with you.

Sending seasonal warmth to you all

Clare

It is early morning and not yet light. I am making my way up a familiar trail, a footpath that weaves through soft Pine and ancient sheep trails. The air is still, silent and there is a chill hovering; like winter mist of long forgotten times.

My boots ground into the soft earth and I feel the rocks below, worn down by footsteps over the years; I sense them crumbling, fragments of them letting go to become part of the earth, part of the soil. Although cold there has been a shift in the air, I no longer need my hat to protect and cocoon, and I feel the last breaths of Winter surrender as he brushes my face and dampens my hair.

I walk higher and sense a sacred pause, a threshold of what has been and what is to come. I tread softly upon the earth, listening to the whispers of what is to come.

The Full Snow Moon gazes down at me and I pause to acknowledge how it provides both company and light as the darkening sky begins to yield to a new time within the cycle of the earth.

For time moves ever onwards, and the first flames of growth are emerging and waiting for the sun.

The trees cluster together, their pine leaves cold to the touch as my coat brushes past heavy sleeping branches whose patience is felt across the seasons. Here are trees who hold stories of old, and I reflect on how this hillside was once a pine forest and the sound of wolves carried across the falling snow. A time when the wild had the earth to itself and humans gathered close around a crackling fire.

As I continue my ascent, I hear a screech and I pause as the solitary, soft wings of the Little Owl flies across the landscape, a silhouette against the fading brightness of the moon.

Listening intently to the Owls’ call as it disappears over the hillside, I notice how the sky has turned from black to a dark, wintry blue. I can make out the Snowdrops, how they nestle under the trees, like little white flames of hope and resilience. I marvel on how they just appear, without us noticing like a soft change in the wind’s direction bringing hope of warmer days to come.

I take the last few steps to arrive on the hills summit, placing my rucksack down and taking out a warm throw, I place it over the fallen trunk of a long-ago tree. I allow my breath to settle and become aware of the dawn chorus, the singing of a nearby Robin, Thrush and Nuthatch carried by the breeze.

The moon is distant now, but I can still feel her energy and the light she freely gave. My mind remembers quietly those before me, who would have walked deep into the forest and used her brightness as a beacon to show them the way to their fires and company of old.

I realise as I sit quietly of an awareness of time. A threshold between the wintry path that was and the Spring that is to come. A liminal space of reflection, pausing and deep knowing of a cycle as old as the earth herself and one that holds magical possibilities of what lies ahead.

For this is a place where fragile dreams are held.

As I sense the earth turning once more, I think of our Celtic ancestors and how the festival of Imbolc held promise within Winter’s reign. I look again upon the Snowdrops and notice there are other signs of growth, of new life emerging from within. Other green shoots, held gently by the soil, patiently waiting for the warmth that will come.

Reaching into my rucksack once more, I take out a candle. Lighting it gently, I watch it flicker as the Sun slowly rises, bringing an ancient promise.

The first flame of Spring has arrived.

Thank you for taking this gentle rest with me and joining me beneath the soft glow of this February light; for being part of ‘ Cycles and Soil.’ Your quiet companionship means more than words can say.

I wish you seasonal warmth and peace

Clare

A milky white dawn filters through the curtains as I pull on my thick coat, hat and scarf so I feel cocooned from the early morning chill. It has rained during the night, and pools of icy water lie in my path, rippling with gentle movement. I step outside and breathe in the lingering woodsmoke and earthy dampness that weaves itself in between the slippery roots of the old Oak tree as it stands silent and sleeping. As I quietly close my front door, icy wind places cold fingers on my face and I pull my hat closer and my scarf nearer to protect myself from his circling, icy breath.

I feel hidden, like an animal deep in refuge, whilst Winter’s spirit continues his journey of damp, arctic footsteps upon the earth.

And yet as I begin to walk through the village, I feel the aliveness of late Winter and my own footsteps match this awakening by treading faster so I almost feel one with the racing clouds and the distant smell of rain in the air. Winter’s wild presence reminds me of exposed and untamed places; the crashing waves on a lonely beach, the barren path of a mountain trail and the emptiness of a vast moorland that stretches far and wide. I find comfort that in our ever – changing human world, Winter cannot be moved aside by the flick of a switch or a change of mind.

As I reach the old gate that leads down the hillside to the tumbling river, I think of the word refuge and how the animals that share the trails I walk seek their own unique sanctuary when winter storms claim the earth. As I gently close the gate behind me, I look down the hillside at sheep quietly grazing and reflect upon the many secret and hidden nests, dens and burrows which the earth herself has provided so the wild one’s can find safety, comfort and protection.

Hearing the rivers song from deep down in the valley I follow the direction of it’s voice, feeling the soft earth beneath my feet as I gently tread, leaving deep footprints that mix in with other solitary wanderers who have passed this way; foxes, deer and rabbits all who have returned to their refuge as the light of day becomes stronger.

Striding out with my hands deep in my pockets I hear a sound above the wind, a powerful beating of wings, a sound that speaks of an untamed spirit, a spirit of beauty, grace and strength, a bird that is as white as freshly fallen snow. It is unusual to see a lone Swan take flight and I wonder as she disappears into the morning mist, what she seeks and if the quiet dawn can provide her with shelter and rest.

I turn to look behind me and see in the distance, lights are appearing in my quiet village, I rarely meet anyone on my early morning wintry walks, but I sense both human and animals near. It is a dark January beginning to the day and does not endear outside adventure. Instead, cosy refuge is chosen, and I reflect on staying warm, bunkering down and waiting for the arrival of Spring’s light step; a cycle as old as time itself.

The river’s roar is louder now and symbolises all that is wild and free. I reach the pathway that takes me down towards the bridge, and I look upon the shiny cobblestones that lay scattered, embedded deep into the earth; all that is left from simpler times, long ago, when a pony and trap would have used this path as a route to the nearby ruined mill.

Reaching the bridge I gaze into the flowing river as it journeys ever on, never tiring or pausing; always travelling on to far away places I will never see. It is full and fierce for Winter’s spirit has cast his magic, and the river plays his part through a fast, flowing current that makes me reach for my hood to pull over my hat so I can retreat further behind my warm layers.

As I turn to retrace my steps I reflect again upon refuge and how to retreat has a different meaning. I felt sure the Swan I saw earlier was retreating; a sudden energy, from danger, disturbance or noise. The nighttime wanderers who walked the same trail as me just a few hours ago, seeked their refuge intentionally, somewhere familiar that meant safety and sleep.

As I feel the rivers voice fade once more, I realise I too must seek refuge. The morning light feels heavy and the first drops of icy, bitter rain fall upon the earth. It is time to return to warmth, to restoke the fire, to take gentle rest whilst looking out of the window at the rain and the first snowdrops swaying in the wind.

Thank you for taking this gentle rest with me. I am humbled you have joined me.

If you would like to travel alongside for longer you are warmly invited to subscribe to receive my weekly free Nature’s Seasonal Letters. I would be honoured to walk this path with you.

Sending seasonal warmth to you all

Clare