Changing Places

Every place we pass through leaves its mark on us to a greater or lesser extent.  Some places leave only a fleeting smudge of a mark; others daub themselves all over us, seep into every crack and crevice of our being.  And they change us.

Next Wednesday a new guest post series will begin here on the blog.  It’s called Changing Places and it’s about those places which cast a magic so powerful that they alter us in some way.  Maybe in a modest way, maybe in a life-shattering, things-will-never-be-the-same-again kind of a way.

There are already some fabulous people lined up to share the special places which have touched and changed them.  If you’d like to join them and tell your tale, just drop me a line and I’ll send you the submission details.

I can’t wait to read all the stories!

The Tale of the Jackdaw

It’s early in the morning, high on the moor, and three fellow dog walkers tell me they’ve heard a bird in distress.

We roam the heather and come upon a jackdaw, perched close to the edge of a cliff.  It’s no longer making the strange noise they heard.  But it’s acting oddly.

Unperturbed by our approach, it allows us to walk right up to it.  A minute later, it takes off, flies in a small circle and lands back in the same spot.  Again letting us - and our dogs - get incredibly close.

I take out my iPhone and the bird obligingly stages an impromptu photo shoot.  He turns this way and that.  Preens a bit.  Stares straight into the camera.

Everyone has a theory about the noise they heard earlier.  It was a lament for a mate gone missing.  The bird is young and has been abandoned by its mother.  Though showing no signs of injury, it’s perhaps frail and unwell.

Eventually - reluctantly -  we leave and move on.

Later in the day, I return with a bag of sunflower seeds.  A thank you gift.  The jackdaw is no longer there but I scatter the seed anyway.  In case it returns.

Monday Meditation (8)

 ‘The groves were God’s first temples.’

William C. Bryant

Features of the Landscape: Witch Stones

On many of the houses round here – particularly the older ones – you’ll find strange, flat stones protruding from the eaves at each corner of the building.

They’re witch stones – set there deliberately so that passing witches will find a place to rest.  The theory is that the witches will be so grateful, they’ll refrain from casting dark spells on the inhabitants within.

In all the years we’ve lived here, I’ve yet to see a resting witch.  But then they probably land while I’m asleep.

See other posts in this series so far: The Moors and Dry Stone Walls

Daffodils

It’s been the most glorious spring day here today.  So – naturally – I went in search of daffodils.  Of course, you only have to step out of the door to find daffodils…

…but I wanted masses of them – Wordsworthian swathes of them.  And I found them at East Riddlesden Hall.

‘Beside the lake, beneath the trees…

…fluttering and dancing in the breeze’.