At The Stumpy Oak Cross

This is Hawson Cross: a wayside marker for the old monastic route the ‘Monks Way’. Its stood side by side with that ‘Stumpy Oak’; one of only two on Dartmoor that are officially recognised as being, “historic oak trees”.

The tree is still alive but with a hollowed out trunk.

Its easy to imagine the cross and the oak becoming as one – given enough entropy to mystically merge them together.

I happened upon this stumpy oak and cross ‘memorial’ just outside Scorriton.
It was being a mildly munificent Spring afternoon.
I could hear all the song birds twittering about. But I couldn’t get at them with the camera. Birds don’t want to be seen. Leave them be.

See the sheep instead. Like this pair of scruffs.

Whoever’s sheared them didn’t do a very good job (probably shorn by that blind old bat in the Specsavers ad)

Walking on a bit further and what do I see? Yet more scruffiness.

Poor chap couldn’t see what he was doing. Kept bumping into trees.

In need of some serious barbering these shaggy haired toy ponies.

Even this tiny titch, spied through a little gap in the hedge.

Could have done with a good shampoo and set.

Some extra bits from Avon Dam Walk

I didn’t see a lot of bird yesterday, but kept eyes open for whatever else might be around the next nook or cranny.

And there’s always something on offer, something you least expect to see.

Such as these diddy little brown bundles; peering at me through the gauze of their hairy fringes.

Turns out they were a small herd of Scottish Highland cattle relocated, for some no doubt very viable commercial reason, to the bubbly hills of Devon.

Like toy cows, but apparently hardy little buggers.

Perhaps these scruffy fringes help protect their eyes from all those pesky Scottish midges.

A mile from Habourneford you have to go through this dense Tree Tunnel

I’ve often felt slightly spooked whenever I’ve walked through it.
And there always seem to be crows or other portentous black birds flapping furtively about deep inside, as if warning you off.

On the way back from the Dam I could have ended up in
South Bent

Or Fuckfastleigh.
I chose neither.

Despite aching feet, I contentedly tromped my 7 mile walk back

Especially as, when looking across the horizon, I saw this

The sun setting over Brent Hill.

Don’t know that I’d do this long walk to Avon Dam again in a hurry.
But just for yesterday, it was exactly what I needed.

Leaving Light

Low slung sun
palely peeped
through winter bones
of limpidly lit
trees.

The dimming day is done.
Becalmed, quiescent.
Barely begun.

Words & Pic: Ian Nisbet

 

Stormy Birch, Steady Birds

Storm Calum rocking and rolling the silver birch outside my kitchen window.

And the jackdaws rocking and rolling with it, as easy and as steady as you like.

Gives vivid meaning to the word ‘steadfast’.

Words & Vid: Ian Nisbet

The Green Lane

Climbing up beneath arches of ash, hazel and oak, aware of the narrow stony, stumbling rise through the the wood.

A holloway of tangled bracken, bramble, hung with an over abundance of old man’s beard. Ivy too, climbed, clung in dark green garlands, twisting its knotted tendrils in a bid to strangle the tightly growing tall trees.

No birds sing.
No breeze stirs the humid August air.

Through a breathable mesh of broken twigs, is a glimpse of the sea!
Caught in perpetual frantic movement the glittering waves dance beneath.

The startling morning sunlight.

On we climb, the path twists and turns blinking in dark and light, until leaving the dark holloway.
To reach a clearing.
Where the widening sky and horizon meet.

And still no birds sing.

Words & Illustration: Hazel Brown

Sparra’s are flicking it up

A small family troupe of sparra’s are loving the garden lately.

They peck off the wisteria and apple tree buds.

They jump about the pussy willow.

They hollow down into the soil flapflicking their feathers.

While all the time giving one another plenty of chirp.

Vid & Words: Ian Nisbet

In celebration of the new pear tree

Sketch & Calligraphy: Hazel Brown; Poem: Robert Browning