Hazel Flowers
This is spring—its very first inklings sprinkled throughout the hedgerows of Stone Down. At first glance, these early February days might seem like any other week of winter—bitter, beaten, and bare-branched. But to the tentative eye, a second, closer look reveals that spring is already billowing and becoming more unburied by the hour.
The spring of the equinox is not spring at all. True spring—the release of the snake coiled and bound by frost—is already unfurling. The clues are here, though hidden in the subtlest forms and minutest details, few and far between, like a breadcrumb trail dropped across the landscape guiding us toward the equinox.
Spring’s rarest and most precious jewels are already here to be sensed by those willingly observant, and we are rewarded for our patient attendance with glimpses of their initiation—pure, potent, and made all the more precious in their isolation. As the season’s first musings fall upon the ear, meet the eye, drift into the nose, and pass across the fingers, they unwind our discontent, detangling the winter from within.
The first tree walk of the season has passed, arranged upon the festival of Imbolc at the start of the month we call February. Aligning our activities with the cycles of the seasons lends our endeavours all the power of the natural world. Walking at Imbolc is an opportunity to crack winter’s surface; it forces us out of our burrows and into early action, counteracting lethargy and setting us on a positive heading for the year.
Twelve people set out on our way to pay homage to our Grandmother Linden. As we walk, we stop to notice the birch preparing—its sap now rising steadily, buds swelling purple, a new vibrancy arrives. We see the pale yellow hazel catkins bobbing like lamb’s tails, the yellow globes of yew gather like a million golden bearings at the base of its needles, causing the youngest growth of centuries-old branches to visibly droop under their weight. As usual, the elder is at it early, releasing tiny green sprigs of its fresh new pinnate leaves— they may have been sitting like this since December, poking out noses very tentatively to catch the early light of the season.
While the land waits to receive its full season’s regalia, upon the floor, primrose, snowdrops, and daffodils create rugs here and there. These carpeted bouquets, I assume, are laid out for the soft feet of our Lady Birch, to walk across the cold ground towards spring’s wardrobe.
In the hedge, the wrens dart repeatedly between the rows, little imprints of each other, like a looped visual—crossing lanes in momentary blurs of brown, over and over. The ruling quiet of winter begins to relinquish—previously staccato punctuations turn to meandering calls. The sharp, single notes of winter become embellished—wren, robin, and blackbird weave together notes that appear to provoke the countryside into flower. Meanwhile, the foraging starlings perch in crowds in the bare-branched oaks, re-leafing the trees for a time before tumbling off their perches and drifting out across the moors, like flecks of ash from a fire.
Our walk continues—we enjoy intervals of seasonal poetry, creating worded spaces in which we reflect upon our observations, fully absorb our surroundings, and allow our surroundings to entirely infiltrate us. Words can serve to bridge the gap between our hearts and the hedgerow, these moments pierce winter’s frost and provide a simultaneous inward and outward focus that loosens our grip on the business of the world and brings us back to ourselves. A poem to the wren is included below:
Wren
Branchlet feet
And needle claw
A story on your tongue
Scuttle
Patter
Beady-eyed
A poem
Spoke to sun
Be meek before the morning comes
Be bold before the day is done
It is within the little wren’s song
That winter falls
And spring is hung
MW – 2024
As we finally arrive into the chapel of our mightiest Linden, we are welcomed by continuous avian chatter. I have written at length about the beauty of Grandmother Lime in winter—she stands at this time, bronze-barked and dripping in bright red buds, though her first leafing is still some way away. Year after year, she transforms this location into a cozy green hideaway, then, at Solstice, she douses it in the aroma of her perfect creamy flowers.
The twelve of us enter beneath her crown, gather around her grand trunk, and there we chatter back to the birds—poetry and song in celebration of the coming season.
Join us for the next tree walk, an Equinox Walk on Saturday, 22nd March.
MW 12/3/2024
UPCOMING TREE WALKS:
Upcoming public walks are listed below, a calendar of all 2025 walks can be viewed here. Private walks are available to book at a date and time to suit you – Book.
Equinox Tree Walk
March: Sat 22nd – Event info
Spring Tree Walks
April: Sat 5th, Sun 20th – Event info
May: Sat 3rd, Sat 24th – Event info
