Mothers and Daughters
Tuesday, 30th April, 2019
Today began and ended well. The bit in between wasn't so good.
We woke to clear blue skies and after dropping youngest daughter at the school bus I took my camera and my sheepdog for a stroll down the lane to capture some images of the ewes with their lambs in the soft misty morning light. The newborns nestled in the marsh grass, their mothers chewing the cud contentedly nearby. Such a simple, commonplace rural spring scene, but always so delightful. The bonds were tangible between mother and child as Lily's quiet presence on the lane still disturbed them all enough to get up and move further away, the little lambs trip-trotting to keep up with the safe harbour of their mothers.
Images captured, I wandered back up the lane, picking up a spray of broken blossom cast down carelessly by the recent storm together with a dislodged twig bursting with new green life. I would find a place for them in my kitchen. I heard the tinkling of a roadside stream, hiding under earth and tarmac and cleared the leaves from the metal grill so that its subtle sound could be more audible. Two brightly colored little finches flitted across my path, bursting from the holly hedging engrossed in a small battle, before swooping and diving over the field in a frenzy. Birdsong was all around me and the air was still, such a relief after the turbulence of the weekend.
A chat with my neighbour completed the gentle communion with the morning, but I was wrong in believing the storm had passed: a large part of the rest of my day was unexpectedly locked in combat (the finches were prescient!) with my youngest daughter, strong-minded and determined as she is. A good lawyer she would certainly make. A confrontation with her is always long and bloody with a rebuff for every word of wisdom one tries to turn into a persuasive argument. She fights hard and does not give in. It is exhausting.
By teatime the energy had been sucked out of me and I felt weary and depressed. I needed to lick my wounds in the sanctuary of nature once more. I walked up the large green expanse of newly mown lawn, threw a frisbee for Lily (which landed on the roof - end of that game!) and walked to the top of the garden. The blossom is squeezing pinkly from the buds on the apple trees, while the heads of the daffodils rising out of the tall grass are brown with their green calyx bulging. I dead-headed a few as I walked past and noted the exquisite unfurling of the shuttle-cock ferns; the blue-bells have taken over from the yellow daffodils which took over from the white snowdrops. The rotation of the seasons continues its eternal rhythm. The mock orange withers as the rhododendrons burst forth; the tulips steal the show from the hellebores. Newly planted blue forget-me-nots embellish the base of the tall time-worn trees, replacing the brambles which used to thrive. Some patches have been saved though, as there is no gentler pleasure than blackberrying in your own garden in mellow September sunshine.
And so to the vegetable garden. I finished planting the lettuces and the peas and the chard and watered them well, together with the sweet-williams I put in last week. The stream was flowing noisily after the week of relentless rains, the happy accompaniment to my quiet tasks. Lily sat on a step outside the greenhouse and watched, patiently. Will I get a walk? Yes, you will, my beautiful dog.
The watering done and the butt refilled from the stream, I took my ever-faithful friend through the gate and into the field. High above, the ewes and the lambs looked warily down on us. We followed the traverse of the sheep track, through the broken-down wall. I paused and realised there was a view I'd never stopped and contemplated before: a glimpse through a clearing of ancient border oak, sycamore and beech trees down to our neighbourly collection of three stone farmhouses, a perfectly balanced confluence of tall trees and curved track, dry-stone walls, steep green hillside, spiky marsh grass and soft woolly sheep. I sat down to absorb it before lying back on the grassy hillside, staring at the skies before shutting my eyes and just being for a few minutes. I felt the tension oozing out of my muscles from the conflicts of the day as the land beneath me filled me with its own personal energy. My open palms buzzed lightly and all was still within and without.
Reluctantly I tore myself from this state of quiet contemplation and release and continued my traverse of the hillside. The reservoir shone below us and the hills of the north rose up again in the distance. There was a smell of woody smoke in the air, but I could not see its provenance. We descended towards a wall beyond which myriad ewes and lambs were enjoying their evening sit-down, chewing the cud once more. And so my day drew to a close, leaning on stone, watching mothers and their offspring completing their day in a similar way to which both mine and theirs had started. The circle of life. And as I stood musing, I heard the distant rumble of the train before it came into sight. I waved. Middle daughter would be on it, returning from her shopping trip to Manchester and with a newly pierced cartilage stud in her ear. I had already had that battle with youngest daughter. I was not going to have it again. And anyway, this one is 18. She can do what she wants now. I can advise, I cannot prevent. The shifting sands of motherhood. She had texted me to say how she was looking forward to seeing me and that had warmed my heart after a day when clearly another of my daughters would happily have never set eyes on me again! And as I waved at that two-carriage train, chugging its way through fields of green and winding its way gently upwards along the base of Combs Moss towards the station of Chapel-en-le-Frith, I tried to imagine my daughter inside. She would not see me, but maybe, somewhere deep in her subconscious, she would feel my love. We normally wave our loved ones off on their journeys; it was good to know I was waving this one home.
Today began and ended well. The bit in between wasn't so good.
We woke to clear blue skies and after dropping youngest daughter at the school bus I took my camera and my sheepdog for a stroll down the lane to capture some images of the ewes with their lambs in the soft misty morning light. The newborns nestled in the marsh grass, their mothers chewing the cud contentedly nearby. Such a simple, commonplace rural spring scene, but always so delightful. The bonds were tangible between mother and child as Lily's quiet presence on the lane still disturbed them all enough to get up and move further away, the little lambs trip-trotting to keep up with the safe harbour of their mothers.
A chat with my neighbour completed the gentle communion with the morning, but I was wrong in believing the storm had passed: a large part of the rest of my day was unexpectedly locked in combat (the finches were prescient!) with my youngest daughter, strong-minded and determined as she is. A good lawyer she would certainly make. A confrontation with her is always long and bloody with a rebuff for every word of wisdom one tries to turn into a persuasive argument. She fights hard and does not give in. It is exhausting.
By teatime the energy had been sucked out of me and I felt weary and depressed. I needed to lick my wounds in the sanctuary of nature once more. I walked up the large green expanse of newly mown lawn, threw a frisbee for Lily (which landed on the roof - end of that game!) and walked to the top of the garden. The blossom is squeezing pinkly from the buds on the apple trees, while the heads of the daffodils rising out of the tall grass are brown with their green calyx bulging. I dead-headed a few as I walked past and noted the exquisite unfurling of the shuttle-cock ferns; the blue-bells have taken over from the yellow daffodils which took over from the white snowdrops. The rotation of the seasons continues its eternal rhythm. The mock orange withers as the rhododendrons burst forth; the tulips steal the show from the hellebores. Newly planted blue forget-me-nots embellish the base of the tall time-worn trees, replacing the brambles which used to thrive. Some patches have been saved though, as there is no gentler pleasure than blackberrying in your own garden in mellow September sunshine.
And so to the vegetable garden. I finished planting the lettuces and the peas and the chard and watered them well, together with the sweet-williams I put in last week. The stream was flowing noisily after the week of relentless rains, the happy accompaniment to my quiet tasks. Lily sat on a step outside the greenhouse and watched, patiently. Will I get a walk? Yes, you will, my beautiful dog.
The watering done and the butt refilled from the stream, I took my ever-faithful friend through the gate and into the field. High above, the ewes and the lambs looked warily down on us. We followed the traverse of the sheep track, through the broken-down wall. I paused and realised there was a view I'd never stopped and contemplated before: a glimpse through a clearing of ancient border oak, sycamore and beech trees down to our neighbourly collection of three stone farmhouses, a perfectly balanced confluence of tall trees and curved track, dry-stone walls, steep green hillside, spiky marsh grass and soft woolly sheep. I sat down to absorb it before lying back on the grassy hillside, staring at the skies before shutting my eyes and just being for a few minutes. I felt the tension oozing out of my muscles from the conflicts of the day as the land beneath me filled me with its own personal energy. My open palms buzzed lightly and all was still within and without.
Reluctantly I tore myself from this state of quiet contemplation and release and continued my traverse of the hillside. The reservoir shone below us and the hills of the north rose up again in the distance. There was a smell of woody smoke in the air, but I could not see its provenance. We descended towards a wall beyond which myriad ewes and lambs were enjoying their evening sit-down, chewing the cud once more. And so my day drew to a close, leaning on stone, watching mothers and their offspring completing their day in a similar way to which both mine and theirs had started. The circle of life. And as I stood musing, I heard the distant rumble of the train before it came into sight. I waved. Middle daughter would be on it, returning from her shopping trip to Manchester and with a newly pierced cartilage stud in her ear. I had already had that battle with youngest daughter. I was not going to have it again. And anyway, this one is 18. She can do what she wants now. I can advise, I cannot prevent. The shifting sands of motherhood. She had texted me to say how she was looking forward to seeing me and that had warmed my heart after a day when clearly another of my daughters would happily have never set eyes on me again! And as I waved at that two-carriage train, chugging its way through fields of green and winding its way gently upwards along the base of Combs Moss towards the station of Chapel-en-le-Frith, I tried to imagine my daughter inside. She would not see me, but maybe, somewhere deep in her subconscious, she would feel my love. We normally wave our loved ones off on their journeys; it was good to know I was waving this one home.
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