Down to the River and Up to the Trees: Discover the hidden nature on your doorstep. Sue Belfrage

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Down to the River and Up to the Trees: Discover the hidden nature on your doorstep - Sue  Belfrage


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and sit or stand without being disturbed for a few minutes; turning off your phone will help. Don’t worry about being stared at; most people are too busy with their own stuff to notice if you sit quietly. (Of course, if you do want others to give you a wide berth, you could try singing the national anthem at the top of your voice; that should work.)

      Mark out an area that’s about 1 metre, or an arm span, square. Think of it as a pillar that stretches from the ground up into the sky. Now focus.

       What can you see?

       What do you hear, smell or sense?

       Is there anything in particular that delights you?

       Or is there anything that disgusts you?

       How does the air feel on your skin, on your face, ears and hands?

       Can you hear bird calls or the sounds of animals?

       What insects are crawling or flying around you?

       What other creatures might have passed this way?

       What difference do you make, being here now?

       And what difference might you make, without disturbing the habitat of any creatures that live here? Could you tend to the plot in some way, perhaps by clearing away litter?

       Repeat to yourself: ‘I belong here.’

       You are part of it all.

      If you like, why not return here once a day or once a week for a month? Make a note of your changing observations as time passes.

       ‘Come forth into the light of things,

       Let Nature be your teacher.’

      William Wordsworth (1770–1850), ‘The Tables Turned’

      If you’re ever out and about, and come across a spot used by a fox to scent-mark its territory, you’ll find the odour hard to ignore: so strong and musky, it can often be smelt even if you’re driving past in a car with the windows shut.

      There’s a particular corner in the middle of the village where I live that always smells of fox. Mind you, the village as a whole often smells of muck-spreading and cows, so there are probably people who crinkle their noses at the entire place as they drive past. I guess I don’t notice the whiff as much as visitors do; it’s just what I’m used to. But I don’t think we should underestimate the power of smell when it comes to making sense of our surroundings, or how important smell is in stoking our impressions and memories of a place.

      Here’s a suggestion. On a warm day, when scents are likely to be strong, or after a shower of rain, why not tune into your sense of smell and make an olfactory map? You can do this either on foot, scribbling down notes as you go, or, if travelling by some other means, maybe on a sketch when you get home. What strikes you? Which smells are familiar and which are unexpected? Pungent or pleasing? Plant, animal or mineral?

      Once you have tuned into your sense of smell, you might be surprised by just how much you pick up, and how important those smells are in shaping your relationship with a place.

      Few things taste as delicious as blackberries picked straight from the hedgerow or an apple plucked from the tree. Likewise, it can be hugely rewarding to grow your own food or forage for your dinner.

      If you do decide to go foraging, please make sure you have expert advice about whatever it is that you choose to gather. The consequences of eating that tasty-looking mushroom (which turns out to be poisonous) or the pip of a plump yew berry, for instance, are just too dire to contemplate.

      Whether or not you do go and pick your own, it’s good to be aware of that sense of disconnection that can sometimes exist between the food on our plates and its origins in nature. Next time you have a meal, why not try the following:

       Take a good look at the food in front of you. What are the basic ingredients?

       What plants and/or animals did those ingredients come from?

       Can you make a conscious connection between your meal and the various elements in it – animal, mineral and vegetable?

       In what ways might those elements be nourishing you? How might they be feeding the ways in which you see the world, as well as the cells in your body?

      Nyponsoppa, or rosehip soup, is a traditional Scandinavian favourite that I used to enjoy as a child when we lived in Sweden for a few years. It’s made from the bright orangey-red fruit of the dog rose (Rosa canina), which grows wild in hedgerows. The soup is served as a snack, or as a dessert with almond biscuits on the side.

      While you can make the soup from freshly picked rosehips, it’s much more usual to make it from dried hips. Pick your own in the autumn and dry them slowly for a few hours on a tray in the oven on a very low heat. (You can see why the Aga was invented in Sweden.) When you’ve taken the dried rosehips out of the oven, let them cool and store them in an airtight container somewhere dry. If stored well, they should last a couple of years – so it’s worth getting your supplies in.

       Serves 4

       500 g (1 lb 1 oz) dried, whole wild rosehips

       1½ litres (50 fl oz) water

       150 g (5 oz) sugar

       1½ tbsp potato flour (or cornflour)

       Double/whipped cream, to serve

      When you’re ready to make your soup, soak the dried rosehips in half of the water for a few hours or overnight. Then cook them in the same water, over a medium heat in a large saucepan, until they are soft and sticky, which should take about 25 minutes.

      Blend


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