Sample chapter from The Quiet Fields
PART 1 – INSIDE OUT
If the Quiet Fields were human (most likely a beautiful and forgiving woman) then how would you introduce yourself to her? What would you say, knowing that she’s already aware of your secrets and intentions? This is why I often describe Nature as a mirror. Do you stare into it, or tilt your head to look behind the plane of the apparent? Have you ever walked behind the mirror to see what supports it? Some would prefer flip the mirror to reveal that it’s nothing more than a thin veneer, something that would shatter with too much noise or mishandling. A mirror is from one angle infinite, yet from another is flat and lifeless. It’s the same with Nature, depending upon your viewpoint. As Woody Allen once said, “I love nature; I just don’t want to get any of it on me”. Fortunately, this isn’t how I, and most of my friends, engage with the natural world. Being an outdoorsman isn’t an armchair recreation. If we want to understand what gives life to every natural thing on this planet, then we have to push our fingertips into the soil and ‘feel’ its affect upon us. Sadly, our actions often leave but holes in the ground: voids where once there was life. We could leave our marks and walk away, or we could plant seeds in the holes and give a little bit back for our pleasures. It’s by our actions, more than our words, that our impact upon the natural world is most felt. As Charles Darwin wrote, “Nothing exists for itself alone, but only in relation to other forms of life”.
Environmentalists will highlight the impact we’re having on the planet (both good and bad), but what about the impact we’re having on ourselves? There are 51 million people living in England today. That’s five times more than Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland combined. Given that there are 32 million acres of land to share, it gives the English just under an acre each in which to play. By my calculation that’s about the same as seeing two people standing on a football pitch. (If you were on the pitch, would you be standing on the centre spot, defending your territory, or would you be over by a corner flag, as far from the opposition as possible?) A football pitch for two people sounds like a lot of space, doesn’t it? Well, it’s half the European average and eight times less than in North America. And, most probably, you’d have to put up with a McDonalds drive-thru being plonked in the middle, feeding enormous burgers to the perpetually gaping goal mouths. Would our space be sufficient, or would we crave a ‘go large’ plot with extra ketchup?
Fortunately for the space-seeker, the bright lights in towns attract people like moths to a bulb, freeing up plenty of land in the countryside for us to find our Quiet Fields. There’s plenty of space, plenty of peace, and plenty of quiet. We Englanders do, after all, live on an Isle of Plenty. We just need to get round to doing all the things we said we would, which responsibilities and ‘lack of time’ prevented us from doing. (The world is round, yet we’re often unable to ‘get round’ to doing something. In these instances, we become aware that we’re stuck in an artificial world with straight sides and corners. A square world, with hard edges that don’t drift or rotate, but which slice inwards like a pair of oversized scissors.)
I started writing this chapter with the ‘opinion’ that I would not dangle a political carrot (it’s too cold today for anything to dangle enticingly). However, I’m feeling the nip of not having enough time outdoors. I’ve resorted to writing passionately about the world outside. You see, this week I’ve been unable to practise what I preach. I’ve ended up back in the lifestyle I promised never to repeat, all because I had to write a report for someone who’s about to take an extended Christmas holiday. “Just make sure it’s done before I go,” they demanded, “and then I’ll read it when I’m back in January.” So I rolled out the drums of midnight oil, brushed off my best kowtowing suit and poured some strong coffee. That was on Tuesday morning. It is now lunchtime on Friday. I’ve worked sixty-three hours to meet my deadline. I’ve barely slept, or eaten, or taken my eyes off a computer screen. But who am I to care? I am just a worker, paid to obey. I did what was expected. But it’s over. I’ve submitted the document. It’s gone. As has its recipient, who is now on holiday and will read the report in three weeks.
People say that they ‘breathe a sigh of relief’ when an ordeal is over, but this description doesn’t apply when you’ve the numbness of having only eight hours sleep over three nights. I think I ‘relieved a sigh of breath’ during this time. But now is not the time to moan. Instead, it is time to celebrate. The work is done, which means my weekend is free for me to do whatever I choose. I will return home and put my arms around my family (and cast aside the guilt of knowing that it’s been my choice to work around the clock for someone I care less about than the people I love).
Meeting the deadline enabled me to keep my job and provide for my family. This is a twist of fate that comes to many, where we have to sacrifice so much to provide for others. We could get spiritual and say it’s a Christian act. But it’s not. My family have suffered this week. And I have to question whether I really did it for them, or because I was too weak to say “no” to an unreasonable demand. I lost my way, for a while, and got myself all ‘inside out’.
PART 2 – OUTSIDE IN
It is 4pm on a Sunday afternoon. I am sitting in my garden shed enjoying a cup of tea and a moment of reflection. Today has been one of those days that’s made me smile, close my eyes, then take a deep breath, stretch my arms and roll my shoulders before breathing out slowly. It began (after a moderate lie-in) with brilliant sunshine streaming through my bedroom curtains: a sight that has the ability to lift one’s spirits from the moment we open our eyes to the moment we relax in bed with a hot water bottle and a favourite book. (For some, the time between these two moments can be as little as a minute, but I prefer to have days in bed when it’s raining.) When the sun is shining brightly, especially in winter, I like to be outdoors for as long as possible. It’s too good an opportunity to miss and a classic example of making the most of the moment, rather than missing it when it’s gone. So I rose quickly, looked out of the window (and saw frost remaining in the shaded areas of the garden), and then dressed myself in my warmest clothes (a fleece-lined tweed smock being the best of the garments) before heading downstairs where I grabbed a woolly hat from a peg in the hallway, and my wellington boots from the porch, and then stepped out into the garden. The brightness of the sun was deceiving. The coolness of the air hit me like an icy blast entering a sauna. My breath formed clouds of vapour that encouraging me to cup it in my hands (a favourite act, where I literally ‘catch my breath’). I did this for just long enough to acclimatise to my surroundings before stepping out into the garden ‘to be’ outdoors.
Finally, I was free. Free from an indoor life. No more cabin fever or flickering computer screen. No more clock reminding me of an impending deadline. Here I was in a natural place. Yes, the lawn was trimmed and the shrubs planted, but I could hear the crunch of frozen grass under my feet and stare up at a faint moon poised in a cool sky. It made the preceding week at work seem as unnatural as an underground light bulb. In a world of metaphor, the scene before me was very real.
I spent today working in the garden. Actually, I shouldn’t call it ‘work’ because it was immensely pleasurable. I tidied my shed, cleaned-out the greenhouse, swept leaves, cut back the stems of dead perennials, plucked a brace of pheasants, built a compost bin and made a bonfire last all afternoon. The pond and water butt remained frozen all day, yet I worked in shirtsleeves for the most of it (although this may have had something to do with the hip flask of brandy that Mrs H handed me at lunchtime). The day was serenely silent save for the crackling of the bonfire, the ‘twitting’ of a robin and the half-hearted chirping of a confused chaffinch. I listened carefully, half-expecting to hear an echo; such was the quietness of the day. The sun remained low but cast welcome rays. It was a good day to be outdoors.
As I was saying, I am now sitting in my garden shed. The sun has set and everything in the garden is cast in a blue hue. Soon it will be dark. I feel cold now; the air has a chill that bites whenever I sit still for too long. Mrs H has the light on in the kitchen and I can see that she’s just put some jacket potatoes into the oven. Next she’ll be feeding another log into the wood burner and will be calling me in “to warm my toes and rest my bones”. I’m happy now. The joy of a ‘homely home’ takes some beating, and so I shall end my time in the garden and head indoors. As with the autumn harvest, I shall ‘bring the outside in’: I will sit in my study and write about the things I’ve seen outside this year.
Postscript:
‘The Outdoors’ isn’t something ‘external’ to be shown to the doctor or prodded with a very long stick. Nature doesn’t exist in isolation, or at a distance where it can be ignored. We are as much part of nature as it is part of us. Perhaps this is the real meaning of ‘bringing the outside in’? As Albert Einstein said, “Look deep into nature, and then you will understand everything better”.