Sample chapter from A Waterside Year
Tonight I am experiencing the most beautiful and relaxing nocturnal scene. It’s one of those events that remain in one’s memory for a lifetime, a vision that forces us to stop whatever we’re doing to just gaze in amazement. It makes me want to hold my hands aloft, with fingers outstretched, and look to the sky in the belief that I am in the presence of something celestial. Let me describe what I’m seeing and feeling.
I’m writing this journal at midnight, or thereabouts, on a night most unlike the one I experienced last month. I am sitting outside my tent, writing with clear view of my pen as it forms words on a page of molten silver. There is no orange candlelight or dazzling white from a Tilley lamp to illuminate the scene, just a glow that colours everything in a cool silver hue.
A full moon in the southeast creates this lucidity. It silhouettes the trees around me, which dapple shade onto the woodland floor. My encampment, in the clearing between the trees, is bathed in a pool of pearl light that gives everything here an ethereal glow. Even my tent, which by day is a dull olive green, has a pale grey sheen, making it appear dusted with frost.
A thin layer of cloud covers the sky, diffusing the moonlight and creating a halo above the lake. The veil, which appears ready to drift to the ground like an empty parachute, moves gently on a high breeze. Below, the air is calm. There isn’t a ripple on the surface of the lake or a rustle in the trees. In fact, the lack of breeze, combined with the tranquillity of this nocturnal hour, has hushed everything into almost catacomb quietness. The loudest things I can hear are the dull rasping of air passing through my nostrils and a something that sounds like eggshells being crushed between wet fingertips. (Upon inspection, this turns out to be the sound of my tongue moving in my mouth.) If I hold my breath and keep my body still, I can hear the faintest sound of pampas rustling in the distance. But there is no wind, and no tall grass. I listen harder. No. It’s not the sound of dry grass. It is, I believe, the sound of a billion tiny raindrops entering the pool. A rain shower is moving up the valley and will soon reach these woods. I should head for cover, but with the light the way it is, I must go down to the lake to witness the spectacle.
I’ve walked as quietly as possible down through the trees to the lake’s edge. Holding this notebook close to my chest, I am able to continue writing and not risk soaking the paper. Because, as I predicted, the rain has reached the wood. But it’s falling so gently, as if the raindrops don’t want to make a fuss. The clouds don’t look heavy enough for rain, but I can see circular ripples forming and spreading, colliding into each other like a ballroom full of waltzing hula-hoopers. It makes me smile – the knowledge that I shall probably get soaked, yet I continue to enjoy every second of the drenching. I’ve looked up from the water and back to the clouds, which now seem to have an inner glow as they pass in front of the moon. Strangely, even the raindrops have an optical radiance, as if they’re emitting light from within; they emerge from the sky with the brightness of snow falling above a street lamp. It is a night of silver rain.
I should be feeling chilled by this moisture, but I’m not. The air is warm, unusually warm for May, and refreshing, like new bed linen. Perhaps, if I were at home, it might feel humid and stuffy. But not so here. Beneath the trees, the air has a ‘thinness’ that makes it delectable to breathe. With each breath I can taste the earthy scents of moist humus mixed with a floral scent of, hmm, what’s that? Oh, yes, it’s the smell of fish about to spawn. If you’re not an angler then you might think that fish cannot be smelled through water, and even if there were such a smell, that it would be a vile ‘fishy’ scent. Well, let me assure you that it can be smelled and that it has a floral sweetness that reminds me of the perfume of a plant. The blooms of a Bleeding Heart plant, to be precise. At first I thought that the smell was of roach but, given its intensity, I’d stake that it is from carp, they being the roach’s larger relative and the most boisterous of courters. (Think of a group of overweight men dressed in gold lamé tracksuits, suffering from too much alcohol, vying for the attention of the only girl in the nightclub.) The carp will be spawning soon but, I hope, not tonight. It is too peaceful, and the thought of golden-scaled fish leaping into the air (and contrasting with the silver scene above) does not appeal to me. Besides, it’s only May, and carp aren’t supposed to be in my thoughts for a month or more yet. If I desire a contrast to this heavenly scene then I shall think of fishing for sea trout on an inky black night when not even the bats leave their roosts. (Actually, thinking of bats, it’s unusual not to see or hear any wildlife on such a bright night. Perhaps all the owls, badgers, foxes, deer and voles are sitting back in wonderment, marvelling at this splendid scene, just like me?)
I will retire to my tent at some point, to gaze up at the illuminated canvas and cherish this idyllic night, while knowing, sadly, that the moment won’t last. Things will soon change. The moon will drift behind the pine trees in the west and a new day will dawn. And I expect company soon. The fishing season begins in a few weeks and the lake will no longer be my exclusive home. But I don’t want to think about the future. Not at this special time. It is a moment that illustrates the importance of ‘the moment’, of just sitting, standing or lying down to look, listen and feel for all the subtleties that exist in quiet moments like this.
Through careful observation, and being alert at the right time, we can experience Nature at her best. And on nights like tonight, when everything is perfect, we can be bathed in the beauty of silver rain.