17 January, en route for Scout Scar There is no one to be seen, only a few footprints. Mid-January weather is volatile, something of everything: fresh snow thawing, squalls of hail, a north west wind ripping through a holly bush like an express train, flinging a raven high above the escarpment, inflating my hood and seeking to rip it off, blue sky and a sudden menacing darkness.
This afternoon, I am 'In Search of Mary Shelley' . 1816, the year when Mount Tambora erupts. The year without a summer, disharmonies in the natural world apt for the creation of Frankenstein.
This afternoon, I am 'In Search of Mary Shelley' . 1816, the year when Mount Tambora erupts. The year without a summer, disharmonies in the natural world apt for the creation of Frankenstein.
Missing in action. Finding animal tracks in fresh snow tells the stories we rarely see. Here a fox made for a stone wall, turned, and turned again, and vanished. He was not scent-marking. He must have leapt the wall.
Light snow over Kendal Race Course, the earth soft. The wind hit as I climbed toward Scout Scar escarpment, a finger-numbing wind that made it difficult to operate a camera. I watched the sun struggling to be free of clouds and saw ash trees illuminated for a second, and dull again. Black rooks fed in the snow, by the bales of haylage left for the cattle.
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