January Afternoon is a short story, little bits are fictional, but it's mostly from real experiences. It celebrates the simplicity of a short walk, on a foggy winters afternoon.
So a new year begins; what will it bring? With a cold, shrouding fog that lingers and lasts, I cannot help but reminisce of long, hot summers from the past. Dreams of the bluest skies and a warm summer breeze, with birdies chirping happily, hidden in leafy trees. I have an urge to go outside and to potter in the garden, to feel the soil with my fingertips and grass blades between my toes. It is the time of year when we check on our bees to see if they need a sugar block feed. Over winter they feast on hive-stored honey, made from blooms back when it was warm and sunny. But if the summer is ever poor, meaning there's not much saved in their honey store, we feed them sugar to tide them over until they know it's spring, a time to go searching for pollen on the wing. As summer bliss seems so far away, with everything sun-kissed on a blue-skied day, I put on my furs and woollen hat to face the winter fens, quite boggy, foggy and flat.
After recent rains that lasted for days, that brought howling winds blowing fencing down, I have to admit my winter scowl began to turn the other way around. For there on the ground, all yellow and bright, was the first sign of spring, a bed of Aconite. Little Aconite, how they iridescently glow, a golden yellow flower, usually the first to start to grow. Tiny golden eggs of an unopened bloom, next to a yawning flower taking up a lot more room. In just a few days there will be a carpet of yellow, a golden treasure that's hard to follow. The thought of tulips and daffodils, bluebells and wallflowers, I can't help but have a spring in my step, carefully though on grass that was dew wet. Down the garden and past empty greenhouses, which in a few months would be flushed with little plants, I swung open the gate to the meadow and continued with my plan.
The meadow in January, on a foggy afternoon, has short horizons defined by the gloom. When the hedgerows lurk as darker shades and everything is behind a consistent grey, it's hard to imagine the colours of summer, when this wildflower meadow would satisfy a Monet lover. The hours I spent sat amidst the flowers, surrounded by coloured grasses waist-high and if I was lucky, a bird might fly by as he chased bugs for his dinner. But these warm days are months away and for now I'll embrace the moment; the log fire is on and a cup of tea awaits me, so soggily onwards I trudge.
Cutting the meadow corner to a gap in the fence, with clothes snagging trip wires of brambles and sleeping nettle clumps, I stepped into the orchard of apple, plum and pear,
eager to offer the bees some winter care. Rows of trees wait patiently, short in stature and stance, for in the summer it's the perfect setting for a classic English romance. From blossoms in spring dancing on the wind to the blessed fruits at harvest, it's a treat to behold through the seasons as they pass. But here in the gloom, alone in the fog, with dark shapes lurking of trees and the odd seat log, it's the scene of every horror movie, with all that's missing being an owl hooting above. With thickening fog swirling over well-kept orchard grass, I nearly missed the hives and walked straight past. They were set back into a hedgerow alcove, protected from biting north winds and as I approached, I could hear the slight drone of little, flapping wings. A quiet buzz from deep inside, so at least I knew they were all alive. It is important to check on your bees, knowing what they want and what they might need. Having had such a poor summer, where we'd not taken any honey to have with lemon, instead leaving them with all they'd made.
Knowing the bees were happy and safe, coping with winter in their own little way, I headed for the short walk home, back through the orchard and meadow corner, looking forward to somewhere dry and warmer. The afternoon fog had turned to brown smog as the fading light of the day slipped away, casting deeper shadows that hid hidden secrets of winters past. By now I was damp from the ankle-deep meadow grass and twanging apple branch showers, which I snagged as I passed. Cold, foggy droplets stinging when I misjudged a stoop, slipping on the wet grass whilst tripping over protruding roots. Just a few minutes walk in a thickening mist, across open meadow to my garden gate, I noticed not a bird stirred; there was a deafening silence as the fog swirled. It was just like the start of a film, one where there was something in the smog, some sort of spooky, Spielberg fog; all that was missing was a growling dog! Just then my heart stopped and missed far too many beats; something had rushed past and knocked me off my feet. I didn't completely fall but instead stood up tall, frozen to the boggy spot. The panic was just half a second long as I saw straight away what it was. A tiny pygmy deer had passed too near, scaring us both equally. It was probably the same deer who steals my tulip tops, nipping off the flowers for jollies, then off he'd trot. I'd find the tulips on the floor next to stumped stalks, but this is the price you pay for countryside living!
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