THE forests around Hoolet are not in a good way. Two months after Storm Arwen, the devastation remains shocking. Deep in the pinewoods, trees are toppled, one on another, like the scythed ranks of an army.
In some parts there are too many fallen to count, their ripped-up roots revealing caverns beneath, already filled with leaves. Trails that are usually rutted by mountain bikes and hillwalkers’ boots are now impassable, massive tree trunks barring the way and forcing us to make a detour through the undergrowth or crawl beneath, praying they do not drop another foot.
There has been a quietness in the woods since start of the year, which you can’t help but attribute to the ruins that lie on all sides. Mayhem on this scale creates an atmosphere, a foreboding sense of threat.
Forests always have a faintly sinister character, tapping into our primeval fears. Hence, no doubt, their prominence in fairy tales and myths, where their inimical shadows and lurking predators are a shorthand for humankind. That said, these woods must have been terrifying on the night of the storm. It feels as if the wildlife has not fully regained its composure.
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No doubt we’ll learn to love rotting tree trunks, and appreciate the sunshine that can flood in where they once crowded, creating pools of light where previously shade-loving fungi flourished.
Even before the storm, however, it was noticeable that, apart from birds, few creatures were in evidence. No deer were startled into bolting as we descended the hill at dusk; badgers kept out of sight until we had passed, and not a single ravenous fox was to be found abroad before darkness dropped.
Normally you’d catch a kick of hind legs as a rabbit disappeared down a burrow, or glimpse a lolloping, long-eared hare zig-zagging across a field, managing to be both elegant and awkward at the same time. Overhead the frequent cracking of branches or quivering of leaves indicated a squirrel scampering to safety, from where it would peer down, hoping it was invisible.
In Hoolet too, where squirrels are generally abundant, there are far fewer. The trees on the green, once their playground, are virtually squirrel-free. I’ll occasionally spot one squirming under the gates of friend’s garden, where there are well stocked bird-tables to feast on. Beyond these rare sightings, though, it’s as if they have vanished.
The other morning, to my surprise, I was looking out from the loft when I saw something rootling in the leaves. Moments later, a squirrel darted into our beech hedge and, leaping from branch to branch, made a foray on next door’s bird feeders. It worked like a bandit – fast in, even faster out. Swiftly burying its booty in our flowerbed, it repeated the procedure, moving from one hiding place to the next the length of the garden. This has obviously been requisitioned as its larder.
I know some country lovers loathe grey squirrels and would like them gone, so our native reds can thrive. As if aware of this, our visitor had russet-red patches on its head and back, hoping perhaps to persuade us that it was the favoured variety. But the rest of its coat – not to mention its size – was the give-away. Like a mountain hare transitioning from autumn to winter, it was silvery grey. The tip of its bushy tail had a snowy flash, like an eye, that seemed to wink at me as it bobbed off into the distance.
Since our molehill appeared, I’ve noticed dozens in the area, as if there’s been a contagion of pimples. Some hills were more pebble than earth, bearing testimony to mole power. But, since no further upheavals have appeared in our garden, I’m beginning to wonder if I have misidentified our new lodger. Instead of a mole, perhaps what we have is a vole. Just one consonant separates them, but there’s a world of difference, especially if you value your lawn.
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Enjoying a balmy respite before winter’s blast returns, the birds have been in top gear. So many whizz past you’d think they need traffic control to prevent mid-air collisions. I could stand all day at the window and not see so much as a wingtip clip another, even when they fly in formation. There’s something at work here that designers of driverless cars might like to examine.
All this takes place to the background hum of Covid, as we approach its two-year anniversary. It is difficult and painful to recall the darkest days of the pandemic, when barely a soul stirred out, and the nightly death toll on the news turned our hair even greyer.
For some of us, the only chance of seeing someone was during their daily walk. Even so, an accidental gathering of more than three households on the village green made people cast a glance over their shoulders, in case of a passing police car.
While scientific advisors gauge the virus’s progress by the numbers in intensive care beds, in Hoolet there’s another measure. Judging by this, things are slowly getting better. All around there’s evidence that the irrepressible spirit of the village is returning, the sociable sap rising amongst a community whose first thought, on bumping into a friend, is to ask, “would you like to come in for a drink?” Or coffee. Or lunch.
The start of the new year saw levels of conviviality perceptibly grow. Now, around the hour when birds are settling on their roosts, there’s the sound of footfall, from one house to another: up the lane, down the brae, crossing the top of the field. Guests bring a token gift of chocolates or potted hyacinths as they arrive for their preferred tipple. Given the range and diversity of the average drinks cabinet in these parts, you can ask for almost anything. Unless, like us, you forgot to stock beer.
There’s the comfort of knowing that beyond our doors, and beyond the glow of fire pits that have been blazing long into the night, Covid holds no sway. Regardless of how many jabs we will in future require, or how fearful or gung-ho we become, nature continues its own sweet way, oblivious to human travails.
Whatever becomes of all of us in Hoolet, spring will soon be on its way. As it will be next year, the one after that, and far into the future.
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