Elegaic autumn thoughts by Sandra Horn
October 8th and we are heading north. It’s that
time of year; the annual gathering of a group of friends brought together by
Di, no longer with us and much mourned. We come from Southampton, York,
Alnwick, Berwick-on-Tweed, drawn by powerful associations and the beauty of the
Cumbrian lakes and fells. On a cloudy, moonlit evening we visit Di’s grave in
Dacre churchyard. It overlooks fells where the larches are always standing out
against the other trees, as if marching to their own individual beat of time.
Her Lakeland slate headstone is dwarfed by the Norwegian maple now. Fourteen
years ago it was a spindly sapling. We toast Di in Bollinger and pour a
libation. It disappears rapidly into the earth.
Usually, at this time of year, we meet autumn as we drive
northwards. This year, the colours in the trees are hardly changed. It hasn’t
been cold enough yet to work the magic of turning green to gold, russet,
scarlet. When we’re there, on the shore of Ullswater, green is still
predominant, although touched with gold here and there. Then we round a corner
in the path and are met by a massive tree in a blaze of red. The leaves look
almost hot. I think it might be a field maple, but I’m not sure.
Later, we take
the round trip on a lake steamer and at intervals other blazing beacons light
up the shore. The lake begins as still as glass, mirroring the clouds and the
fells. ‘The mountain’s shadow bruises the lake (Kathleen Jones). The wind
shifts. The weather is ‘mending worse’ (Norman Nicholson). It rains. We don’t
care. We are not about to duck into the fuggy saloon and miss the spectacle of
weather sweeping across the sky, the fell-tops disappearing into the clouds,
then coming back into view, flooded with sunlight. We are in ‘a watercolour
landscape: pale, runny, luminous, where cloud and rain confuse sea, land and
sky, smudging the boundaries.’ (Tess Cosslett).
This year has seen unhappy changes for some of us. John K is
battling with early signs of Parkinson’s. John M is recovering from a stroke.
My back is crocky. Last time, we all took the steamer to Howtown and walked all
round Hollin Fell. Some of us were stragglers, but we all ended up in the pub
together, eventually. This time, only one intrepid walker did the Hollin Fell
round walk and a couple of people tackled Aira Force. We all walked the
relatively flat top end of the lake shore.
Back at our shared cottage we ate,
drank and were merry and watched the robin gorge on rowan berries, just outside
the window. We’ll be back next year in whatever shape, to celebrate long years
of friendship and pay tribute to our beloved dead. And no doubt I’ll still be
wishing I were a poet, rather than a person who writes poetry – and still
revelling in the words of the true poets. Thank you all.
Winter Light by Kathleen Jones, in Not Saying Goodbye at
Gate 21, Templar Poetry 2011
Old Man at a Cricket Match by Norman Nicholson, in A Local
Habitation, Faber and Faber 1972
By Train to Eskdale by Tess Cosslett, in Angels of the
North, Angels, 2000.
Photographs by Niall Horn
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