The Season of Mists by Sandra Horn

Ullswater, Wikipedia

I have written before about our yearly commemoration of a beloved friend whose gift of a little stuffed toy was the inspiration for Goose Anna, and whose legacy prompted me to take early retirement, set up the Clucket Press with Niall, and publish The Mud Maid for The Lost Gardens of Heligan. It’s just been that time of year again. How the years go by – it’s 20 since we all met at her funeral. She is in the churchyard at Dacre, beneath a Norwegian Maple and overlooking the fells with their stands of golden Larch. We visit her grave in the dark autumn evening, drink Bolly (courtesy of her lovely generous brother), pour a libation over her headstone and set off a rocket – in fact, two rockets now as another beloved friend left us 8 years ago.

We stay in a cosy, well-appointed converted barn with the gang involved in the commemoration, a home-from-home for us for all the years. This year was possibly the rainiest yet – even for Cumbria. It also felt like an ending. Illness and frailty mean that one couple don’t feel they can come again, and dog-minding issues mean that the others want to move to somewhere else next time – the barn is on a working farm and dogs are not welcome. Perhaps it’s time to lay it down.

Before these problems became apparent, we had some great walks, between the showers. Niall has ancestors in the little churchyard at Nine Kirks and it’s a good stroll across the fields by the river. For me, the most memorable walk was on our first evening. We’d been sitting in the car for hours and were longing to stretch our legs and get some air. There’s a riverside walk from the barn, down a steep slope and across fields to the village. It was dark and the mist was rising. The paths were wet – in fact, underwater in one place, where a new stream was coursing down the hillside. The river was heaving and threatening to burst its banks. It was magical. In the village we stopped to look over the parapet of the new bridge, towards Ullswater. We’ve been watching the progress of this bridge ever since the last lot of severe floods washed the old stone bridge away. The new one is a stainless steel, single-span, elegant structure which has facings made from the old stones on its approaches, and which was first opened by a flock of sheep being driven across it, in a nod to its early use. In contrast to the turbulence of the river we had just encountered, the lake was like glass and somehow it captured the dying light.

 

                                                         Photograph by Niall

 I tried to record it in words too, and the feel of the misty walk by the river:

 

November evening,

the river noisy, wild,

challenging boundaries.

 

The paths slick with rain,

 a mulch of fallen leaves,

ochre, sepia, umber.

 

On the bank, a littering

of rough-torn paper shapes -

sheep transformed by mist and dusk.

 

Smudged moon, one star.

The lake’s soft gleam

holding the last of the light.

 

‘Tout passe, tout casse’, but memories remain and in any case, I can’t believe (don’t want to believe?) it will be the last time we walk that river path and stand enchanted on the bridge.