Page 21 - BBC Wildlife Volume 36 #02

Notes OPINION

from an From CHRIS PACKHAM
English IN THE DEEP MID-WINTER WE VENTURE OUT

TOGETHER AND FIND 15 SLOW-GRAZING DEER
wood AND A FLUFFED UP ROBIN IN THE COLD.

ut in the yard our walk is hours between our
instantly defined, underfoot by curious peepings.
crisp grass, overhead by a clear The puddles crunch
sky, and in the air by the cold. like light-bulb glass,
O I scuff the milky tarmac, I stamp, he sniffs,
he treads black paws, we leave trails, and I like the crackle,
we brace ourselves for an hour in the he likes the lick of
company of the cold. ice water beneath
On top of the silvered gate post, split the smashed agates
and strangled by gnarly worms of ivy, the of concentric grey
frost crusts rust and scalds my fingers as rings. We cut
I wrestle the codger closed, rustling as through the apron
it rakes flakes of tree, and it’s here that I of hazel which
shake hands with and greet the cold. hems the field edge
The droveway beyond is paralysed and and I tweak the
bleached, its spellbound ground hard barbs strung with
as hell, my feet chiming like clogs on strands of crystal
cobbles, on the hoof-pocked mudstone, hair. I count 15 slow
on the marble clay, on the tractor rucks, does, heads down
on all the fossilised sludge that yesterday on the slope, so
slopped but today skids. And as I turn to close I can hear the
look for my friend, my cheek is smartly grass rips as they
slapped by the cold. tug their lips from
Overnight a great unkindness has contrast and all the detail smothered in a the turf, so close I can see their eyes
fallen here. A torture, a punishment crystal coat, the woods are less complex, flicking and their tails blinking on their
wrought by the fickle physics of easier to see, easier to draw in the mind. careless rumps in the cold.
temperature. So simple – turn it down, Then there’s the luxury of the wounded He’s fixed on them. A year ago he’d
turn on the pain. That unique pinch to quietude – the sound is not dead, but it have bolted and given them a scarpering
the nostrils, cuff to the ear, bruise to the limps to the ear and whispers apologies call, but now he just tail-down watches.
lips, that nip of metal in the mouth and for the hush and for the theft of echo, the What they need is a wolf to sharpen their
white scorching in the roof of the nose, kidnap of noise. Even scent has fled. The senses, but what they’ve got is an old
that lick of a tear that crests quickly over earth, normally so fragrant and telling, poodle, so I twang the fence and they
the cheek and tickles the chin, that you so bold a perfume, offers not an essence startle, stare, and then shuffle away,
nod to touch the scarf, as you begin to of mood, so that when you draw a long melding with the cold.
sniff and notice the chill of the snivel that breath to cool the lungs all you can smell A robin flits up from the scuffed brown
you swallow. Hands harden, fingertips is the cold. earth that girdles the badger set, shivers its
fizz and soon you become aware of your We scratch a trail to where the tail and fluffs up, briskly preens its pinion,
toes. You haven’t felt them since they brambles force our turn and look like mumbles a rattle and levitates into the waxy
squeezed hot sand in the summer, but ripped-up broderie anglaise, a filigree muff of yew. The latrines are ripe and sigh
now all ten are shouting at the cold. of brilliant white, crocheted on leaves of wisps of white into the cold.
But there is a comfort black maroon, sad He leads on the home stretch; he spied
too: it’s restful in the YOU HAVEN’T and sparse, hollowed me straightening his sheepskin and
absence of colour, in ` to the heart where lighting the fire. He’s had enough of
FELT THEM
the cold spectrum SINCE THE SUMMER, the blackcap’s nest the cold.
At the door I kneel and press my nose
of blues and all their
sags. It had eggs but
Illustration by Owen Davey/Folio blacks and greys and in BUT NOW ALL TEN they went before we into his nape and draw a long breath
through his coat. I love it when he smells
the way they wash the
peered at anything
ARE SHOUTING
of the cold.
palette down to its raw
pink, and the torn-
skeleton of hues. Basic
up cup told us the
AT THE COLD.”
CHRIS PACKHAM is a naturalist and TV presenter.
is easier to visually
magpie story we’d
Watch him on Winterwatch from 29 January to
digest. With soft
BBC Wildlife
February 2018 missed in the six 1 February on BBC Two. See a preview on p88. 21