Going, Going, Gone

After weeks of remaining indoors and languishing in the little blue house in the village, I am finally on my way out to the rocky coves and whiskery November trees of Lanark this morning. As cold as it will surely be out there, my wild animus is already dancing in anticipation, and she (I) is ready to roll on down the road.

A bout of stubborn seasonal influenza, pneumonia and potholes encountered in ongoing medical protocols - all three got together for tea one morning some time ago and decided to make a collective assault on my wildwood rambling, to make life a misery, bring me to a halt and keep me indoors (well mostly) for a long interval.

I really should not be going anywhere this morning, but the sun is shining, the skies are blue and the grass in the garden is shot through with silver and crystal. The village is a magical place, and I know in my blood and bones that the highlands will be beautiful beyond any wordy description I can render. This is clear imperative rather than mere craving, and I must go - either that or wither and fade and blow away in the wind.

In November I understand what a wild and rugged realm the Two Hundred Acre Wood really is. Now, I can see the bones of the land and trace the rocky contours of which my native place was crafted by the Old Wild Mother so long ago - hers is a work ever in progress. The springs, beaver ponds and hidden streams will be quiet today, and they will wear a patina of ice - the raggedy leaves in the oak groves will be edged in frost - the whole woodland will be alight with sunshine and the hills will be etched (or cross hatched or stippled) by attenuated winter shadows.

To be a elderly northern dweller is to exalt in the long cold season, even when the temperatures plummet and one's bones and sinews protest loudly. Colour me ecstatic this morning, colour me gone into the wild places, colour me somewhere among great drifts of oak leaves and frosty rocks.