This passage was written on 20th March 2020, just at the start of the pandemic. It was part of a commission, “Exploring Rural Realities” by Hexham Book Festival, and was published online in 2020. Three years on, natural cycles continue and the fell continues to be full of skylarks and song.
The light in March is pale and bleached. But there is plenty of it, and this afternoon it is spilling freely across the fields, tossed about anywhere that will take it. And cumulus clouds, billowing like sail boats. Proper ones – three dimensional, with spaces in between. Walking along the edge of the wood, the oak tr publishees are swelling with buds, holding tight for their time to come, and the birdsong trickling out of the trees and loosening the air in all its musical layers, tells me we have walked through the gates of winter at last.
Yet in the last week, the whole world has begun to change. Whispers have become talk of measures, restrictions, ventilators. Domestic life and certainty are uprooted, replaced by a creeping unknown that spreads beneath us like some malign fungi. It is hard to square it all, the intensity of change and how it will unfold. How we will live, work, shop, move, interact and stay connected. How we might breathe. Or not.
Right now there is comfort in following the known track up onto the fell, which my feet follow instinctively, even if my head is somewhere else. And I’m bringing myself to right here, to the gate through the mud riddled with the passage of sheep, the familiar heft of its warped slats, the same piece of orange string, tied with the same knot, holding the gate to the post. And me with it. Beyond, wafting downhill, the familiar stench of sheep – lanolin, urine and dank silage.
The track follows the crest of Dunterley Fell and brings open views to Kielder and Scotland on the far horizon, to the upper North Tyne valley and the hills above Tarset with its scattered farms and dwellings. I come here for the sense of space, the distant views, the corridor between land and sky. The sheer scale of things. This is where I let light fall through me, the rain and wind scour my mind clean, and where I drink perspective from the solid ribs of stone walls. In spring I come here to hear the curlews and in summer I bathe in the density of purple heather, clouds of bog cotton and moths dancing at my feet.
Once I bumped into my elderly neighbour up here shortly before he died. He had been born and brought up in this valley, had never moved away in his lifetime, or been to London. He knew every rock and stone, every bird call and plant, and where and when they would nest and flower. He stood with me, pointing out every single feature, hill and farm, leaning back on his stick when he was not waving at the air, tracing the outline of the hills, methodically and with deep affection. He left me a legacy of names.
But I’m pausing now to register something new that is filtering into my awareness. A fluttering on the airwaves, tremulous and delicate, coming from high above. Unseen, yet filling the sky with sweet, unstoppable music. Skylark. The elusive sound throws itself further and higher, piercing the skin of winter with pockets of new and sudden joy. On previous walks, I have caught snatches of song, preludes as pairs return to nest in the rough tussock and heather. But this is the real thing.
If spring can be marked on these upland fells by one sign alone, this would be it. The starter gun firing off, the first push of the race, the release of life on the move. The skylark is hovering above me now, and I am straining upwards to locate it somewhere in the high blue, searching higher and all around me for a pinprick, a corner of sky to locate this invisible sprite, that spreads its frilly chatter, its bubbling melody, out into the stillness. After the long, empty winter months, the skylark’s song bursts forth from its small, vibrant chest, pouring out over the fells and everything that is ordinary with a pure accuracy, yet complete abandon.
In these simple few moments, the whole burdened world feels broken open by this hidden alchemy, a miracle transplanted into the damp traces of air. All I have to do is stand in the auditorium of sound, and let the soaring exuberance fill me with its secret language of hope, resilience and renewal. Telling me that I can live through this. Letting the light stream in. And I swear everything else up here is leaning with me towards its bright source.
I
