Pity November
November, It's not surprising that you are so completely delinquent. You are the neglected stepchild of the whole year, here in the north. They couldn't even get your name right, not since they moved the New Year from March to January a couple of hundred years ago. Ditsy October has come and gone with firework displays of leaves and pumpkins and all that "mists and mellow fruitfulness" stuff; we've long forgotten why we like autumn, because now we don't. November, by contrast, is an uncoloured woodcut of horses ploughing a field, bounded by leafless hedges set against a pale grey sky.
Perhaps it's not surprising that we want to start Christmas earlier and earlier. I remember how, as a child, I used to keep a Christmas countdown diary right through the autumn, checking off the days as the wonderful evening approached. Christmas Eve was the magical time. Rarely, if ever, did Christmas Day live up to its promise.
November has hidden charms, though. As Findlay the dog carefully places one of his three frisbees on my knee and looks at me appealingly, I know there will be rewards. Geoff and I put on yet another pair of leaking wellingtons or still damp boots and tolerate November's jeers as it throws a bucket of horizontal rain over us. The first reward is the flight of birds from the feeders. They come back almost immediately and ask for a top-up. The next is the heron separating himself from the yellow flood to swirl around over the tops of the trees and then return to his original spot, waiting for our return, when he will take off again. Then there is the wind. Bracing is a great word, covering a multitude of sins. Bracing it is.
There probably won't be much to see in the way of wildlife this morning because they are, sensibly, mostly at home and some of them, the wisest perhaps, are heading into hibernation. But there are a few flocks of finches and siskins flying about and the dog finds plenty of trails to follow, despite the torrential rain of the past few days. He gallops under the leafless ash trees, up a steep slope that is red brown and purplish-black as old bracken alternates with dead willow herb. The colours and shapes at this time of year are stately and Baroque. The dog collects his frisbee, throws it triumphantly in the air and catches it. I think about the fungal disease that threatens the ashes and wonder whether it will reach our part of the forest. The dog certainly won't be spreading it because he has no chance of entering the house or the car without having his feet washed, wherever we go. He's splattered with mud and completely exuberant about it.
The ashes are remarkable trees, with their straight, smooth, greyish trunks and gorgeous rippling leaves from spring to autumn. The leaves arrive much later than they do on other trees but they are also the last to go, hanging on until some particularly violent autumn weather - usually in November - finally strips them bare.
The archetypal literary image of November is, of course, Hood's poem: "No sun - no moon! No morn - no noon! No dawn - no dusk - no proper time of day," culminating in "No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds - November!"
Today though, I have a beautiful, haunting tune in mind as I'm walking. It's "The January Man" by Dave Goulder (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dave_Gou... - no connection with the film of the same name, as far as I know) and it includes the line: "The poor November Man sees fire and wind and mist and rain and winter air." The version I can hear playing in my mind, a wonderful accompaniment to the walk, the grey sky and the few remaining leaves as they whirl past, is by harpist Wendy Stewart. I can hear it as plainly as if I were wearing earphones, but I'm not. It's just there, for me, evoked by the landscape and the weather.
That's November's gift. November challenges and dares more than any other month of the year, but if you accept the challenge and get out into the wind and rain then there is a present for you. It's the reminder to be thankful that you can walk, that you do feel invigorated afterwards, that there is a fire waiting for you when you get home and some hot soup and someone or something to cuddle. Also, a sense of virtue that means you are entitled to spend as much time as you can curled up on the sofa with a cup of hot chocolate and a good book this month.
Perhaps it's not surprising that we want to start Christmas earlier and earlier. I remember how, as a child, I used to keep a Christmas countdown diary right through the autumn, checking off the days as the wonderful evening approached. Christmas Eve was the magical time. Rarely, if ever, did Christmas Day live up to its promise.
November has hidden charms, though. As Findlay the dog carefully places one of his three frisbees on my knee and looks at me appealingly, I know there will be rewards. Geoff and I put on yet another pair of leaking wellingtons or still damp boots and tolerate November's jeers as it throws a bucket of horizontal rain over us. The first reward is the flight of birds from the feeders. They come back almost immediately and ask for a top-up. The next is the heron separating himself from the yellow flood to swirl around over the tops of the trees and then return to his original spot, waiting for our return, when he will take off again. Then there is the wind. Bracing is a great word, covering a multitude of sins. Bracing it is.
There probably won't be much to see in the way of wildlife this morning because they are, sensibly, mostly at home and some of them, the wisest perhaps, are heading into hibernation. But there are a few flocks of finches and siskins flying about and the dog finds plenty of trails to follow, despite the torrential rain of the past few days. He gallops under the leafless ash trees, up a steep slope that is red brown and purplish-black as old bracken alternates with dead willow herb. The colours and shapes at this time of year are stately and Baroque. The dog collects his frisbee, throws it triumphantly in the air and catches it. I think about the fungal disease that threatens the ashes and wonder whether it will reach our part of the forest. The dog certainly won't be spreading it because he has no chance of entering the house or the car without having his feet washed, wherever we go. He's splattered with mud and completely exuberant about it.
The ashes are remarkable trees, with their straight, smooth, greyish trunks and gorgeous rippling leaves from spring to autumn. The leaves arrive much later than they do on other trees but they are also the last to go, hanging on until some particularly violent autumn weather - usually in November - finally strips them bare.
The archetypal literary image of November is, of course, Hood's poem: "No sun - no moon! No morn - no noon! No dawn - no dusk - no proper time of day," culminating in "No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds - November!"
Today though, I have a beautiful, haunting tune in mind as I'm walking. It's "The January Man" by Dave Goulder (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dave_Gou... - no connection with the film of the same name, as far as I know) and it includes the line: "The poor November Man sees fire and wind and mist and rain and winter air." The version I can hear playing in my mind, a wonderful accompaniment to the walk, the grey sky and the few remaining leaves as they whirl past, is by harpist Wendy Stewart. I can hear it as plainly as if I were wearing earphones, but I'm not. It's just there, for me, evoked by the landscape and the weather.
That's November's gift. November challenges and dares more than any other month of the year, but if you accept the challenge and get out into the wind and rain then there is a present for you. It's the reminder to be thankful that you can walk, that you do feel invigorated afterwards, that there is a fire waiting for you when you get home and some hot soup and someone or something to cuddle. Also, a sense of virtue that means you are entitled to spend as much time as you can curled up on the sofa with a cup of hot chocolate and a good book this month.
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