Suffolk Lullaby

Oh my, I haven't written my blog since October last year. How remiss of me! Who cares? I do. Why do I care? Because I love writing and I am letting other things distract me. Oh yeah, I'm busy with work and fun, but I'm lazy too.

So this little blog is about something really simple, about the wonderful place I live - near Dunwich, a small village on the East Coast of the UK.

At night I can hear the roar of the sea, and the soughing of the wind in the trees. I call it the 'wind giants' - I imagine them striding through the pines, shaking the trees as they march through, thoughtless for all else but progress from land to sea. I go for long walks with the dogs when it's dark - and I hear the calls of tawny owls, and the frantic flapping of disturbed pheasant and pigeon as the big dog goes chasing them hell for leather.

We hear the bark of the deer - muntjack and red, and the sharp call of the fox, who we often see using our road as his own convenient highway.

When it's damp, the woods release their scent; a fresh wood mould, and the tang of fungi. There is a sharpness when the ferns open, uncurling their fronds and turning the brown undergrowth into a deep carpet of green.

When we sit in our lounge, looking out of the window, we see the squirrels try and defy our latest 'squirrel proof' feeder, and watch the woodpeckers, long tailed tits, marsh, blue and coal tits, swaying as they enjoy the sunflower seeds and peanuts. And sometimes, swooping with deadly speed, we see the sparrowhawk and mourn the loss of one of the smaller birds.

Some Sundays we go to Southwold and walk across the marshes - in summer weather the grass in lush and green, and in the winter we need wellingtons and a careful sense of balance as we negotiate foot-deep swatches. Geese, ducks, lapwing - all circle and land, startled by our presence and the over-enthusiasm of the pack of dogs we and our friends have brought with us to enjoy the exercise.

At home we light the wood burner, and it smokes like a grumpy dragon before sending it's warmth through the room, and through the house. We watch the flames dancing - hypnotised by their colours, their patterns, and the mysteries they suggest. The wood is pine, oak, sycamore - wood that we have cut, that we have split and stacked. Each log is a small testament to our hard work, and we see it go up in flames, delighting and warming us.

Late at night, lying in bed, the wind giants precursor the rain, and the drumming of drops on the window, on the roof, on the grass outside - is a soothing Suffolk lullaby.


Photos: (C) Carolyn Sheppard

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