Spirit of Nature

Wild Church: Part 1 (Into the Peace of Wild Things)

I’m not alone in finding my faith evolving and metamorphosing as the years go on. In my case, it seems to be continually re-shaped by my experiences of life, work, church, society, and perhaps most of all…my personality.

A Cleopatra butterfly (taken last year in Corfu), illustrating the majesty of metamorphosis

Some people are very good at settling into a pattern, a routine, a belief system, a worldview, especially by the time they get to my grand old age of 60. Me – not so much. My therapist insightfully pointed out that, as my Christian conversion was the result of a spiritual and literal journey, it’s not that surprising that I find myself still on a pilgrimage nearly 40 years later.

Like Bono, expressing the ‘now and the not yet’ of the Christian faith in I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For, there’s always a sense of reaching out for something beyond.

Now and not yet: The winter brightness of Snowdrops, with the promise of Spring ahead

And so for the last few years I’ve longed for a different way of doing ‘church’ – one that’s contemplative and connects with God (or the Divine) through Nature. In other words, a wide open, expansive way of worship inspired by Celtic and Franciscan spirituality.

As has happened at other times in my life, having waited and watched for someone or something else to join and not found it / them, I did something about it myself.

So in September 2025, Wild Church was born, initially with the working name of Peace of Wild Things (from the Wendell Berry poem).

Old St Helen’s Church ruins, Hastings: one of the first places Wild Church met. Maybe a ‘thin place’.

Since then, we’ve met monthly, on a Saturday – a small group of friends, invited through word of mouth – in a variety of green spaces around Hastings, to reflect, pray (silently), and draw inspiration from Nature, recognising creation as the first ‘Bible’, written approx. 13.8 billion years before the OT and NT scriptures.

“Every ray of light…is a psalm with no punctuation, no pretense, no filter”
(Psalm 19 paraphrase by Virgin Monk Boy)

The group’s values include:

“Community over institution.
Informal and organic.
Inclusive and expansive.
Trying to stay small.
Dogs and children welcome.
Tree-hugging allowed – and even encouraged!”

Trying to stay small at the same time as inclusive is a tricky balance. When we reached the dizzy heights of 7 and then 9 people attending, I joked that we were practically a mega-church. There’s been quite a bit of interest – I think the group will grow, and if it does, we’ll do our best to retain a sense of intimacy.

For our first gathering we started with a short walk in which all were encouraged to notice, collect or photograph something that caught their attention, and then comment on this in the group, by way of an ice-breaker and introduction.

Conkers in Newgate Woods, the first venue we met at

One friend commented on the ancientness of the woodland around us and a sense of our connection with ancient practices, ancient faith and with those who have gone before us, and their interaction with the same land and Spirit.

I like that.

After the welcome, we tend to have a time of contemplative prayer (which you could also call meditation), introduced with some slowed breathing to help us become present. I usually remind the group that when we become present, we encounter God because God is Yahweh (I Am); in other words Presence itself.

At our last session I led us in a body scan as a mindfulness exercise, which I shamelessly Christianised using words from Psalm 139, to meditate on how wonderfully we’re made as we focused on each part of our body, and on how we are one with the Earth and Nature (see Psalm 139:15).

We’ve reflected quite a lot on the interconnectedness of all things, partly inspired by my concurrent reading of Entangled Life by fungi expert Merlin Sheldrake and Rob Bell’s Everything is Spiritual. Both books speak of ‘entanglement’: one in the context of mycelium[1]; the other in quantum physics[2]. Both give clues about the physical interrelatedness of the universe that spiritual traditions have espoused for thousands of years.

I’ve been especially fascinated by lichen, partly because they buck the evolutionary trend of species diverging from each other, resulting instead from the convergence of algae and fungi. One organism formed from two. In fact, it was lichen that gave rise to the first scientific use of the word ‘symbiosis’ in 1877 and led to a whole host of other symbiotic discoveries.

Lichen (oakmoss, I think) with sloes (blackthorn)

Again, Nature (or The Divine, through Nature) has much to say about the strength of diversity and interdependence: something that certain governments desperately need to understand right now.

Turkeytail and Jelly-ear fungi sharing space

Also, reflecting on this, it speaks to me of how my (once more exclusivist) Christian faith has converged with other ancient spiritual beliefs and practices – in much the same way that the Celts’ adoption of Christianity subsumed their existing connections with the land – resulting for me in a new, richer, broader spirituality which, although still Christian-based, is hard to define by just one of its parts.

I’m loving Wild Church. It’s been a breath of fresh air – literally! – after the indoor noisiness of ‘normal’ church. I enjoy the preparation, the gatherings themselves, hearing the thoughts and longings of others, and writing reflectively about it – like this.

I plan to write a shorter piece than this introductory post after each gathering in future.

Each session is concluded with a blessing, poem or prayer, from the likes of Mary Oliver or John O’Donohue. Last time we finished with this blessing from John Philip Newell[3]:

Awake, O my soul,

And know that you are born of the earth.

Awake to your love for her,

Sown like a seed in the womb of your beginnings.

Honour her, protect her, cherish and adore her.

Awake, O my soul,

And know that you are born of the earth.

Awake, O my soul. Awake.

Snowdrops and crocuses, awakened from the earth, Ashburnham Place, 30/1/26

—–

All photos mine but no copyright.

If you’re local and want to find out more with a view to maybe joining us (and making us a mega-mega-church!), please feel free to contact me, Roger Nuttall.

[1] In mycology, “entangle” refers to the literal and functional intertwining of fungal filaments (hyphae) to form complex networks, as well as the metaphorical, deeply connected, and symbiotic relationships fungi have with other organisms and their environment. (Google)

[2] Quantum entanglement is a physics phenomenon where two or more particles become linked, sharing the same fate so their quantum states are interdependent, regardless of the distance separating them, meaning measuring one instantly influences the other’s state, like synchronized dice, without any signal traveling between them, a key feature of quantum mechanics described by Einstein as “spooky action at a distance”. (Google)

[3] From his wonderful book, Sacred Earth Sacred Soul, on Celtic Christianity.

Ivy Infusion

Last month, I sat in a tranquil garden in Devon, admiring an eye-pleasing, ivy-covered apple tree. Although I didn’t think to take a photo (I know – unusual for me!), I did contemplate the viney view.

The tree looked very healthy, with ripened fruit scattered about on the lawn (attracting seagulls of all things).

However, I wasn’t entirely sure whether Common Ivy (Hedera helix) was parasitic or not, so had to google it to check.

It’s not.

Hoverfly on Ivy, West Hill, Hastings, 21/9/25

In fact, the Royal Horticultural Society informs us:

“Maligned and misunderstood, ivy is often accused of strangling plants. While it may need controlling to keep it in check, particularly where it creeps into borders, ivy doesn’t directly harm trees and is a fantastic plant for wildlife.”

The ivy I saw certainly wasn’t doing the thriving apple tree any harm.

Hoverfly feeding on an ivy flower, Hastings, 28/9/25

Ivy provides incredible resources for wildlife, including shelter, nesting-places and food for a wide range of insects and birds.

Thick, woody ivy roots, covered in holes and webs, indicating a wealth of invertebrate life

The leaves are the food-plant for the Holly Blue butterfly and the Swallow-tailed moth.

Her flowers provide pollen and nectar late into the season for many insects such as bees, hoverflies, wasps, butterflies and moths.

Hornet Mimic Hoverfly on ivy flowers, Winchelsea, 6/9/25

Ivy’s high-fat berries are a rich source of food for numerous garden birds including blackbirds, finches, thrushes, doves, starlings, waxwings and pigeons.

As I contemplated the ivy-apple tree in Devon last month, considering the richness it brings to its surroundings and yet the misdirected judgment it sometimes receives from the ignorant, an obvious parallel sprang to mind, as the ongoing debate about immigration continues.

Education and information, alongside personal encounters, can help to break down our prejudices and promote appreciation of maligned and misunderstood creatures, whether arboreal or human.

—–

(As usual, all photos mine but I’m not precious about them, i.e. no copyright, so feel free to use!)

I spent the first part of each morning in quiet contemplation and prayer in the garden, overlooking a field inhabited by swallows and actual hares! In fact, in the couple of days we spent in this rural part of Suffolk, I saw more hares than I’d ever seen before in my life (having been able to count previous sightings on one hand).

When you see a hare, you know it’s a hare, not a rabbit – by its long, black-tipped ears and long legs

It was wonderful to see and photograph all manner of other wildlife too, in and around Aldeburgh.

Little Egret, coming down to land, next to river Alde

I’m proud to be able to say that I genuinely barely thought about work during our short break away. Times in Nature, walking and taking photos, helps me to practise mindfulness, to be present.

Or, as a long contemplative Christian tradition puts it, to “practise the presence of God.”

I think that’s one of many reasons I like to spend time outdoors. Hopefully the practice of Presence in Nature carries over into the times I spend with other people, whether with family, friends, or at work – despite the charge of “going at 1000 miles an hour”!

And perhaps in time I can also learn to be more like the proverbial tortoise and less like the hare.

There’s a worship song from the ‘90s that starts with the words, “You are here and I behold your beauty.” The song’s writer, Brian Doerksen, recognises the pre-existing presence of God, that needs no hype, no Hail Marys, no charismania, to enter into. Simply stillness, to recognise the Presence that is already – always – there.

Resting swallows, just outside the cabin

It’s a beautiful song, which I enjoy at face value. But I also like to turn some songs around, so in this case, instead of the words being sung from us to God, they become an expression of welcome from God to us.

“You are here”: in other words, God (or Presence / Yahweh / Love / Source / Father – whatever word you like to use[1]) being pleased at our presence. This, I believe, is the spiritual dynamic when we show up – in stillness, in silence, in mindful awareness[2].

The Scallop: sculpture on Aldeburgh beach, which captured my attention
(I’ve ‘doctored’ this photo more than I would normally, but I like the effect in this case)

“…and I behold your beauty”: I believe in the beauty of humanity. I believe humankind gets a bad rap. And I do understand why. Secularists might point to our selfish destruction of the planet; our genocides and greed. Some branches of Christianity speak of original sin and the total depravity of man. But personally, I believe that “God” (being Love) sees through the ugly outward layers to the total worth and dignity of every human being. That God says to us: “I behold your beauty.”

And perhaps, the more we can believe that about ourselves and each other, the more we might live up to our inherent worth and turn the tide of human and planetary destruction.

Some might call me an optimist.

Please feel free to comment. I am here.

All photos mine, between 4th – 6th August 2025, in Suffolk.

As I always say: there’s no copyright – feel free to use my photos for any purpose, if useful to you, with my blessing!

[1] My preference is for the name Yahweh, the name for God revealed by God to Moses, and the earliest biblical self-revelation of God’s identity. ‘Yahweh’, meaning ‘I Am’, indicates eternal Presence, Self-Being; that God just is, and always will be. That God is Presence itself. Hence my belief that when we practise presence (stillness, mindfulness, being present), we encounter Presence (I Am), whatever our faith or non-faith.

[2] See above.

Sharing Space

In the ‘90s egrets were such a rare sight in the UK that the bird book I have from that time doesn’t include any egret species. But in 1996 Little Egrets started breeding here in the UK. Now in 2025, thankfully, they’re a common sight. Some wildlife is flourishing in England.

Less familiar is the Great White Egret, but this too is enjoying an increase, particularly in south-east England and East Anglia. A few pairs are now breeding in England.

Even rarer to the UK is the Cattle Egret, which I’ve seen in France but not here (yet).

Great White Egret (*Ardea alba*), Pevensey Levels

In June this year I stopped to photograph a Great White Egret I’d spotted while driving along Pevensey Levels, East Sussex.

This member of the heron family is still rare enough for me to get quite excited at the opportunity to take some photos when I see one.

As if that wasn’t enough, I then watched it return from where it had been fishing, to its young just behind the pool of water. Wow, I thought, Great White Egrets are breeding here in East Sussex and I get the chance to photograph this young family!

Except…when I got home and looked at the photos, the other birds turned out not to be young Great White Egrets but a Little Egret and a Grey Heron.

L-R: Grey Heron; Little Egret; Great White Egret

Three birds of different species – but same family – hanging out together, sharing fishing space, sharing territory….

…looking very relaxed and at ease together.

If only, as Jesus suggested to his Middle Eastern audience, we could look at the birds and learn from them.

Imagine, if we humans – different but the same – one family – could learn to share space and resources in a similar way, whether in Gaza, our city centres or anywhere else.

Learning from the Swallows

Swallows have a special place in the hearts, culture and folklore of the Greeks.

Every year huge numbers (estimated in the millions) of these beloved hirundines migrate from Africa into Europe, including the UK, with a very significant proportion stopping and breeding in Greece.

Swallows, of which several species (not just the Barn Swallow known to us Brits) breed in Greece, are seen as bringers of Spring in that country as well as here in the UK.

One of the other swallow species found in Greece: the Red-rumped Swallow (*Cecropis daurica*)

At the hotel on Corfu where I had the privilege of enjoying a wonderful holiday last month, numerous Barn Swallows (Hirundo rustica) flew in and out of a covered, semi-open entertainment area on the edge of the facility, their forked tails sweeping sharply through the air. Here, in the rafters right above the heads of hotel customers, the birds nested, bred, and raised their young. In line with Greek culture, the staff seemed to actively welcome the birds, rather than see them as a nuisance. (Swallows don’t seem to make as much mess as pigeons or gulls!)

A few of the many Barn Swallows taking advantage of free accommodation at the hotel!

While watching them one day, I recalled a psalm[1], in which King David expressed yearning to be back in the temple of Jerusalem and reflected on how even the sparrows and swallows had found a home there in the consecrated building.

The psalm was an expression of David’s longing for God’s presence, which he associated with the familiar place of worship, with a sense of envy that even the birds were able to find a place there – close to God, as it were.

Three young swallows in a more ‘natural’ habitat, waiting to be fed

Humanity has a soul-longing for God, or Presence, or The Divine, or Oneness, or Peace. Some might say they’re all the same thing. Maybe. People search for this spiritual wholeness in all kinds of ways and places.

Many would say you don’t need to be in a special building to find God – that God is everywhere – but that worshipping with others who share the same faith is what matters. And that often happens in buildings set aside for the purpose.

Others (including me) would agree to a certain extent, but would add that some buildings with a strong spiritual history have become “thin places”, defined by one writer like this:

“They are locales where the distance between heaven and earth collapses and we’re able to catch glimpses of the divine, or the transcendent or, as I like to think of it, the Infinite Whatever.”[2]

It seems the Temple in Jerusalem was seen in that way by the people of Israel.

I’ve heard people in recent years say that Nature is their “church”, their “cathedral”, their place of worship. I also lean in this direction.

Wild areas, not just buildings, can be “thin places.”

And despite David’s understandable longing for the place of community worship, it seems clear from even a casual read of his other psalms, that he too found the face and voice of the Divine in the wilderness.

John Muir, the Scottish-American naturalist and adventurer, was a vital prophet for conservation in the 19^th and 20^th Centuries. He was, very literally, a “voice crying out in the wilderness” that needs to be heard today. He spoke of the forests and mountains as “God’s first temples” that were being “desecrated” through deforestation and industrialisation.

For Muir, the God essence flowed through mountain granites as much as through trees, whether living or fallen. “These brown weeds and grasses that we say are dying in autumn frosts are in a gushing glowing current of life; they too are Godful.”[3]

The wilderness was emphatically Muir’s temple.

Returning to the swallows in the hotel – later the same day, after reminding myself of Psalm 84, my family and I visited a Byzantine church, popular with tourists, in Kassiopi, a short bus ride from our accommodation.

And here, just like in David’s psalm, swallows were feeding their young in the wooden rafters of the courtyard – again, I suspect, welcomed by the leaders and caretakers of the church, and again reminding me of David’s hunger for Presence.

As an adult swallow (both parents feed their young) visited one of the nests at the church with a tasty morsel for its chicks, I clicked the camera button – just too late! The adult had gone. But actually, what I was left with was a photo I’m proud of – these three hungry mouths clamouring for food:

Pulling together these reflections on all these wondrous sights and photos, I sense a reminder to nurture my spiritual hunger and thirst.

Like David, to recognise, above all, my need for Spirit, for connection with the Divine, above all the other desires and distractions that call for my soul’s attention.

Like the swallows, mouths agape for parents’ provision, to keep directing my hunger towards Father/Mother God’s nourishment.

As Jesus said, to keep looking to the birds and nature to see and hear God.

And like John Muir, to keep recognising and revering the sacredness of all things, and not to be afraid to see Nature as my church – while also, like David, seeking out a worshipful community of people.

(All photos taken by me, between 26th and 31st May 2025, in Corfu, and – as I always say – no copyright – feel free to use any photos with my blessing.)

[1] Psalm 84 Psalm 84 NIV – Psalm 84 – For the director of music. – Bible Gateway

[2] Eric Weiner, New York Times, 2012. Thin Places, Where We Are Jolted Out of Old Ways of Seeing the World – The New York Times

[3] Sacred Earth Sacred Soul by John Philip Newell (William Collins, 2022) – a book I highly recommend for anyone with leanings towards a Celtic / contemplative approach to faith.

Spring’s Song

On this beautiful Sunday morning, when I’m avoiding church because of a nasty, chesty virus I’ve succumbed to (although, it should be said, I often stay at home on Sunday mornings just to have some much-needed quiet contemplation time, anyway!), these words on the Lectio 365 app caught my attention:

“An ancient text for Jewish believers, the Passover Haggadah, describes Sabbath as ‘the lived enactment of the messianic age’, when we may enjoy a foretaste of the coming ‘world of peace in which striving and conflict are (temporarily) at an end, and all creation sings a song of being to its Creator.’”

I love the way ancient Jewish traditions recognise the relationship between all of creation (not just humanity) and the Divine. Their scriptures often, poetically anthropomorphise Nature, speaking of trees and rivers clapping their hands, mountains bursting into joyful song, and rocks crying out.[1]

Many (or most) ancient cultures held or still hold a reverence for Nature (even if the monotheistic ones make it clear they “worship the Creator, not the creation”) because of their close relationship with and dependence on the land and, from a Judeo-Christian perspective (thinking of the Creation poem in Genesis), an innate awareness of common roots, common Divine Source, with the rest of the Universe.

Most of us now, in the 21^st Century, live lives that are tragically detached from the natural world that we are inherently part of – to the detriment of our mental and spiritual health. No wonder being in Nature helps us to reconnect with ourselves, with the Universe, and with the Divine, and has proven benefits for mental health.

I take walks into Nature every day, usually with the dog, often with my camera, and always with appreciation. The woods and fields are a kind of church, a cathedral, you might say, where I commune with my surroundings and, through them, with God (while also recognising my need for human connection).

On this sunny April Sunday, like many other Sundays, instead of going to church, a short walk out in the woods is part of my Sabbath celebration. The Lectio 365 image of creation bursting into song seems to perfectly depict the sights and sounds of this current season, when Spring is now in full display here in Southern England.

Birds are nesting, courting, and creating symphonies of mating calls. The range of wildflower species emerging is expanding every day.

Butterflies and other insects are increasingly on the wing, despite the cold, prevailing north-east wind.

The images interspersed between these words are some of the photos I’ve taken of Spring’s joyful song along my walks over the last 2-3 weeks.

Hope you too are enjoying the jubilant unfurling of Spring’s promises.

[1] E.g. Psalm 98; Isaiah 35; Isaiah 55; Luke 19.

Misty Morning Reflection

“Walking in the park just the other day, baby, What do you, what do you think I saw?” (Led Zeppelin – Misty Mountain Hop)

This is what I saw in the park the other day:

The morning sun gently stretching out her fingers to caress a misty world,

Speaking of hope,

Of warmth, of love,

Her rays reflecting back to her, reassuring us that there can be – and is – good down here as well as up there:

“On earth as it is in heaven”.

Alexandra Park, Hastings 6.3.25

Ancient Springs

Some faith traditions, including Celtic Christianity, see the divine as a subterranean river flowing through all things.

Even earlier Christian writers claimed that Christ was the cohesive force of the universe (Colossians 1:17); and a Greek (pre-Christian) source, quoted by the apostle Paul, claimed that in God we all “live and move and exist” (Acts 17:28).

This cross-cultural idea is expressed through many different analogies and metaphors in a spectrum of faiths, all pointing to a collective but ultimately inexpressible, instinctual concept of the transcendent.

To illustrate this spiritual stream, the photos here are of an ancient spring I came across recently: the Spring of St Helen, in St Helen’s Woods, Hastings.

(Despite living in this town for 20 years and many visits to St Helen’s Woods, I’d never seen this spring. But then St Helen is, among other things the patron saint of new discoveries – very pertinent!)

Natural, clean sources of water like this were, of course, absolutely vital to past communities. Maybe it’s because they were so essential to life and health that they were sometimes described as ‘living waters’, revered as holy, and often believed to have healing properties.

It’s worth remembering that the root of the word ‘holy’ is also related to wholeness, health and holism, so it’s absolutely fitting that clean sources of water, in days of widespread water-borne diseases, should be held in such high regard – as ‘holy’, or sacred.

I particularly like the subterranean stream image of the divine – it strikes a chord with my own intuitive sense of the universe, as I expressed a few years ago in my personal creed:

“I believe there is an undercurrent of Love in every situation,

even the very worst of circumstances:

a spring of compassion and mercy running through the fibre of the universe (the presence of Yahweh),

from which we can draw strength when our own resources run dry.”

Base of an ancient oak ‘guarding’ the spring – and reminding us of our roots

As an expression of the Celtic outlook, John Philip Newell, in his enlightening book, Sacred Earth Sacred Soul, has composed this Prayer of Awareness:

Awake, O my soul,

To the flow of the divine deep within you.

Awake to it in every creature, in every woman, in every man.

It is our river of resurrection, the promise of new beginnings.

Awake, O my soul,

To the flow of the divine deep within you.

Awake, O my soul. Awake.

—–

As usual, all photos mine but no copyright. In other words, feel free to use with my blessing!

Egrets, I’ve Had A Few

The first time my wife Janine and I saw a Little Egret was on our honeymoon, in December 1996, in Cuckmere Haven, East Sussex. There were two objects in the distance that looked like white rocks, next to two Grey Herons. A nearby birder explained what they were and kindly invited us to look through his tripod-mounted scope at these two (then, still fairly rare to the UK) birds. In fact, 1996 was the very year that Little Egrets were first found to be breeding in England. They didn’t even get a mention in the bird book that we had then (and still use now, even though it’s clearly out of date).

Little Egret – photo taken in more recent years

Now, 28 years later, Little Egrets are a regular sight across Southern Britain and I’ve managed to photograph quite a few. They’re still always a joy to see but no longer hold the excitement of rarity.

The picture below is my favourite Little Egret photo. I was so pleased to get such a sharp capture in mid-flight with what was quite a basic DSLR camera.

In more recent years, the Great White Egret, which I’d previously only seen on holiday in France and Holland, has also spread northward into Britain, with some pairs even beginning to breed here, although still quite a rare sight.

I’ve seen a small handful of Great White Egrets in the last few years, the most recent being this one…

…on 10th December 2024, near Rye Harbour Nature Reserve. I had a much-needed day of lone walking on the 1066 Country Walk, covering just under 7 miles in cold, almost-constant drizzle. I’d been desperate for this break from work and other commitments, to walk, pray, meditate and photograph nature – and really didn’t care what the weather did! The only thing was: I was constantly trying to keep the (now more expensive) camera dry under my coat, which made the photography much more challenging. But when this Great White Egret flew past, I swung round and took a few snaps as quick as I could, and was thrilled with these results of this magnificent bird.

In these days of devastating nature depletion, especially here in Britain, it’s always so incredibly heartening to hear of species successes and expanding ranges, and it’s important, I think, to celebrate these.

This post is a celebration of two of those successes. An ode to two flourishing Egrets.

And the title, in case it’s not obvious, is a nod to the song My Way (the Sid Vicious version, of course, that I grew up with!) that includes the line Egrets, I’ve had a few. Or maybe that was Regrets. Oh well, it was close.

Embracing Change

Yesterday afternoon I drove down to the local beach at Bulverhythe for a run, but as I started out, quickly realised I just didn’t have the energy. I decided to make the most of being there anyway and instead had a slow, mindful walk, to enjoy watching the sea and the wildlife. So glad I did.

I stood on some barnacled rocks by the shoreline, and witnessed a slow stream of 20-30 swallows fly across my vision, from West to East, over the space of several minutes. No doubt they were on their way to gathering together ready for their migration South, feeding on insects along the way to garner strength before the mammoth journey.

Having basked in this unexpected display, I looked down and there were at least a dozen turnstones mooching around on the rocks, just a few feet away from me, completely unperturbed by my presence.

Turnstone at Bulverhythe (taken in 2022)

As I jogged slowly back to the car, I wondered afterwards why the swallows were travelling East before heading South. Perhaps they somehow ‘knew’ the Channel crossing is shorter from along the coast towards Dover?

The day before, walking down to our local woods, I was treated to the sight of numerous House Martins circling high overhead – another sign of preparation for mass migration. I rarely see House Martins round this way, so I guess they must have been congregating from quite a wide radius.

And a few weeks ago, in Hastings Country Park, I was thrilled to see a small flock of Yellow Wagtails, also likely to have been assembling for a southbound exodus. It was only the second time I’ve definitively seen a Yellow Wagtail, so a real treat.

Yellow Wagtails, Hastings Country Park, 8/9/24

Autumn is many wonderful things, including a time of natural endings, of letting go, and embracing necessary change.

Being a witness to the miracle of migration feels like a marvellous privilege.

And these experiences, these close encounters with seasonal rhythms, fill me with a sense of excited awe, anticipation, of being swept up into something incredible, of endless possibilities. I love Summer – I’m always sad to leave it behind – but as Autumn gets into full swing, I find that Nature provides plenty new nourishment for my soul.