Summer

by Melissa Harrison

  Water betony, or persicaria, lifts its pink spikes everywhere, tiny florets close together round the stem at the top; the leaves are willow-shaped, and there is scarcely a hollow or break in the bank where the earth has fallen which is not clothed with them. A mile or two up the river the tansy is plentiful, bearing golden buttons, which, like every fragment of the feathery foliage, if pressed in the fingers, impart to them a particular scent. There, too, the yellow loose-strife pushes up its tall slender stalks to the top of the low willow bushes, that the bright yellow flowers may emerge from the shadow.

  The river itself, the broad stream, ample and full, exhibits all its glory in this reach; from One Tree to the Lock it is nearly straight, and the river itself is everything. Between wooded hills, or where divided by numerous islets, or where trees and hedges enclose the view, the stream is but part of the scene. Here it is all. The long raised bank without a hedge or fence, with the cornfields on its level, simply guides the eye to the water. Those who are afloat upon it insensibly yield to the influence of the open expanse.

  The boat whose varnished sides but now slipped so gently that the cutwater did not even raise a wavelet, and every black rivet head was visible as a line of dots, begins to forge ahead. The oars are dipped farther back, and as the blade feels the water holding it in the hollow, the lissome wood bends to its work. Before the cutwater a wave rises, and, repulsed, rushes outwards. At each stroke, as the weight swings towards the prow, there is just the least faint depression at its stem as the boat travels. Whirlpool after whirlpool glides from the oars, revolving to the rear with a threefold motion, round and round, backwards and outwards. The crew impart their own life to their boat; the animate and inanimate become as one, the boat is no longer wooden but alive.

  Richard Jefferies, Nature Near London, 1883

  Of the Solstitial Season perhaps it may be said that it is the most delightful of the whole year; for though the period we have just been considering is the most adorned with blossoms, yet the days are now attained to their full length, a beautiful twilight takes the place of night, and we seldom or never feel cold, except in particular unseasonable years. Besides this the air is generally calm and wholesome, and though sometimes great heat prevails, yet it is relieved by thundershowers, and the evenings are refreshing and delightful.

  Full grown grass in the meadows, the flowering of the purple Clover, of the midsummer Daisy, of the Yellow Rattle Rhinanthus Crista Galli, and in the corn fields of red Poppy, mark the approach of the solstice. In our gardens the Scarlet Lightning Lychnis Chalcedonica, the Sweet Williams Dianthus barbatus, Pinks, and the whole of that beautiful tribe the Roses, besides numerous other plants, are peculiar to this season, and would be a certain mark of its presence to any botanist who might, after a long voyage, be shipwrecked without any almanack on our shores. Sheepshearing takes place early in this season. Dyer, in his Poem of the ‘Fleece’, says:

  ‘— If verdant Elder spread

  Her silver flowers, if humble Daisies yield

  To yellow Crowfoot and luxuriant grass,

  Gay shearing time approaches.’

  The flowering of the Elder is a phenomenon of the early part of this season; the Hawthorn still continues in bloom, but the fruit trees are out of flower and the fruit set.

  Most of the Lilies flower in this season, the yellow Pompoon is the first, the orange Lily follows; last the Turk’s caps and the white Lily. In the early part of the season the major part of the species of Iris flower.

  Some fruits are ripe towards the end of this season. Scarlet Strawberries come into season about the 15th June, the larger sorts before midsummer day; Maydock Cherries ripen at the same time, and the first week of July generally colours the red, white, and black Currants. [. . .]

  During the Solstitial Season the interesting business of haymaking takes place. Meadow grass is generally cut about London by the 15th of June; indeed the haymaking of this district usually occurs between St. Barnaby tide and St. Swithin; in London’s immediate neighbourhood it is usually over a week or ten days sooner than in the country. Milton, in ‘1’ Allegro’, well depicts the scenery and manners of a haymaking in the country, and gives us a lively and natural picture of its rustic festivities.

  This season often closes with very hot weather, which gives place to the aestival rains during the ensuing season; the last fourteen days are called the Dog days.

  Thomas Furly Forster, The Pocket Encyclopaedia

  of Natural Phenomena, published 1827

  If you’ve ever spent time by a freshwater river or lake then you will probably have seen mayflies as they dance gracefully over the water, skimming the surface and tempting the fish below to leap out at the chance of a delicious mouthful. These ancient insects have a 300-million-year history yet have barely changed since they flew alongside dinosaurs.

  Mayflies have enchanted writers and poets for centuries. The philosopher Aristotle was particularly intrigued by them, describing mayflies as ‘peculiar, bloodless animals’, and giving them their original name of ephemeron or ‘dayfly’, meaning ‘short living’. Like many others, Aristotle believed that this insect lived just for a single day to complete its one and only objective; to breed. In just one day they are born, they grow, they dance, they mate, they die. Yet however short their lifespan, mayflies have survived far longer than most species on our planet. Their basic life cycle is incredibly successful. For me, it is a joy to watch a horde of mayflies, erratically flying, buzzing around in different directions, simply hoping to bump into a mate, and in so doing, supporting a plethora of life year after year. They tell us about water health, and play a vital part in the food chain.

  Mayflies are embedded in our history, folklore and literature. In Hans Christian Andersen’s story ‘The Old Oak Tree’s Last Dream’, the oak tree feels saddened that the mayfly’s life is so short, with some species only managing a few hours as adults. Yet because mayflies spend most of their life in larval form, in reality they live for much longer. Depending on which of Britain’s fifty-one species of mayfly larvae they are, the naiads or nymphs burrow, crawl or swim. Crawling naiads tend to be found in fast-moving bodies of water, their strong, clawed legs preventing them from being dragged away by the current. Swimming naiads prefer a faster moving river as this helps to propel them from place to place. Burrowing mayflies are an immensely important bio-indicator, as the nymphs are sensitive to freshwater pollution and their presence, or lack of it, gives an indication of the state of the water’s health. Fishermen rejoice at the sign of them, as mayfly are great prey, particularly for trout; they have been used in fishing practices for hundreds of years, with even the Romans making reference to their usefulness.

  When the nymphs do hatch, there is a feeding frenzy. Fishermen keeping watch on the insects’ life cycle head to the rivers in their droves at the beginning of the mayflies’ emergence as fish leap up, breaking the water’s surface and launching themselves into the air, mouths agape in hope of catching a mayfly morsel. It is a spectacle for anyone to see.

  After spending anything from several months to a few years in this larval form mayflies skip the pupal stage altogether. When the time has come, the naiad floats to the surface and emerges flat on the water, sloughing off its exoskeleton and emerging as a sum-imago or dun. After a short period in this form, the exoskeleton will then be shed for the last time as the insect makes its final transition into adult form. This process is unique to mayflies, as they are the only living insect which moults a second time after forming wings.

  Adults emerge during the day, usually on the water’s surface. This is a highly vulnerable time, as they must remain on the water while they wait for their newly formed wings to dry out. This makes them easy prey for other animals such as fish, frogs, bats and birds. The newly emerged adults are usually more colourful, with intricate markings and shimmering, glass-like wings. They swarm above the water’s surface, their newly formed iridescent wings reflecting the sunlight.

  After th
eir wings have dried, they take flight. The males will begin to ‘dance’, creating huge, billowing clouds like smoke as they rhythmically bob up and down over the surface of the water, their two front legs outstretched, reaching out to find their life’s purpose. Females will fly directly into the swarm where a male grabs her with his outstretched limbs, securing his mate. The females have no choice of partner and on occasions males will sometimes wait on top of newly emerged females to ensure they are able to fulfil their life’s task. Copulation takes place in the air and impregnation is quick.

  Mating is the sole purpose: shortly after the females have laid their eggs, the mayflies’ life will come to an end, their bodies gobbled up by chancers beneath the surface. If they die en masse, then hordes of bodies can litter the bankside, turning the air sour as they decay. On the Mississippi river in America, male mayflies annually swarm onto land like a dense, heavy snowstorm and then die, leaving behind mountains of corpses several feet deep. The carcass piles can take days to remove and have been known to cause serious traffic accidents.

  We might think that their short life is a sad one, but as the mayfly in Hans Christian Andersen’s tale said, ‘You have thousands of my days to live, but I have thousands of moments in which to be happy and joyous.’

  Alexandra Pearce, 2016

  The day is starting late in the Kinder river valley: low cloud drifts, lifts and then droops again; rain follows the airstream. Trees grown tall as they search for more light, swaying threateningly on shallow roots constrained by gritstone bedrock. Rain bands sweep over: fine and enveloping or hard and heavy, slashing and flattening the hay meadows.

  The High Peak still has some mature hayfields, and at this time of year knapweed, meadow foxtail, yellow rattle, plantains and vetches all make focus points in the undulating seas of grass. The scent of herbs fills the air if the sun shines. Some of the grass lies flattened but uncut, and some is cut and mouldering in the rain. Here and there, some has already been mown and gathered: tram-lined fields show buff, pale and green where farmers are hoping there will be enough summer for regeneration and another cut. They’ll need it to winter the sheep.

  Somehow, the patchy hayfield hillside pattern matches the ewes hereabouts: some shorn, most – because of the late-lasting cold weather – not. Gobbets of shedding fleece catch the breeze, flying and tumbling and picking up moss until thistles hold them fast.

  Meanwhile, the ragged ewes walk on, trails of fleece blowing in their faces, like a vain old man’s comb-over caught by the sea-breeze off Blackpool Pier. Some ewes have moulted a whole flank and a glimpse of scalp-pink skin shows beneath the growing summer coat.

  We’ve gathered some of the shed fleece and scoured it. Yes, real wool-gathering, just as in the origins of the sixteenth-century phrase. Meandering hither and yon, untangling the fleece, careful of the thistle spines as we walk to the next tress that catches our eye. Watching sheep at a distance, you wouldn’t think they have their own scent, but a bag of raw fleece has its own bouquet – herby molasses and coal tar soap. Not that unpleasant for a year without a bath. When we’ve had the best of the summer and indoor pastimes prevail, I’ll have a go at spinning this – either with the spinning wheel or with the drop spindle I’ve been experimenting with here at Farlands. I’ve some wool dyes to try too, but also some lovely dark fleece from a Zwartbles sheep, a Dutch breed with a gold-tipped dark brown-grey coat that comes up interestingly tweedy and flecked. I much prefer natural shades and colour variations to the homogenised synthetic yarns in the shops.

  Later that week, another warm, dry afternoon after so many cold miserable days – perfect for listening to the birds’ post-lunch tune-up while my friend Mary, who has been visiting, packs for her return home. Here, the lambs and sheep punctuate the birdsong as usual: hearing the ewe answer its errant lamb adds that ‘all’s well with the world’ dash to the composition. I could easily drop off, but settle for closed eyes while I recreate the valley image from the sounds.

  Until, that is, the sheep down the lane up their act: no longer are there gaps between the wobbly bleats and throaty mothers’ ‘mehs’; the calls overlap and take on an anxious tone. Sounds as if they’re being moved. Yes, more lambs and mums joining in, along the lane we need to be driving down to catch Mary’s train for Coventry where the nearest you get to sheep is the Children’s Farm, by the worked-out pit. The single track lane with drystone walls on either side. Time to investigate – lean over the five-bar gate, I think. The good news: they’re coming up the lane towards and then past us. Decent sized, sturdy sheep, with broad backs like coffee tables, encouraged on by a sheepdog and the two young men we’ve been seeing working the farm across the lane.

  There is a sea of sheep swimming past our cottage: the ewes have done this before and head the tide. Some are even a bit blasé about it and stop to nibble the roadside plantlife. To some, as always, the grass is greener on our side and they make determined efforts to breach the gritstone wall, but these are chunky beasts and don’t have the jumping ability of, say, the smaller Ronaldsay breed. They also have handy steering devices: the shepherds take them by the horns to point them in the right direction.

  We enjoyed the spectacle – rare for us, but just another day in the life of a young farmer. The sheep cleared the lane in plenty of time for us to get to the station, leaving me quietly glad that they had ground their droppings into the tarmac. Beneficial as it would have been on the allotment, sharing the journey home with a bag of sheep droppings might be taking the recycle mantra a step too far for this Marie-Antoinette.

  Julia Wallis, 2016

  It is now June and the Hay-makers are mustered to make an army for the field, where not alwayes in order, they march under the Bagge and the Bottle, and betwixt the Forke and the Rake, there is seene great force of armes: Now doth the broad Oke comfort the weary Laborer, while under his shady Boughes he sits singing to his bread and cheese: the Hay-cocke is the Poore mans Lodging, and the fresh River is his gracious Neighbor: Now the Faulcon and the Tassell try their wings at the Partridge, and the fat Bucke fils the great pasty: the trees are all in their rich aray: but the seely Sheep is turned out of his coat: the Roses and sweet Herbes put the Distiller to his cunning, while the greene apples on the tree are ready for the great bellied wives: Now begins the Hare to gather up her heeles, and the Foxe lookes about him, for feare of the Hound: the Hooke and the Sickle are making ready for harvest: the Medow grounds gape for raine, and the Corne in the eare begins to harden: and the little Lads make Pipes of the straw, and they that cannot dance, will yet bee hopping: the Ayre now groweth somewhat warme, and the Coole winds are very comfortable: the Sayler now makes merry passage, and the nimble Foot-man runnes with pleasure: In briefe, I thus conclude, I hold it a sweet season, the senses perfume and the spirits comfort.

  Nicholas Breton, Fantasticks:

  Serving for A Perpetuall Prognostication, 1626

  Of all the hills, cliffs and valleys that form the western scarp of the Cotswolds as they slip down into the flood plain of the river Severn, Swift’s Hill must surely be one of finest. Laurie Lee made it famous, but the beatnik letterpress poet in Stroud, Dennis Gould, has done a pretty good job, too.

  It is not easy to find Swift’s Hill. Even those partly familiar with the Slad Valley may fail to notice the sharp right towards The Vatch as they journey up the B4070 from Stroud to Birdlip. Of course the road is winding. Of course it is beautiful, so beautiful, all beech cathedrals and fields gilded with buttercups. Sharp brake. Change to first gear, perhaps second, then go carefully as you navigate the dips and turns in the road, streams, fence posts, farm gates and barns, cattle and maybe even a badger that came to an untimely end on a dark night. Next, a quick right-left hook on to a gravel road. Not too fast and not too far now, either, certainly not past the quarry’s edge. Pull up and park. Others might have reached the site before you – perhaps a lurcher in a distinctive collar, almost certainly a Labrador. But they’ll go. Soon you’ll have the hill to y
ourself.

  Remember your light scarf; the wind always blows on Swift’s Hill. Even on a fine summer evening; even as the harebells and bee orchids flower. Set off. The stiffest route to the crest of the hill leads directly from its base, straight up, starting at a forgotten apple tree in abundant leaf now, green fruit forming. A gentler course meanders round the back of the quarry, its exposed limestone betraying Jurassic secrets. But leave the ammonites where they are, guarded by the ash and hawthorn. Instead, take the more difficult path where the views will be better.

  Do not be mistaken. This is not a walk to be made lightly. Breath will catch; calves will ache; if knees creak, they will do that, too. But at some point as you pause to rest and brush grass seed from your body, a great lungful of clear, sweet, summer air will excite in you the faintest tingle of freedom.

  Keep climbing. At a certain spot, a path following the contour of the hill will cross your way, leading to a wood. Follow it if you wish, but you’ll soon return to the course.

  In the evening sky that shifts from blue to pink to deepening lilac, vapour trails mark the westward journey of aeroplanes overhead. Great metallic carriers guided by the jet stream shuttle passengers across the Atlantic. On and on they fly but here, on the ground at your feet, all of Stroud is laid out, shaken across the valley like the proverbial quilt: a log cabin of pasture and hedgerow dark and light, of triangulated wood and linear settlement. Beyond, the river Severn shines like quicksilver as it snakes south to Bristol. On the horizon, Wales.