Being Outside More

  “I’ve put you on Christmas cards today” explains K, handing me a list of children’s names. I am working at a small Forest School setting, covering for a practitioner who is on leave. I was here last week and the sudden temperature drop in a previously mild autumn had taken some children by surprise. This week it feels that equilibrium has been restored, sufficient warm layers applied, a crisp cold day with pale lemon sunlight. And so the year is turning and we must make Christmas cards. Forest School pedagogy is shaped by child-led learning, experimentation, risky play. Which is why when K shows me the Christmas card resources she’s rather apologetic; “The only prescribed craft activity of the year, we don’t usually do this…” she tells me. First I must model writing the child’s name on a whiteboard for them to copy onto a slip of paper which will be pasted inside the card. Then I should direct them to remove their gloves and coat the fingers and most of the palm of one hand with ...

  What should I say about the English Oak (Quercus robur), what stories should I tell, there are so many. A sense of solidity, a constant presence in an English landscape which gives the majority of us a lazy sense that the oak will always be there, a pleasant green backdrop for our wellbeing walks. For example, a stay in a luxury Forest Holidays cabin promises “a natural sanctuary in one of Britain’s most famous oak forests”, with hot tub as standard. Here is the oak as a neatly packaged visitor experience. But cases such the Whitewebbs Park Oak, one of the oldest oaks in London, which was felled in April this year by contractors working for Toby Carvery, suggest that this apparent solidity should not be taken for granted. The tree was listed on the Woodland Trust inventory of ancient trees, but did not have the added legal protection of a tree preservation order. How do we write and make art in the Anthropocene? It sometimes feels like being a very small voice in the midst of so ...

Outside the window is an impressionist painting,  Streaks of taillights Words shout at me from all directions Insomnia cookies coming soon Black Friday week is coming!  If you were a fruit you'd be a fine apple Diverted traffic To Let. Self-contained office space, ample parking Wake up on the right side of the fridge! BBC Bristol Whiteladies Road camera zone Windows are misted with our breath now The view obscured Is that… snow? On a cold day in November I decided to take the bus to work rather than cycle to Forest School. I was taking notes on my phone of the things that I noticed from the window, particularly signs and advertising. So many words bombarding us as we move through our cities, Insomnia Cookies particularly perplexed me! I was very glad to have chosen the bus as wet flakes of snow began to hit the windscreen...  

Escape That row of gold on the Met Office app was an irresistible invitation Here’s your bus fare to escape the city Boots, rucksack, walking poles, map It’s been far too long, let’s go go go The thrill of playing hooky from the stress of last year Walking familiar paths, but always something new to see Climbing to the top of Maes Knoll, I’m the king of the castle Brilliant blue bowl of sky, breathtaking I may have whooped a little When my daughter was young she told me she took pictures with her eyes Today I take her advice and store up the snapshots Inky crows scribbled against bare branches Long tailed tits flitting Such richness of blue, all the blue words needed Cerulean, azure, sapphire Dazzling me and filling me up After that high point falling into a satisfying rhythm My boots hitting the ground Nothing else for me to do but move forward Poem written on 17 November 2025 after taking the 376 Mendip Explorer bus from Bristol Temple Meads to Whitchurch. So many options for walks a...

My husband WhatsApped me whilst I was walking home from a friend's house on Saturday afternoon with the startling news that a sparrowhawk had taken down a pigeon in our garden. A photo showed the bird of prey standing on the feathery corpse. His message underneath read “pigeon not dead yet” and then almost immediately another “it's dead”. I rushed to the back window to join him as soon as I arrived home. Feathers everywhere, a splash of startlingly red blood on the concrete flags. Pomegranate juice. The Sparrowhawk eagerly pulling on the white sinewy strap that must have been the spinal column. Efficiently plucking to access the flesh below. The pigeon's head wobbled as she tugged.  My daughter joined us to watch, providing useful facts from Google and from a new friend at school who is “really into birds”. She tells us the Sparrowhawk is a young female, as you can tell by the markings, particularly around the eyes. Red markings around the eyes means older and these eyes ar...