Being Outside More

  Not much time to write today as I've been at work, a fairly blissful day in dappled shade hanging out with four year olds who can recognise a Red Admiral butterfly. A major contrast to the extreme heat last week and a big relief. In fact this post could have read simply: too hot, brain melted. If I hear one more commenter yapping about the summer of 1976 I may explode. Even with the curtains drawn, fans deployed, wet cloths draped on necks, it was really unpleasant in my house. My default would be to try and find shade in the garden, but with no breeze it was impossible. The sun is a deadly laser indeed... But more troubling than the physical discomfort was the grief of knowing that this is the reality of the climate crisis, that we will see more spikes of extreme heat in the UK, that in 50 years time we won't be talking about the heatwave of 2026 because it won't be remarkable. In the words of Radiohead "You do it to yourself, that's what really hurts". A h...

Another summer solstice, another year turns. Trying to avoid the heat I went out early this morning to meet a friend for coffee. When I left the house Kier Starmer was still prime minister, when I returned he was not. In past years I have conducted my own little witchy ceremonies for the summer solstice or Litha as it is known in the pagan tradition. I have slightly self-consciously woven myself a flowery garland and sat staring into the flames of a campfire in my back garden, but this year it felt ridiculous to add more heat. Instead I sat in the shade of the evening and listened to my son explain the taxonomy of plants, fresh from his first year of a biology degree. We slowly sipped some cider, as some traditions should be kept. There is such abundance in my garden right now, the cliché of a midsummer garden is a ‘riot of colour’, but that’s hackneyed, and surely too violent. Given the mood of the UK I don’t want to dwell on riotousness right now. Explosion is not much better, althou...

About nine months ago I came to the end of a year of talking therapy with a private counsellor. At the time I described it to friends as “sitting in a room and paying a woman to watch me weep”. When we discussed this in a session, the therapist did that head-tilty thing that therapists always do and said “That’s an interesting way to view therapy…” before leaving us to sit in uncomfortable silence, another of her specialities. Which was nevertheless irritatingly effective at helping me unravel my complicated bundle of emotions. Damn the woman. Being able to rant and offload about the specifics of what had happened (and was still happening) was useful. There were times that I absolutely howled, surprising myself at how physical grief can be, my whole body rocking in the chair. Definitely not the usual apologetic and half-suppressed tears that I had been surviving on up until then, there was catharsis and I was grateful for that. But after a while you get tired of talking, and feel a des...

  It had been hot on the bus, cramped and crowded with day trippers. Now the sky spreads overhead, limitless blue daubed with puffs of white cloud. The path through the field is hard and sun baked, steadfast beneath our feet. Grasses wave around us, the meadow ripples with life, splashed with red poppies and blue cornflowers. You squat down to take a closer look, your wide-brimmed hat with the dinosaur print shading your small face. There is time to stop, I don't have to hurry you on from ladybird spotting, we have all day. My eye wanders to the horizon, that hazy line where green meets blue. I breathe in and my chest expands, a lungful of fresh air for a change. We are surrounded, contained and supported by the landscape. We have found a place to be, if only for today. No time for writing this Monday, there is an exam and an appointment that will overwhelm all else. So instead I include this short piece I wrote during a nature writing workshop at Bristol Folk House on Sunday. Liz ...