The forecast is good as I set off to paint. On my way I stop at Robert Fuller's, the artist and conservationist, where I purchase some items for the kitchen. Then back to Brubberdale. I notice, as I walk along the less frequented Brubberdale path towards Fridaythorpe Farm, following the wire fence, that the ash trees are sick. Lots of large branches have fallen from solitary, sad trees. The ground is severely rutted making me hiccup along, heavy rucksack and George emphasising the hazard. To my right the hillside climbs steeply and is covered by scrubby hawthorn bushes. I notice a solitary cowslip swaying as if looking for companions and cursing for being an early riser, for being caught alone. Progressing awkwardly more ash trees can be seen, but now in a group and I think of Peter Wohlleben and wonder if their mycelium is communicating is, perhaps, and who knows, perhaps nurturing each other. I look at their condition. The floor is a minefield of ash keys as I decide that yes, perhaps they are healthier, at least they are a familial group. In the roadside hedges I was pleased to see that young beech trees have been planted every few feet, hopefully they will survive and be long lived. Passing torchbeams of celandines I step out of the shadows. The peace is palpable save only for a cock pheasant 'karrr..king, all is still in the valley. Behind me, back at the road, a flatulent vintage motorcycle is farting, straining to climb the road to Thixendale Gritts, setting off a cacophony of echoing pheasants. I reach a stopping fence and notice a scaring deflated helium balloon, complete with attached label. I turn and head back, along the high ridge line fence which separates the ferted, herbicided wheat from the wild fellside. The scrub is now below me, straining to reach the fence but allowing a slim path for George and I to use. My rucksack catches as I duck below branches and my cap gets stolen. Then a small clearing, I stop, in front a hare sits. It's black tipped ears remain perfectly still, golden, lion eyes tell me to stay. At the other side of the fence are three pheasant and, another hare. I push on, the hare lops down the hill through the thick scrub. The pheasants move off silently. As I am nearing the cleared vantage point from where I intend to paint the hawthorn thins out allowing sunlight to stroke the ground. The leaves are only just beginning to haze green. I blink as a huge pale brown, soil brown shadow falls silently away, through the scrub and down the hillside. I blink again realizing that I had glimpsed a group of deer. I emerge at the 'slimmed' down, cleared hillside from where I can see the road a hundred feet below. I can see Cow Dale spurring off Brubber Dale, the sun is shining so I put my jacket down in the shade of a nearby hawthorn bush to allow George to be comfortable. He immediately utilizes the jacket and I start to plan the picture. Cotton wool clouds sit in front of a cereulean sky, there is little wind as I start to paint . Returning to the car, I feed George and tidy up the painting before noticing that as the sun is dropping quickly, the celandines' are closing, time to go.
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