Looking for ‘Steens’ and Finding Autumn
A Sunday afternoon toddle
A few Sundays ago I was in the wee Aberdeenshire village of Dunecht, attending a breathwork workshop at the village hall.1 Afterwards I needed some time to ground myself and process my experience, so on the recommendation of a friend who lives locally, I took a walk along the edge of the village to see the remains of a stone circle folded within the surrounding farmland. I was intent on making a pilgrimage of sorts to see the ‘puckle o steens in a park.’2😄 I canna mine who it was that used that somewhat disparaging phrase to describe our local stone circles and monoliths, but it has always amused me. How anyone can be indifferent to these markers of the past, I dinna ken!
As the footpath petered out, I emerged into open agricultural land: at first a stubbly field, giving way to a plooed park - gloriously corduroyed by recent tractor action.3 Keeping to the edge of the park, I rounded a corner to find, to my chagrin, that the standing stones were tantalisingly just out of reach on a wee island moated by dark soil. They seemed to wink at me from afar, coaxing me to come closer but. . . no, I couldn’t. Or could I just tiptoe lightly across the narrow sea of soil to reach the island of stones? No-one would ever know. . .🤔
Nah! Not this time. Whilst I fully embrace the right to roam, I wouldn’t trample across a freshly ploughed field unless it was essential. The stones could wait til another time. . .
And so, I ambled back along the field’s edge, back along the wee path, back towards the village; but this time fully taking in the sights and sounds around me - those which I had skipped over in pursuit of ‘the steens.’
My disappointment at not getting up close and personal with the stone circle melted away, as I inhaled the sun kissed land around me. . .
The rich knitted patterns of plough on earth, meeting with the shape-shifting, mercurial forms of cloud on sky. Sunlight and brooding dark. To the east, steely grey clouds pressing heavily on the horizon; on the west, feathered white on blue. They collide and merge.
The wispy, white beards of willow herb now sparse and ragged amidst the fading vegetation - old men stooped, dwindling, withdrawing into the wings, until they explode once more in a riot of magenta the following July.
The rustle of brittle leaves yet to turn and fall. Have you ever noticed that the sound of the wind in the trees changes over the course of the year? Only now have I really paid attention to it and started recording the wind in its seasonal guises as it dances through young leaf, mature leaf, brittle leaf, scanty leaf and of course. . . leaflessness. This particular day was one in which the mature leaves of late summer had become thinner, crisper, right on the cusp of turning.
The soft drone of a persistent cushie doo4 in the distance, overlayed with the harsh caws of rooks in conversation, riding the whipping breeze around the treetops to the east. It’s their time now. . .
At this point I had an overwhelming urge to feel and smell the earth. So I got down on my hands and knees, and inhaled the sweet earthy scent of decay in all its richness. It was then, with my nose to the ground, that a slightly panicked voice in my head whispered, what if someone sees me? I began thinking of excuses and plumped for the most feasible option - “I’ve dropped my keys!” But in the very next moment I had changed my mind. Instead I smiled to myself, banishing - even if just for a short while - the voice which has plagued me since childhood and always cares what everybody else thinks. That voice’s power is now ebbing and becoming less intrusive as the years pass. If someone does pass by, I’ll just tell them the truth. . . I’m sniffing the soil, I’m inhaling autumn! 😊🍂 It just might encourage them to do the same, you never know!
Postscript on leaf-fall 🍂
So why is it I rarely notice the moment the trees become bare? When does it happen? It mostly occurs gradually, over the course of several weeks; except when there is a particularly nasty autumnal storm on the rampage, and the trees are savagely disrobed overnight! 😮 It depends on the species of tree, its robustness and where it’s situated, not to mention many other variables on which an arborist could elaborate.
I’m always aware of leaves letting go - fluttering, meandering their way downwards - and the gradual emergence of an overlapping mosaic of ochres and browns underfoot, but nevertheless it’s still a shock when I suddenly realise that the trees are sporting naked branches - even though it happens every year!
Today as I write this, mid November, the trees next to my hometown’s Market Green are practically all bare, save for a last leaf or two clinging on to their twigs, in a final show of desperation or perhaps defiance. There’s a mass of yellow cherry leaves carpeting the pavement. And there’s a birch tree amidst the cherries, a perfect picture of pointillism - yellow dots dripping off drooping, willowy branches.
In the midst of the trees bordering the Green, a lone alder is reluctant to part with the remainder of its leaves, gripping them tightly to make them last a little while longer.
It seems that some shed their leaves more freely than others, laying themselves bare. . . daring to embrace the oncoming winter. Whilst others seem more prude. . . reluctantly nude. 🤔 🍂 🍁😄
When the seasons change, is there anything which never fails to surprise you?
Until next time. . . 👋
See my friend Nyx’s website, The Breathwork Goddess - Wild Wellness, if you’re curious to discover the wonders of breathwork!
Aberdeenshire Scots: ‘a few stones in a field.’ However, ‘few’ doesn’t really do ‘puckle’ justice! 😆
Ploughed field.
Wood pigeon. 🐦
Aye. Leaf-fall always takes me by surprise. A last blast of overnight wind and all the wee birdies have nowhere to hide. Unless of course there is a copper beech around or maybe a privet hedge. Just 124 sleeps till spring ...
I share your fascination with leaf-fall, Sandra. I wrote this in my diary some time ago:
"This morning I was on a high with the weather and the season – I sat and watched, entranced, for a long moment as a tree had its own personal autumn. Although most are empty by now, this one was literally raining leaves as the sun hit the frosted branches and dislodged them in ones and twos and clusters."