Field Notes: An Ordinary Morning…

A magical moment…

This morning began quietly.

The fields were wrapped in a soft, silver-grey blanket of cloud, with only the first thin sliver of sunlight beginning to appear on the horizon. There was no urgency to be anywhere, so I found a place to sit and simply watched.

The familiar sounds arrived one by one.

The distant rumble of traffic.

A crow calling across the fields.

The crow of a cockerel carried on the breeze.

And, rather unexpectedly, the unmistakable screech of a peacock. Somehow it always sounds slightly out of place in this Lincolnshire landscape, yet every time I hear it, I smile.

The stubble fields stretched away in front of me, their work done for another season. Resting now before the next cycle begins.

There was little movement.

Until there was.

Through a gap in the hedge I caught sight of a deer.

For a few quiet moments we simply looked at one another. Neither of us moved. Then, with that effortless grace that always seems to defy belief, it bounded across the stubble before disappearing into the safety of the nearby copse.

It never ceases to amaze me that these animals live all around us, quietly going about their lives, and yet can remain unseen for weeks at a time. It feels less like spotting wildlife and more like being granted a brief audience.

As I continued my walk, more small details began to reveal themselves.

Rust-coloured seed heads catching the light.

Blackberries beginning to darken in the hedgerows.

The gentle breeze lifting grasses that only moments before had seemed completely still.

None of these things demanded attention.

They simply waited to be noticed.

Sitting there, I realised how much affection I have for this landscape.

To many people it might appear ordinary. Flat fields. Wide skies. Hedgerows and farm tracks. It's the landscape I grew up with, so perhaps I've never thought of it as remarkable.

But this morning reminded me that it is.

Not because it is dramatic, but because it is familiar.

Because I know how it smells after rain.

Because I recognise the sound of the wind moving through barley before it reaches me.

Because I know which hedgerows hold blackberries and which fields the deer seem to favour.

There is a quiet comfort in knowing a place so well.

And yet, as I looked across the fields, I couldn't help wondering how much of this landscape will remain unchanged in years to come.

Across the country, more farmland is giving way to housing, roads and solar farms. I know there are no simple answers. Change is inevitable, and we all depend upon it in different ways.

But alongside that understanding sits a quiet sadness.

Not just for the fields themselves, but for the slow accumulation of small, everyday moments that belong to them.

The chance encounter with a deer.

The blackberries in the hedge.

The crows, the cockerel, the breeze across the stubble.

Perhaps that's why these walks, and these field notes, matter to me.

They are my way of paying attention to a landscape that has quietly shaped my life.

And of saying, in the simplest way I know how:

“I noticed.”

Things I've noticed this week

• A deer pausing long enough for us to quietly observe one another.

• The palette of leaves and seed heads glowing against the faded stubble.

• Blackberries, haws and hips beginning to ripen in the hedgerows.

• A peacock's call carrying unexpectedly across the fields, another addition to the choir of birdsong.

• The first pale light easing its way through a blanket of morning cloud.

Field Note: "Perhaps the most ordinary landscapes are the ones that teach us to notice most."