Field Notes: Being Watched

Morning Light…

The morning began beneath a cotton-wool shawl of cloud draped across the landscape.

Everything felt muted.

The light was soft, the colours subdued, as though the fields hadn't quite woken for the day.

As I emerged from the copse, two crows were strutting across the stubble ahead of me. They hopped and skipped with exaggerated confidence, keeping just enough distance between us before finally taking to the air, deciding I'd come a little too close for comfort.

I smiled.

It always feels as though the birds make these decisions long before I realise I've interrupted them.

I walked on towards a small wooded area where I've often seen deer.

I knew they were there.

Or at least, I suspected they were.

That's the curious thing about deer. They can simply disappear. One moment you're convinced the wood is empty; the next you catch the flick of an ear, a whisper of movement in the undergrowth and wonder how you could possibly have missed them.

They seem able to melt into the landscape.

I slowed my pace.

Scanned the edge of the trees.

Waited.

Nothing.

Then, from somewhere above me, came the piercing mew of a buzzard.

It echoed across the fields, startling in the stillness.

For a moment I had the strange sensation that I wasn't the one doing the watching.

I was the one being watched.

Perhaps the deer had already seen me.

Perhaps the buzzard had.

Perhaps countless unseen eyes had quietly followed my progress while I'd been searching for just one pair in return.

I waited beside the hedge for a while longer.

Nothing emerged.

Eventually I turned for home.

As I retraced my steps, I passed the same two crows.

This time they barely acknowledged me.

They carried on pecking and foraging, apparently deciding I was no longer worth their attention.

It made me smile again.

I hadn't seen the deer I'd hoped for.

And yet I didn't feel disappointed.

Sometimes a walk doesn't give us what we set out looking for.

Instead, it gently reminds us that we are only ever visitors in a landscape that carries on perfectly well without us.

Perhaps that's part of its quiet magic.