Be still and discover nature...

Give me a skulking grey-brown bird in a dull landscape any day over squawking flocks of colourful parrots in a vibrant rainforest! Not that I’ve had much experience of the latter and maybe that is part of it – I prefer nature at home, the familiar, the nature I grew up with.

It may also be the sentiment that underlies my dislike of modern-day wildlife programmes and magazines with their all-revealing picture-perfect photos of wildlife. I cannot deny that often the programmes and articles are interesting and the photography truly amazing and yet, for me at least, this is not enjoyment of wildlife.

Reading glossy magazines and watching the prime-time documentaries I instead am forced to become a second-hand consumer, distanced from the photographer’s or writer’s own experience in the field and yet able to see all, from all angles and now usually with an extraordinary twist: a rare endangered species maybe eating a rare endangered species in an unusual setting all in glorious technicolour!

A stonechat pictured by Rupert Evershed. (Image: Rupert Evershed)

Thereafter it feels nature must surely only disappoint – if I step outside, I can guarantee you I won’t see any such excitement.

And yet, it is in our nature’s very elusiveness that excitement is to be found. For me, it is a never-ending treasure hunt, sometimes laced with disappointment but always filled with hope.

There is enjoyment in the familiarity of seasonal changes and in finding expected inhabitants in their preferred habitats: a wild, scrubby area suggests stonechat and sure enough there one is atop a tall stalk; a stand of yew trees looks good for goldcrests and there they are!

A goldcrest. (Image: John Bridges)

And then there are the surprises, the moments you didn’t predict, when you see something new or unexpected or gain fresh insight into the behaviour of the familiar.

These are liminal moments of awe and wonder when energies are renewed and the wonderful experience of being fully present to the moment – a welcome release from the everyday that is apt to dismiss the present and demand we correct the past and hold on for the future.

At this time of year, woods hold a particular appeal to me, their twisted architecture drawing me in and I, like a caver, struck by moments of lofty grandeur but never quite being able to see round the next bend.

The initial feeling of lifelessness and emptiness that accompanies winter woods adds to the intrigue as subtle sounds and calls suggest otherwise.

Pausing in a local wood recently I stood still, silencing the deafening rustle of leaves and crack of twigs beneath my feet. All was still but then, behind a ragged thicket of scrambled, leafless branches, ivy and old man’s beard, a slight movement.

The darkest patch of the thicket moved slowly, almost imperceptibly; branches seemed to slide forward. Then, like a shifting shadow, a beautiful fallow deer stag stalked up the incline, as quiet as could be, never quite revealing his whole. For all his size, there was hardly a rustle and he paused just ten yards on, immediately melting into the brown backdrop again.

It was as if he’d never been there and yet, in that moment, I felt the thrill of encountering one of our largest mammals and a magnificent antlered stag at that.

The stag, confident in his camouflage, probably remained only a stone’s throw away from me as I moved on, watching me and keeping quiet. I wonder what else was watching me – the noisy human intruder with no sense of smell and less than acute hearing!

Pausing and waiting is key to discovering our wildlife.

As humans we come with a lot of disturbance, both outward but also often inward too. Not only does stilling ourselves allow wildlife to re-emerge once the anticipation of threat has passed, but I can think of no better meditation for the soul. In the moment, our senses are enlivened, and each little sound or movement takes on a revelatory power, revitalising and connecting us afresh to something real and other than ourselves.