Graveyard Dirt: Two Worlds and In-between

August 29th Walk

Instead of SEARCHING WITHIN MYSELF FOR ANSWERS (see V SRS THINKING) I'm going to crack open one of the billion image folders sitting on my desktop and tackle a recent walk we took to the (semi-)local cemetery. (YEAH, IT'S GOING TO BE ANOTHER SLIDE SHOW OF SCOTTISH COUNTRYSIDE YOU'RE PAINFULLY FAMILIAR WITH TO THE POINT OF BEING TEDIOUSLY BORING, SORRY.)

For weeks I've been cooped up with no outlet for release. I spent a significant portion of the past two weeks with a mysterious case of "stomach flu" (see DOWN THE RABBIT HOLE) after the rabbit incident (see AUGUST 16TH WALK) making migrating away from the bathroom a dangerous game to play. (Not that I really could have if you took the fever and chills and cramps and fatigue and light-headedness into account.)

Once the bug cleared we found ourselves up at night, which usually isn't THAT much of a problem since we're more than happy to track on over to the cemetery in the middle of the night, but thanks to this being the wettest August, ever, the weather hasn't been conducive to midnight walking so, up until two days ago, I spent a huge portion of the month IMPRISONED INDOORS BEHIND THESE SCOTTISH "BUNGALOW" WALLS. (<- Can't drive; I don't have a car, hence relying on walking everywhere for any sort of escape.)

When dawn finally broke and I saw the sun tentatively peeking behind a veil of partially translucent clouds lighting up the baby blue sky I knew I had my chance. ("OHMYGODTHESUN'SOUTLET'SGOFORAWALK!") Delicate stomach be damned, I wanted to see how the elderberries and blackberries were getting on, and how the lavender at the Nun's grave was doing and feel, taste and see the season shift from late summer to early fall. (SEPTEMBER, YOU BETTER BE GOOD TO ME SINCE AUGUST TURNED OUT TO BE A CRACKWHORE.)

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Early morning sun lighting up the fall-kissed Scottish landscape. (Further along the left is the small ruined church we occasionally visit (in winter, in late summer) and the hedge of beeches that frames the remainder of our walk to the cemetery.) Soon this'll be our only natural looking bit of country; they've begun digging up the fields on the other side of the road to build acres and acres of new houses.

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Cattle sunning themselves in front of the (now unoccupied) disturbed children's home. (BETTER ENJOY THAT SUN, COWS, SINCE WE HAVEN'T SEEN MUCH OF IT THIS SUMMER, ESPECIALLY IN AUGUST. <- It's September fucking 2nd and none - ABSOLUTELY NONE - of my tomatoes are even close to being ripe. NO, THANK //YOU// SCOTTISH WEATHER!)

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We had a short movie clip of a mother and calf nuzzling noses (AWWW!) but it was way, way too pixelated to post. (It was crazy windy that day, which was a bittersweet reminder that soon I'll need to break out my rabbit earmuffs and head scarves to keep my ears properly warm when walking down to the cemetery.)

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An epiphyte! (ZOMG! ZOMG!) Around here mistletoe is probably the best known "PLANT THAT GROWS IN ANOTHER PLANT" (other than rowan), but, in this case, it's a fern way, way up in a beech. (So "way, way up in a beech" that I have NO EFFING IDEA HOW TO GET TO IT because I DESPERATELY WANT TO COLLECT SOME ON ST. JOHN'S EVE NEXT YEAR. Sigh.)

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Hedgerow litter. (We later found a Smirnoff bottle, but both were a little too nasty to bring home and clean for tinctures and witchy plant concoctions.) The more we explore the narrow strip of trees (normally we either cut through it to access the pasture field behind it to get to the ruined church, or we stay on the sidewalk on the other side of the street that leads into the tiny village where the cemetery's located) the more affection I feel for the jagged wall of trees and shrubs. (A litter day pick-up is now inevitable.)

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Every once in awhile we go off processed junk food. (Are we awful stoners, or what?) When that happens it usually coincides with an energetic burst of cooking and baking that inevitably fills the store bought sugary void. Tired with oreos and chocolate mousse pumped full of preservatives, I made a batch of Italian cornmeal cookies flavored with marsala after our hoard of peanut butter oatmeal cookies disappeared.

Later in the day (later in OUR day, more correctly, since I was baking in the kitchen around three in the morning) we were off to the cemetery which meant a round of offerings for everyone. (One for the Nun, one for Muriel, one for "Wizard Laird" and two for us. Guess which one I absently picked for Papa (Ghede), not realizing WHY I did until we got to the graveyard? Sometimes the most obvious things are the things you don't see, even when they're right under your effing nose.)

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A crumbling, lichen and moss encrusted stone wall separates the country road from the asphalted footpath that stretches from where we live to the tiny village on the outskirts of the (ever growing) town. Indigenous plants pop up halfway to the graveyard, first starting with red raspberries, then apricot raspberries, then even more red raspberries until they give way to the long tentacle arms of blackberries. These guys still have a way to go, but I'll be back in a week or two to harvest them for jams, vinegars and syrups.

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I read in a foraging book that the biggest, sweetest, most desirable blackberry is the one growing at the very tip of the branch, and it's always the first to ripen while the others behind it are a week or so behind. And the further up (down?) you go along the branch the more bitter and less desirable the berries become. (Less desirable in the sense of raw eating, the ones in the way back are still tres excellent for baking, jamming and preserving.)

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It's too depressing to even talk about. Seriously. (I spent my childhood running away from housing developments that swallowed rural communities, and at age 29 I'm back at square one feeling helpless and heartsick.)

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After we consummated our marriage (we practice Hieros Gamos; the Great Rite, Scared Marriage, whatever you'd like to call it) in a local wheat field on Midsummer we sat together, newlywed and high, watching the sun rise over the rolling Scottish hills as cocks crowed in the distance. That was the last time we saw dawn unfettered, unencumbered by bulldozers, metal gates and giant pits gutting the earth open. We'll never see that sunrise ever again.

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It's not mine anymore. It's not anyone's; not the foxes or rabbits or hares or pheasants or grouse or deer or mice or badgers or hedgehogs. They put up a gate to keep us out as we watch the destruction of our beloved countryside (and home). Up until a few months ago I felt blessed living in this area, that I managed to relocate in a pocket of perfect balanced living. Within the matter of weeks everything 180ed and I'm desperate to break free, get away, hide deeper in the country where I can live in peace, far from colonies of modern homes that clutter up the once free and wild landscape.