Last week I took myself off for a solitary walk. This is something I often do when I’m feeling overwhelmed or, in this particular case, a bit flat. I suspect it’s got a lot to do with our Hebridean climate: relentless rain and brooding grey skies which seem to hang around for weeks on end, oppressive and almost smothering. The mountains disappear into the thick mists leaving you enveloped in a confining, murky little world. So naturally I seized the first opportunity to escape that came along (child in school: tick; essential jobs done: tick; a break in the weather: tick) and went down past the grounds of an old country estate, along a track overlooking the cliffs and the Cuillin hills, past pine forests and down to the shore.

Yes, the views were spectacular. A boat bobbing about in the blue water and the equally blue skies dotted with fast-moving little clouds, those mountains once again in full view and sunlit. The trail continued past a little white crofter’s cottage, over a rushing burn and then curled steeply upwards into the densely-packed firs.

But I’ve always been interested in the details. I’m passionate about all things botanical and now, when summer feels long gone, there’s so much still to see

The bracken is blanketing the hillsides and banks down to the sea, but their bright emerald has given way to soft copper. The fronds are dry and brittle, frozen into delicate curlicues. Thistles have dried out and gone to seed. The heather is fading, the tough stems beneath bleached to silver and the violet flowers turning sepia.

Patches of gorse are reduced to masses of brown thorns. They look as though they’d be more at home in an arid landscape than this richly green island. And the umbellifers have been transformed into simple, stark structures; they could almost be fashioned from metal. Grasses are blanched too and their calico colours glow in the low autumn sun.

All this denuding allows us to really study and appreciate the forms of our familiar wayside plants. Little vessels of seeds, skeletal stems. For an artist like me, it’s a lesson in simplicity (something I’m constantly trying to achieve). Pared-back and unadorned, we can really understand what makes each species different from the next. Yes, in the warmer seasons they have their flowers and leaves. But when everything is suddenly reduced to a muted palette of pewter, sepia and rust we have to look more closely and notice the subtleties and beauty that lies beneath.

I love the verdancy of May and June, the richness of July and August. But it’s now when the armfuls of teasels, the rattling foxglove stems full of seeds come home with me to live in the workroom. Pots of them, each one asking to be sketched quickly and simply without fuss or detail. Even out in the garden there are plants which, for me, are more appealing once their time has passed. Sunflowers are at their most beautiful when their petals turn to saffron-coloured tissue paper and their seeds are on display. Lilies and poppies too, and alliums transformed into delicate wiry globes studded with tiny black seeds.

Don’t lament the lack of colour. Nature has so much magic and ingenuity to be found now that all is revealed…

Of course, every day when I walk to school or the shop or even just look out of the window, I’m struck by how lucky I am to live somewhere as beautiful as Skye. This is more often the case when we don’t have horizontal rain and howling winds, but still. It’s stunning. Everywhere.

I don’t use the car as often as I used to despite us living over 20 miles from town. But when I do drive, alone and not in any real hurry to get from A to B (or from B back to A at least), there are opportunities for exploration and small excursions. I put the radio on and drive on roads running alongside the sea or across open moorland with pine forests and rushing streams and mountains beyond. Sometimes the landscape is gentler, greener with deciduous trees and lush hollows and verges. Neat little crofts with solid whitewashed houses and lines of washing.

I’m aware that, if somewhere looks inviting and intriguing - an almost-hidden footpath leading down to the shore, a shady hollow filled with foxgloves - I can park the car somewhere sensible (the way people interpret the rules of the road up here has many islanders in a state of constant exasperation) before hopping out with my camera and going to explore. At the moment that often involves tramping through a dense and undulating ocean of bracken or stooping under leafy boughs and around tangles of cow parsley.

You discover so many delights during these spontaneous little adventures. Fuchsias growing deep in the trees by a brook, their delicate crimson lanterns trembling in the breeze. New vistas across the water to tiny islands and secret coves. Strange flowers and shrubs (the latest I identified only last night as ‘Salmon berries’ with their glowing amber-coloured fruits, native to North America yet growing quite happily here).

You see, if you have the chance to get out alone then you don’t need to ask for permission to pull over. There’s no explaining or justifying why this place, just here, is calling out to you to come and explore. It could take a minute or it could take an hour. A quick snap of those foxgloves or the decision to acknowledge that urge to wander a little further. Yes, it’s easily done up here. Everywhere is a photo opportunity. But allowing yourself a while longer sometimes, alone, to get a tiny bit lost and take the road less travelled is such a gift. Punctuate that journey home from the shops or the bank, the trip to see relatives, with a small detour up that pretty lane you usually pass. Stop in the part of town with those sweet houses and dreamy front gardens. Pause and lean across the gate and take in that field full of wheat or oilseed rape, dazzlingly yellow to the horizon. Give yourself a bit of breathing space, time to reset. By wandering up that footpath – even if you’ll be turning back around again after ten minutes – you’re doing something very important. You’re switching off. From the requests of others, from conversation. Instead you’re tuning in to the seasons and the details around you: nature. The sound of birds and buzzing insects and the wind in the trees. The smell of the earth and sun-warmed grass, the feel of leaves as you brush past. Indulge your curiosity. Reset. The obligations and their accompanying emotions: stress, resentfulness, mild anxiety: they can be let go for a little while as you take some time for yourself and savour your surroundings.

So the next time you’re alone and busily running errands, try and allow for some stopping and smelling of the proverbial roses. Schedule it in. Set out a bit earlier and return via the scenic route. It’s just as important as all those other tasks and deserves a place on the to-do list (and preferably not at the bottom!)

Spring has just made a tentative entrance, and we all breathe a sigh of relief as the temperatures gradually start to rise. The days become longer and our state of near-hibernation is thrown back like a discarded blanket. First come the snowdrops, bravely flowering despite the chill winds and hail. Then, at last, the daffodils begin to bloom. Those yellow trumpets herald the true retreat of winter. Swathes of gold along the verges; so many bright stars atop grey-green leaves and stems. They punctuate the still bare and colourless garden and join other early spring favourites - pussy willow, Ribes Sanguineum (the flowering currant) and, not long after, tulips.

I’ve always preferred native plants and flowers. Non-showy specimens which would look equally at home in a woodland or meadow as in the cottage garden. One exception would be the dahlia; there’s something irresistible about those oil pastel-bright blooms in late summer, particularly when they’re growing amongst the herbs and vegetables.

But another personal favourite is the hellebore. A member of the Ranunculaceae (buttercup) family, it’s a herbaceous perennial which originated in parts of Europe and Asia. It’s fully hardy and easy to grow providing you have an area of rich, well-drained soil and dappled shade. Some hellebores are perfectly happy in containers so most gardens, big or small, should be able to accommodate a plant or two.

Hellebores can easily be overlooked when it comes to late winter and early spring flowers. They’re far more subtle, less attention-seeking than the fizzing sulphurs of daffodils, aconites and Forsythia. Some of the blooms are so dark you might not even spot them at first glance. The flower heads, in most cases, face downwards so you’ll need to lift them gently to take a closer look. But once you do, you’ll be smitten.

There’s quite the array of varieties: single or double-flowered, simple flower forms or deeply frilled. The pure white of the Helleborus niger (or ‘Lenten Rose’, as it’s often known) through pistachio and dusty pink to rich yellowy-creams, claret, deep damson and almost-black of H. hybridus x Harvington Black. There’s even an incredible deep blue-black with an iridescent sheen, H. Blue Metallic Lady.

If rich, moody colour is your thing then hellebores will work for you. But the paler types have beautiful markings: speckles, veining and deeply-tinted edges. The blooms can be displayed by floating the heads in water (their drooping nature means that stems in a vase won’t show the flowers to their best advantage).

If you enjoy exploring gardens - National Trust properties, stately homes or well-maintained parks - you’re likely to find hellebores at this time of year. Head for shady spots and look out for the clumps of glossy leaves and sturdy-looking flowers, almost like wax specimens which have been fashioned for botanical study. There’s something almost Victorian about them, particularly the gothic darker varieties. Once you’ve seen hellebores you’ll want to grow some of your own, either pale and pretty or deep and dusky.

Note: hellebores can be poisonous if eaten, and can irritate the skin so take care when handling them and ensure children and pets don’t ingest them.

I grew up with a forest fascination. My mother’s side of the family are Polish, so there’s always been a tradition of folk stories; I remember one in particular about a little girl whose stepmother demands roses in midwinter, snowdrops in summer and so on. She hides down the well and meets twelve mysterious figures who each provide her with what she requires in order to appease the wicked stepmother.

The forests I grew up exploring were, in actuality, smaller areas of woodland. Deciduous woods with a wonderful variety of fungi, berries and flowers. Streams and silver birches, oaks and sycamores, sweet chestnut and ash. Occasionally we’d go hunting pinecones in the fir plantations near the local reservoir, but we generally spent most of our outdoor tree time in the leafy woods. Ferns and wild garlic in the spring, conkers and rosehips in the autumn. The kind of woods you see in those old Ladybird books.

But now we reside in Scotland. The north of Scotland, to be precise: the Hebrides. Most of our woodland here is of the evergreen variety; pine and spruce. Real fairytale forests, where the light is dim and the ground is soft and velvety with mosses and deep, deep layers of dropped needles. There’s a kind of silence that’s very particular to a pine forest. The low boughs and thick carpeting deaden any outside noise. All you’ll hear is the odd crack of a breaking branch or the call of a bird. There’s an atmosphere very specific to this type of woodland.

It’s easy for the imagination to run wild when you’re standing alone in a pine forest. Everywhere looks the same, like you’re surrounded by mirrors. It’s dark and suggestive and strange shapes manifest themselves; wind whispers eerily through the branches. It doesn’t take much to envisage hungry wolves weaving stealthily past or goblins hiding in the roots of fallen trees.

It may be a subliminal thing, but recently my reading of choice (from the library) has been all about the woods. I just finished Pollard by Laura Beatty, a novel about Anne - a girl who doesn’t ‘fit in’, subsequently leaves her family and takes up permanent residence in the woods near her home. It’s set in the present day and makes for a wonderful read. In turns brutal and whimsical, the story is told both through the eyes of Anne and the ever-watching trees.

Next up is one I’ve wanted to read for a long time. Sara Maitland’s Gossip from the Forest promises many evenings of indulging my love of fairytales and forests by exploring the relationship between the two.

Some of my all-time favourite stories are set within the woods, from the Laura Ingalls Wilder Little House series to Hansel and Gretel. Likewise, my favourite parts of stories are those where adventures unfold amongst the trees: The Wind in the Willows springs to mind. And who could resist the beautifully-illustrated storybooks of childhood? Jill Barklem’s Brambly Hedge books, Winnie the Pooh, The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe…

Some of the most evocative writing I’ve ever read is by Angela Carter, in the opening pages of The Erl-King (one of the short stories in The Bloody Chamber). The dank foreboding of a secretly inhabited autumnal forest, explored alone, is described beautifully. You can almost feel the damp, still air and smell the dying vegetation as it slowly collapses back into the ground.

So here we are. Those pine forests which looked so enchanted just a few short weeks ago, snow-covered and twilit, are now hosting signs of life. They’re beckoning. It’s time to find a little-used, winding path and follow it into a secret world where talking creatures, witches and magic might just exist.

At the end of last year, we made the move from the Lancashire Pennines to the Inner Hebrides: the Isle of Skye, in fact. I grew up in the Pennines, in a valley of mill towns and stone villages surrounded by moorland. It’s a place I know intimately: the topography, the quiet places, the history and the people. I loved the familiarity of it all, the paths and walks, the way I could tailor my expeditions to my mood, the amount of time I had, the seasons or whether I was walking alone or in company. Some were favourites, others came into their own for foraging or gathering. 

I could climb onto the hills for heather and bilberries, wander into the woods to find bluebells amongst the birches or follow the river in search of wild raspberries. It was a varied landscape of wild moorland and green, sheltered valleys. The only thing missing: the sea.

And so to Skye. Our new home presents us with an entirely different prospect. Yes, there are similarities (an abundance of sheep and heather, all that wind and rain). But for the most part, it’s so very different to what we’re used to. Prior to holidaying here, I had an imaginary picture of Skye - rainbows, mountains, mist. What I didn’t know was just how big an island it is. Miles and miles of stark, harsh moorland. Those mountains are vast, often disappearing into the clouds. Gargantuan cliff faces and crashing waves, fearsome storms and deep, silent pine forests.

I’m a complete coastal-living rookie. I know so little about the birds of prey which sit, sentinel-like, on fence posts as we drive past. Other than herons and cormorants and gulls, I’d struggle to identify anything we see bobbing about in the bay. I’m perhaps a bit more knowledgeable about the plants and flowers; as winter melts away and spring arrives (we always used to visit in May), there are masses of violets, primroses, orchids, and ferns. One of my favourites is the cotton grass, the pale tufts of which seem magically suspended above the ground as they blow in the wind.

As well as exploring this new landscape I’m keen to learn more about it. About the machair, that low-lying and sandy ground, fertile and floral (when not closely-cropped by sheep and cattle). About the birds and deer and butterflies. I want to educate myself on the weather here, on the tides, shells, and seaweed. And to discover stories, folklore, and traditions. This is a place not so much shaped by people, but which shapes those who live here. It’s an island of contrasts: winter quiet, summer activity as the tourists descend. Blue skies and turquoise seas, lashing rain and howling gales. It’s not just about going outside and experiencing it on foot; for me, I need to know and understand too. 

The island library has a comprehensive section upstairs on Scottish and local history. It spans both the social and natural heritage of Skye, and I fully intend to study my way around those shelves.

How much do you know about where you live? Was it shaped by an industrial past or by previous inhabitants, centuries ago? Are you aware of plants and animals specific to your particular region? It could be worth prescribing yourself a little course where you choose the content and then do the research. Read, speak to people, explore. You never know: you may end up unearthing a few surprises.
 

The days are getting noticeably shorter and winter is coming. It’s always tempting to stay indoors and draw the curtains, to sit in a pool of lamplight and cocoon yourself away from the cold and the drizzle. The winds and driving rain have all but stripped the trees of their autumn finery and the world is once again grey and brown and unwelcoming.

It’s a strange time, this epoch between the golds and bronzes of October and the frost and sparkle of Yuletide. Creeping chills and damp trying to insinuate their way into the house. That feeling of trying to push away the gloom as thick blankets of cloud sit low and oppressive.

A walk may not seem like a tempting prospect. The last few leaves are fluttering down to join the rest, now sodden, on the muddy earth. Jewel-like orchard fruits are gone too, either harvested or blown onto the ground to rot where they’ve landed. So what can we see on days like these? What little – to coin an Instagram hashtag – flashes of delight?

Well: a lot of green. Lichens and mosses, dusting and carpeting tree trunks and stone walls with rich velvety textures. Emerald and verdigris, teal and chartreuse. Look too at the evergreens: the dark glossy leaves of the holly, the silvery needles of the firs.

Those pale and empty skies act as the perfect foil to a flock of geese flying overhead in a V formation – one of my favourite sights whilst out walking in ‘almost winter’. And, of course, bare branches mean you’ll see more life in the trees too: squirrels darting about, inquisitive robins keeping watch over their jealously-guarded territories.

Try to embrace the starkness and the shorter days. The moody light, the glimpses into little habitats which are usually hidden from view by foliage. Small woodland pools, scattered with penny-like birch leaves, reflecting the weak sunshine and almost pearlescent trunks. Tiny kingdoms thrive on the top of fenceposts and along fallen trees. Even the decay itself, as the vegetation starts to change colour and collapse into itself, has a beauty all of its own.

Much as I prefer to wander through the fields and woods and wild places at this time of year savouring these early days of autumn, I’m the first to admit that I do appreciate a good herbaceous border. Indeed, I also appreciate the very relaxing Friday night routine that is a cosy corner, a cup of tea and the latest Gardener’s World.

So of course, I sit and I watch Monty Don as he deadheads the dahlias and shows us the late summer delights of the ‘Jewel garden’, all rich oil pastel hues and dense emerald foliage beneath. Sunflowers (my favourites are the rust and chocolate brown shades), rudbeckia, crocosmia, heleniums… Gone are the tasteful pale pinks and baby blues of May and June. Now the garden puts on its last spectacle of the year in fiery oranges, deep clarets, saffron yellows and velvety purples.

These flowers are ‘painterly’; they remind me of oriental art and country house wallpapers, of painted china, Agatha Christie and the Bloomsbury set. Glamorous and decadent in both form and colour.

Of course, many of these flowers have been grown in cottage gardens for generations, mixed in with the fruit and vegetables. My great aunt in Poland used to have an abundance of crimson-and-white striped dahlias growing in profusion amongst the potatoes and onions. Lilies too, all clashing together – tasteful colour combinations were not much of a priority in hard-working, productive plots. And yet there’s always something aesthetically pleasing about a jumble of mismatched dahlia stems, displayed together in an old jug on the kitchen table.

The one painterly flower I’m a little bit snobbish about is the chrysanthemum. Back when I worked as a florist (a short-lived amble off my career track but memorable nonetheless), chrysanthemums were seen as an inexpensive ‘filler’ flower. Nobody bought entire bunches of them. There were, of course, the more expensive single stems, the ‘spider’ and ‘shamrock’ varieties which added a touch of the exotic. I can still smell the pungent leaves, crushed underfoot as we stripped back the stems to make hand-tied bouquets. For me, the one chrysanthemum I find hard to resist is the old-fashioned ‘bloom’ type: big, spherical, densely-petalled heads which look like they belong on a kimono. Bronze ones in particular (I’m incredibly – excuse the pun - picky about yellow flowers). Bloom chrysanths, in my book at least, have to be bronze.

So: Yes to autumnal forest floors and purple heather moors. Apple and pear orchards, sloe-studded hedgerows. But there’s something very lovely about a brightly coloured allotment or public garden at this time of year too. It’s like seeing a firework display: short-lived but spectacular.

I’m fortunate to have once visited the RHS Harlow Carr garden at this time of year. But I’ve also seen some truly lovely late summer displays in city parks and in local plots too. Even a trip to the garden centre to admire the colours and get some inspiration is well worthwhile before these painterly flowers go over, summer takes its last breath and autumn is well and truly upon us.

We’re approaching the time of year when, for centuries, farmers have harvested crops before the weather turns. At the end of summer we celebrate the abundance and the safe gathering-in of foodstuffs for both people and animals. Produce is stored ready to be used during the lean months; we make preserves in the form of chutney and jam. Fruits, herbs and vegetables are dried, canned and pickled. Meat and fish are smoked and cured.

In these modern times few of us are truly self-sufficient or even approaching that. We have neither the means (outdoor space) nor the time to grow, tend, harvest, preserve and store. Few of us have a cellar, larder or pantry where we can keep large amounts of food. And there is little need. The vast majority of us live in, or near, towns and cities with ready access to supermarkets and independent food shops.

And yet there’s something about gathering in which appeals. It could be a bit of light foraging, a dabble in jam-making. Because opportunities for this type of resourceful pursuit present themselves throughout the year. Seville oranges make a brief appearance during January and February, so a rainy afternoon marmalade-making session is the best way to take advantage of their fleeting season. Early summer brings elderflowers – and bottling the syrup means we can enjoy a taste of summer months after the leaves have fallen.

So, what’s the appeal? Perhaps it’s part of the modern-day yearning to get back to simpler ways of living. Of being closer to nature and returning to living in accordance with the seasons. An almost primal desire to slow down, retract from the myriad of food choices we’re presented with all year round. Strawberries in December, green beans flown in from across the globe. It’s as though all these things have become workaday, no longer special.

Walking past that patch of blackberries every weekend, stopping to check whether they’re ripening. To consider how much sunshine they’re getting. Estimating when they might be ready to pick. Thinking utilising them in various cakes and pies and crumbles and planning to keep a few empty jars aside. This makes food exciting: the anticipation, the rarity value. The we-only-get-this-once-a-year feeling.

The actual gathering-in fulfils some deep instinctive need, too. The knowledge that you’ve collected what you need and in good time. You haven’t missed your chance. It’s similar to getting the washing in off the line just as the rain starts to fall. A sense of achievement, no matter how tiny.

I love to read about how people live seasonally and harvest and preserve. There’s something comforting about the whole idea of late summer and early autumn gathering-in. It’s beautifully described in Laura Ingalls Wilder’s Little House series, where pumpkins, nuts and cheeses were kept in the attic and neighbours would swap produce with one another and celebrate the seasons.

Over the next few months we’ll have some wonderful seasonal foods to go out and find: damsons, brambles, crab apples, the final wild strawberries and raspberries, elderberries, hazels and sloes. And for the more knowledgeable forager: fungi (wildfooduk.com has a great list of edible mushrooms, but always take an expert along with you).

Gathering in isn’t just about food. There are seeds to be collected from the garden and kept in readiness for planting and propagating. In late summer and early autumn I cut dried allium heads, honesty, teasels and hydrangeas to display in the house. Sunflowers too; I almost prefer them when their heads are full of dark seeds and the petals dried and papery.

So go ahead and pick, harvest, collect. Whether it’s a bilberry-picking trip on the moors or simply filling a paper bag with foxglove or poppy seeds, there are few things more simple – and satisfying – than gathering what’s ripe and making good use of it.

You can mark the progress of the seasons, and indeed the farming year, simply by the appearance of the fields. Here in the Pennines we don’t have much by way of arable farming so the welcome sight of autumn stubble isn’t something to be anticipated on nature’s calendar. But my garden gate opens straight into a meadow, which is indeed a lovely thing. In winter we have sheep poking their noses through the bars, trying to reach the tantalising flower borders. In spring the lambs arrive. But not this year. Instead, the lambs are in another field and we have a hay meadow. The grass is already waist-high in parts (there’s an unmarked path right through the middle so we often wander up to the hills this way).

It was whilst looking out of the kitchen window and beyond the gate, watching these long grasses rippling mesmerically in the wind, that I started thinking about summers past. As children we’d make little nests in the meadows, lying down and watching the grass and buttercups waving above us. The simple pleasure to be had from looking back at the path you’d made (even more satisfying when the grass is wet). Sitting on an upturned bucket in mucky jodhpurs making flower crowns.

In this landlocked valley the rippling of long grasses in the breeze is our alternative to sand dunes. A graphite-grey sky with bleached stems below, as far as the eye can see, is one of my favourite late-summer sights. I find it so evocative – to stand in the middle of it all is as close as I’ll ever get to a meditative state.

It isn’t just about grass, of course. Although these in themselves are fascinating; slow down, get up close and notice the sheer variety of form and colour. Meadows, like the moors above, are an intricate tapestry of plants and flowers. At this time of year we have buttercups, clover, sorrel, cuckoo flowers and vetch to name but a few. And all punctuated with fleshier clumps of dock, nettle and thistle.

But what about those of us who live in more urban areas? Where do we go in search of the great unmown?

Many parks and public green spaces are neatly lawned. Sometimes they’ll have wilder fringes if you stray from the tarmac. Go and explore the further reaches (worthwhile, as the outer edges are often much quieter too). A place I visit often is the churchyard in our village. Over half of it is gloriously wild, left to its own devices to grow and set seed. It’s filled with dancing buttercups and sedges, much of the ground being quite marshy underfoot, as well as red clover, purple wild orchids and Bistort. There are even some rogue forget-me-nots in there, apt for a place where people have been laid to rest over the centuries.

Now is the time to go out and find a wildflower meadow, or at least a little piece of one in an unlikely place. There are few things as truly magical as walking waist-deep through tall grass. Children love it too. And be sure to sit (or even better, lie) down and watch the sky from a secret little space, surrounded by nodding flowers and busy insects.

We’re very lucky in these parts as there’s access to plenty of beautiful woodland and open moorland. That means that as well as the ubiquitous blackberries, we can go picking whinberries (wild bilberries) on the hills in late summer – always something to look forward to and well worth the painstaking job of plucking the tiny, blue-black fruits once you’ve collected enough for a pie or crumble.

But right now it’s the perfect time to go looking for another seasonal favourite: spring greens, in the form of wild garlic and nettle tops.

I live near a town called Ramsbottom. It’s named after the ramson, or wild garlic, which grows prolifically in the area and Ramsbottom translates as ‘Valley of Wild Garlic’ (incidentally, it’s also becoming known as a bit of a foodie destination but that’s another story).

We go picking wild garlic every spring. Last year I made a batch of wild garlic butter, delicious despite its rather unconventional colour. The taste of ramsons is much milder than the usual bulbs we cook with, and it lends itself well to soups, fish and chicken dishes. You can serve it as you would spinach, simply wilted down, or mix the chopped fresh leaves with mayonnaise or soft cheese.

You’ll often smell the plant it before you see it - lush emerald green leaves giving off that distinctively pungent scent. Wild garlic grows in the woods in large clumps, and as the season progresses it produces starry white flowers. These are also edible, but once the flowers are plentiful the leaves will be getting past their best so it’s always wisest to pick early. Here in the North, that’s usually from around early April onwards.

It’s become a yearly tradition to take my little one out foraging over the Easter holidays. We always take a pair of rubber gloves so that in addition to the garlic, we can pick nettle tops. I make sure we take them from above ‘dog level’ for obvious reasons, so fortunately there’s a patch of nettles growing along the top of a dry stone wall where we can pick to our heart’s content.

I’m a great advocate of herbalism and natural remedies. If you read up on the health-giving properties of the stinging nettle, you’ll be very impressed. It’s high in iron, B complex vitamins as well as vitamins C, A, and D, and contains calcium, magnesium, phosphorus and beta-carotene. It’s also known as a diuretic, contains anti-histamine and has many astringent and anti-inflammatory uses. 

Again, it’s a good idea to collect nettles early in the growing season. It isn’t generally recommended to pick and use them once they’re at the flowering stage (and not to take them as a supplement during the early stages of pregnancy, or if you have low blood pressure or low blood sugar).

The leaves can be made into a tea either by steeping them in hot water (try with a little lemon and honey if the flavour’s not to your taste) or by drying the nettles and saving them in an airtight jar for future use.

Of course, you could be more adventurous and use them as an ingredient (always cook them first!) Nettle soup is a pretty well-known option, but as with wild garlic leaves they’re similar to spinach so can be added to risotto or even used as a pizza topping.

Once we’ve gathered our greens we always head home and make a huge pan of soup with chicken stock, the (well-washed) nettles and garlic, lots of chopped vegetables and plenty of seasoning. My little boy gets incredibly excited about the whole process and I’m always amazed when, despite his severe dislike of all things salad, he’ll happily wolf down a bowl of cooked leaves just picked from the woods.

Naturally, it’s all about his involvement in the process: carrying the basket, spotting the plants, scrambling up the banks to gather them. That’s the whole point of foraging. Although much-derided as a middle-class fad, it actually brings you closer to nature and seasonality. Searching for food, finding it, making use of what’s growing. Zero food miles or packaging, pesticides or cost. It’s what’s been done for generations. And if it encourages a four-year-old to eat his greens… well, I’m happy with that.

We’re currently at the time of year when the weather throws almost everything it has at us, often in the space of a single day. It’s not unknown in these parts to have sudden snows followed by fast thaws in April (last year’s alarmingly submerged garden being a case in point). Days can start off bright and sunny, if stingingly cold, only to turn dark and stormy a few hours later. Suddenly, as the rain hammers against the windows, that planned afternoon walk doesn’t seem like such a good idea after all.

And yet… There are times and places when the bluster is to be embraced. I looked up the meaning of ‘Elements’online and the definition(s) were very interesting. These, in particular:

‘…strong winds, heavy rain, or other kinds of bad weather’

and

‘…a person's or animal's natural or preferred environment’.

The two can go together.

There’s something incredibly life-affirming about walking up on the moors on a dark, gusty day. Perhaps it’s those Bronte novel evocations: hurrying across the spongy moss and springy heather whilst rooks circle above and gnarled, stooped old hawthorns are bent further sideways by the wind. Or simply the wild, rugged landscape providing the perfect foil for leaden skies and howling gales.

An empty beach on a stormy afternoon can be a wonderful place. The waves crashing and the smell of ozone, the blackness of wet rock and the sheer desertedness can, in an odd way, be balm for the soul. Just as with homeopathy and its basic philosophy of curing like with like, time spent outdoors embracing the elements can actually help still a turbulent mind. You become aware of your place in the universe; you gain perspective and step out of any troubling thoughts. As the wind stings your face and your eyes water, as the whistling and crashing replaces any internal chatter, you become more aware of what’s surrounding you rather than what’s going on within.

Yes, a beach is beautiful on a still summer’s day. So is a meadow, or a clearing under the trees. If I get time alone during the temperate months I sometimes escape to a little secret spot of mine, high on some banking above the woods and river. I lie back in the long grass and listen to the hum of the insects. I feel the warmth from the sun and the ground beneath me, and watch the white clouds above.

But if we only went outdoor adventuring in ‘good’ weather – well, we’d spend an awful lot of our time indoors. Particularly in Britain.

So, what to do during those long weeks where all it seems to do is rain? Some of us may subscribe to the Scandinavian notion that ‘There’s no such thing as bad weather, just bad clothing’. We might pull on the waterproofs and wellies and get out there anyway. Others may just decide that we’d rather stay home and dry. What then?

Rather a long time ago, I wrote a blog post titled ‘Proximity’. It was all about my dreams of a veranda where I could sit on rainy or snowy days and observe the weather and the garden, perhaps from under a blanket. I’d still be dry and warm but I’d be able to breathe in the damp earth smell, listen to the birds, hear the rain falling on the roof above me. We can still protect ourselves from the elements without being sealed behind double glazing, cocooned by central heating, separated from the outdoors. Veranda or not – taking shelter in a greenhouse or a garden shed brings us that bit closer to nature.

When we first moved to this house (around 18 months ago) I hated our bedroom. The ceiling is vaulted to show off the heavy oak beams. The sound of passing tractors and quarry trucks seemed super-amplified without any attic space above us and I tried to convince my other half to put in a false ceiling, insulated to muffle any unwelcome sounds. I didn’t get my way and, admittedly, I’m glad. There’s nothing more comforting on a night when the rain’s coming down in stair rods than lying in bed with a book and listening to it hitting the slates.

As a child, I’d stand with my brother, the front door wide open, watching thunderstorms. The thrill of seeing the road transform into a river, the lightening crackling across the sky whilst we were safe, even if just inches away from it, was something not to be missed. It was on just the right side of daring. Not for me, hiding under the bed! It was doing something a little bit dangerous but without any real danger there, the meteorological equivalent of putting just the one toe onto the ice before jumping back again.

Have you experienced the outdoor places you love, the special ones, where you’re in your ‘element’, in all weathers? (Perhaps not the woods on a windy day, from a purely common sense point of view). I don’t know why, but some of mine always draw me there on wilder days. Just like some of them are, to me, very autumnal or wintry places, these spots call out to me when the weather turns.

Of course, as well as blowing away the cobwebs, there’s something rewarding about coming home again with red cheeks and smarting ears and tangled hair. You appreciate those home comforts all the more. Perhaps it’s all about contrasts, extremes even. You have to experience one in order to fully appreciate the other.

Today is the first post from our new Nature Editor, Sarah. If you haven't seen our introduction to the new editors yet, head over here to find out more.

I always associate spring with the nature table. At primary school we always had a little display in the corner of the classroom with pussy willow stems in jam jars and a plastic tray filled with frogspawn. As the tadpoles sprouted legs, our teacher would prop the tray up at one end to enable them to crawl out of the water.

We were lucky to attend a village school with beautiful countryside on our doorstep. On hot days lessons would be abandoned in favour of walks outdoors, impromptu games of rounders simply having our lessons on the field.

Our headteacher, the charmingly-named Mr Chalk, would place a jar of seasonal stems or flowers on top of the piano at the beginning of each week – daffodils or teasels or holly. And during our daily assembly he’d tell us little stories, often with a nature theme (I always remember one about a man mistaking a priceless rare black tulip bulb for an onion and eating it). There’d be an annual autumn fair and we would make corn dollies to sell alongside the cakes and bric-a-brac.

Several years ago, Country Living magazine ran a campaign to bring the nature table back into schools. It stressed the importance of children not becoming isolated from the natural world, of their knowing about food sources and of spending time outdoors for physical and mental wellbeing. Of course, that holds true today and it’s something many of us feel very strongly about. Children are the future custodians of our countryside, after all. And there’s something incredibly fulfilling about watching them exploring and adventuring outside. To youngsters, the world seems a huge place where everything is amplified and where anything is possible. Insects and plants, woodland and water hold boundless opportunities for learning and imaginative play.

Finding and collecting natural things to touch and feel and study is hugely beneficial. An understanding of the seasons and curiosity about plants and animals are just two things the traditional nature table can foster.

But what about us grown-ups?  What relevance does the nature table hold for us?

I’m a collector. Partly because of my vocation as an artist – my workroom has jars of shells and dried seaweed from holidays by the sea, pots of feathers, pieces of driftwood and countless specimens of dried flowers and leaves – but also because I just love having these things around my home. When I was very little, my auntie and uncle lived in a beautiful old cottage. There was an occasional sitting room replete with rich velvets and tapestries where nobody really ventured, but I always tiptoed in there when we visited. A huge, dark oak dresser held all kinds of treasured antique china but there was one tiny detail which fascinated me: a twig with three little pine cones attached. I don’t know why I was so enamoured with it, but I was. And to this day I always have bits of nature in the house. My mantelpiece even holds a tiny, fragile bird’s skull found on a beach on the Isle of Skye. Pheasant’s feathers, too. And always a vase of simple seasonal blooms next to my mum’s photograph.

Because a nature table doesn’t have to be just that. You can adorn a windowsill, a shelf or a gap in a bookcase with finds and each time you see them you’ll feel connected to the outdoors and the seasons.

You can arrange, style and admire to your heart’s content. Or (like me) study, draw then press or preserve your little collection before going out and gathering again. These details can also be a source of inspiration or comfort on a dark day.

So what’s out there right now to bring indoors? Well, a great deal. Not just from fields and hedgerows either. Rather than picking wild flowers*, scout around the garden for snowdrops, daffodils, early cowslips, muscari, hellebores, fritillaries. Stems of catkins or magnolia and other early-flowering shrubs look beautiful in a simple stoneware jug or bottle. And consider having some flowering bulbs, too. There’s something particularly lovely about seeing living, growing things indoors during the colder months and bulbs do signify the end of winter for me.

Other items can be placed alongside to make a small display. Feathers, blown quail’s eggs and (if you’re lucky enough to find one) old nests which have been blown down. For those stylists amongst you – and I confess to being a bit of an aspiring one myself – consider leaving drawings, cards or beautiful nature books lying open ready to read. Following on from vintage Observer guides, Edith Holden’s The Country Diary of an Edwardian Lady and The Nature Notes of an Edwardian Lady (both published posthumously and taken from her collected nature notes) is seeing a resurgence. The watercolour studies are exquisite and evocative. I found my second–hand copies online for next to nothing and I now treasure them.

Of course, this isn’t all a case of simply prettifying the home. Not that there’s anything wrong in that. But bringing nature indoors increases our sense of closeness to it. It’s wonderful to watch the seasons from the window but even better to get out there and experience them fully: the smells, the textures, the sounds. We all have access to somewhere green where there will be little gifts to spot and put in a pocket, later to be brought back home and admired.

One last thing, though, and it’s an important one: always be responsible if you’re collecting things to bring home. Never dig plants up from the wild or disturb bird’s nests which are still where they should be (as opposed to having been blown down). Likewise, always take just a small amount of any one thing. Wildlife depends on many flowers and berries as a food source.

*You can find a list of our protected plants and flowers here: https://www.gov.uk/guidance/protected-plants-protection-surveys-and-licences.