It is evident that this year we have entered testing and trying times. For the first time, due to heavy cloud cover and protracted periods of rain, the battery and solar array have failed, plunging us into the dark both technologically and literally. The effect has been most uplifting. No longer has ones attention been frequently distracted by the 'mobile matrix'. Without emails to check, news to read and opinions to be shared you have the stimulus provided solely by that which is around you. It may frustrate those whom wish to contact you. May concern loved ones who, rather than physically visit and converse with you, have come to rely on a text message. The peace and focus gained was refreshing!
Lighting
reverted back to paraffin lanterns, as peripheral gadgets such as
mobiles and computers are hardly essential to survival, they were
left in their state of suspended animation. Such was the delay in the
return of our power source, that even the batteries in my little
trusted headtorch started to sputter and wane as they gasped for
energy.
Now, my time
spent hunting has been reduced by the increased consumption of wood
and the need for fuel for heating. Whilst my forays may have
decreased in regularity, the hunter is always scanning, always
seeking to spy a 'source'. More concerning than any of the above, is
the distinct and notable lack. The land is still. Quiet. Seemingly
devoid, at least by day, of life. No rabbits spotted at dawn nor
dusk. The pheasant numbers greatly diminished, though the barrages
and salvoes from the guns still echo across the valley from time to
time. The leaves remain undisturbed as no squirrels hop and bound and
forage amongst them. Songbirds flit from branch to tree. Crows often
and noisily frequent their flight paths overhead. Only now and again
will the hurried flap and flutter of the distinctive woodpigeon be
detected speeding from east to west then back again according to the
position of the absent Sun.
The wisdom
of our ancestors in their choice to trap and rear livestock now bears
new gravitas and meaning. One of our five chickens will die this
week. Two more at Christmas as hopes of a pheasant gracing the table
have all but evaporated.
I revel in
the challenge. I delight in the supposed, though thankfully unreal,
demands and pressure this places upon me. Unlike our forefathers, I
have a mighty and vast commercial infrastructure to fall back upon
should the proverbial poop hit the fan. It may have its failings in
the eyes of many for numerous and varying reasons, but as is true of
society in general, like it or lump it, whilst it is perceived to
fulfill a need and purpose and it works, it works. When it doesn't
we'll adapt. Or die. I sincerely hope that my brothers and the
sisters of the woods have triumphed over the recent adverse
conditions, for if they have succumbed, my reliance on vegetables
others have grown and shipped will increase. If not for my captive
creatures, it'd be little more than sprouts this Christmas!
. The inspiration for which, was the third of three wartime posters, the last of which was never issued. This final poster with this simple message, was to be plastered in tube stations should the Germans have invaded. I love its Britishness.
