May

Mice, money, margins and stuff that is making me happy right now. A meandering May newsletter

The oak tree this morning

It is a bright May morning. The garden and back field are in the fullest flush of spring. Around the trunk of the old oak tree there is a riot of cleavers, self-heal, nettle, forget-me-not, the last of the faded bluebells and the delicate orbs of dandelion moons, ripe for making wishes on. There is a skylark trilling in the field to the front of the cottage, which I am happy to report has been left fallow this year, giving ground nesting birds like skylarks a chance to roost. The rhythmic coo coo coo of wood pigeons drifts through the air and a blackbird is singing in the ash tree. Flying insects and gossamer threads of spider silk catch the brilliant morning light.

There is a thriving mouse population in my garden. I like them. They don’t come in the house (I mean, they probably do in winter, but we haven’t seen or heard any) and they just seem to get on merrily with mousing around, scurrying in between the flower beds and the patch of ground elder underneath the bird feeders, from whence they steal fallen crumbs to stash away in their secret lair. Somewhere in the garden there will be a hoard of food - acorns, bird seed, ash seeds, dried mushrooms, lichens and berries - near the mouse’s nest, deep within its burrow system. I haven’t located this but I suspect it’s around the base of the oak tree, perhaps even inside the hollow, hundred-year-old trunk, a real life Brambly Hedge. At least, that’s what I tell the kids.

Most of them are brown wood mice, also known as field or long-tailed mice. Smooth little pelts with big ears and beady black eyes. Mat once saw a hazel dormouse at the bottom of the garden, with gingery, golden-brown fur and a fuzzy tail. The hazel dormouse is the cutest, sleepiest, most beguiling of all rodents - although it is not technically a mouse, and is more closely related to red squirrels. Like most of our precious native wildlife, it is also highly endangered. I like to think that in the four years we rented and rewilded the back field, we gave the hedgerows a chance to regenerate enough to provide a habitat for these magical, dozy little creatures.

The most hilarious thing is the mice think I don’t know they’re there. They dart and scamper behind the pots of strawberries and tomatoes thinking they are pulling a fast one while I can see them quite clearly from the kitchen window. Watching their daily tos-and-fros is better than anything on TV (although I am quite enjoying Race Across the World). They’re full of character, and there is something deeply joyful about observing a garden’s ecosystem - however small and fractured - do its thing.

The back field is changing. Since we had to give up the tenancy, the hedgerows along one edge have been brutally trimmed back, and I am told the same will soon happen on ‘our side’. I understand the need for ‘management’ (even though I am pretty sure nature has been managing itself quite well for billions of years) and have pleaded, respectfully and politely, for this not to be done in the spring nesting season, explaining that even if nests aren’t visible, they are still there, as well as countless small mammals, insects, and eggs. Beyond that, sadly, it’s out of my hands. So I had a word with the spirits of the hedgerow. Apologised for not being able to do more. Made offerings of water, smudge, apples and kitten food for the foxes. Asked the spirits to retreat into the trees. At that moment a pair of tiny, chalk blue butterflies emerged out of the hedgerow and circled around my head. If this sounds weird, so be it. I talk to the world. Sometimes, I think she talks back.

Apparently a planning application for more ugly, unsustainable houses is being put in for the field. It might take a few years, but it will likely go the way of most of the land around here, which is the way of profit before people, brown envelopes stuffed into greedy pockets, the mindless destruction of the living world, despite the barn owls and adders and badgers and fox cubs, the dragonflies and damselflies and dormice and the rich network of mycelia humming away just beneath the surface. The houses, if built, will sit in bog water when the river rises in winter, as it does every year.

It feels like a tiny microcosm of the madness that we are all living through. And I feel powerless to stop it.

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Reform (for those not in the UK, Reform is a political party, our home-grown, hard right fascist nutter faction) won most of the seats in my local area in Friday’s local elections. My neighbourhood is full of emboldened racists. There are Reform signs going up around the farm and one of our neighbours is openly wearing a T-shirt with a picture of a St. George’s flag on it and the words: IF YOU DON’T LIKE THIS FLAG I’LL HELP YOU PACK (note: I don’t particularly like the flag, and I don’t need your help packing, thanks).

As well as the menacing shadow of fascism, life is stupidly expensive, and getting worse. It takes everything we’ve got just to keep all plates spinning - and we are lucky, resourceful people. Even though my husband and I both work and juggle several income streams, every last penny we earn goes on rent, bills and basics like food and fuel. Without inherited wealth or extravagant incomes to get out of the rent trap, it’s not easy to see how this might change.

I started thinking about moving into our truck to save money. We spent most of our twenties living in vans and caravans. For another four years we lived in a static trailer in between an apple tree and an oak tree in our friend’s back garden. I still miss the sound of the rain on the roof, the feeling of being rocked to sleep by the wind during winter storms. Having to get up in the middle of the night to load the wood burner otherwise you’d wake up to frost on the inside of the windows. Those were good, carefree years. But when babies came along, we made a choice. We needed a bath, a washing machine, a place where the kids could have their own bedrooms. (We always kept a live-in vehicle, though. It’s never a bad idea to have a Plan B).

Without anywhere to park permanently, moving into a truck isn’t an appealing option for a family. The South East of England is forcefully inhospitable to people living in vehicles and other alternative lifestyles. And to be honest, we still kind of need a bath and a washing machine. The dream is a little patch of land of our own, someday. Who knows; the future is wide open. But at 44, I am more aware that time speeds up as you age. My sixties are just around the corner, really. Where will we be by then, I wonder? What will the world be like for my children? Will I be here at all? As humans we are so used to living alongside mystery that we often fail to notice it.

On the writing side, I’ve been grappling with self-doubt, vulnerability and letting go of perfection with a long creative project. I don’t like to talk about this too much because I’m superstitious about talking about things before they are fully formed, wary of dissipating their magic. This probably has something to do with deeper-rooted issues around feeling safe to use my voice, and also feeling like I am “enough” without needing external validation. But not talking about it feels weird, too. I hope I can share more on this at some point in the future.

For now it feels good to be sitting outside on a sunny morning, writing a meandering newsletter about random stuff in my back garden, listening to the birds and the bees.

I love the community here on Substack. It’s fun, inspiring and, without a doubt, it makes me a better writer. But I find it hard to keep up with the demand to produce something shiny and new all the time. To show up consistently when I am showing up consistently and reliably in so many other areas of my life, both paid and unpaid, visible and invisible.

Writing for me happens in the margins, as it does for so many women and mothers. And it’s often in the margins where I’m happiest. My creative self likes rest, space, freedom and fun. She’s romping through the hedgerows barefoot, gobbling berries by the light of a full moon. She is a wild, playful, up yours PDA rebel and I bloody love her. I would like to go with her sometimes. Lately, this hasn’t felt within reach as much as I’d like.

But here I am on this bright new morning, the spring sun warm on my neck through the oak leaves, mice scampering along the tattered edges of the raised beds with cheeks stuffed full of food. The first of the poppies and ox-eye daisies are blooming and a little green bug is crawling across my laptop. The air is thick with insects and birdsong. The few things I got around to planting this year - tomatoes and courgettes, nastrutiums and marigolds, sunflowers and wild flowers - are bursting upwards, everything green and lush and full of life, robins and wrens and bluetits flitting around on the high branches, the jackdaws holding council on the rooftops as usual. There are foxgloves and ferns and toads and shield bugs. Our pet rabbit, Ginge, is sunning himself on the top deck of his garden hutch, nibbling a breakfast of fresh fennel fronds and plantain leaves as the sun beats down over the treetops, warming his soft, furry body after the long winter.

There is this whole big, beautiful world right outside my door, and I am alive in it. That’s quite a thing, isn’t it? As things get weirder, I’m convinced that joy sings a little louder.

My 13 year old just popped out into the garden to say hi. She’s just got up, night dreams still settled in her hair like a nest full of stars. She’s having a good childhood, I think. We are doing the best we can by her and her brother, I hope. And my god, is she beautiful, and not just in the physical sense. Eyes like amber pools, hair dyed a dark reddish brown. A little goddess if ever there was one. My sweet, nutty, neurosparkly 8-year-old is inside watching cartoons with his Dad. We’ve got an empty day ahead of us and the whole summer to come. That makes me feel very rich.

And there is this:

and this:

and this:

and this:

These are still good, carefree years. I am so lucky.

All we have is now.

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What I’m reading

Concurrently, I am enjoying:

The River Days of Rosie Crowe by Rebecca Stonehill. A lush, witchy and meticulously observed novel that spans two time frames, recently published by Stairwell Press. Rebecca is a friend from the climate movement, and a brilliant writer. Summer read sorted!

There is one sure-fire way to become better at writing, and that is to read really, really good writing by authors like Annie Worsley. Windswept is breathtaking, and an effortless read. It’s nice to have a novel and a work of non-fiction on the go at the same time, even if I am a painstakingly slow reader who still spends far too much time on my phone. A few pages most nights is helping me slowly break a useless habit of scrolling in bed.

I’m also reading my friend Venessa Tai Yeh’s forthcoming poetry collection, two halves of me, which I am so excited for. Venessa did me the honour of asking me to write a blurb for the collection. So far I am loving it… blurb to follow, V!

That’s mostly it for now. A huge thank you, as always, for being here. Wishing you all things good and green as May unfurls. 🌿

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Hi! Thanks again for reading. This is a free newsletter and I’m stoked to have you here. If you would like to support me as a writer, the best way to do this is by opting for a paid subscription, which costs £4 a month. I’d be massively grateful for the support. It really helps me to keep going on the often solitary path of being a creative mum. 🩷

Love Caroline x