Tag: Spring

Going Cuckoo

Photo from Marsden Cuckoo Festival by Kate.

The photograph above was sent by my friend Gill who received it from her friend Kate. It is a picture taken at the Marsden Cuckoo Festival which was held last weekend.

Marsden is in West Yorkshire near Huddersfield and the Cuckoo is welcomed back after its time of hibernation in warmer climes. Marsden is a village set in the steep-sided Pennine valley. It is within the National Trust’s Marsden Moor Estate.
The Festival includes a colourful procession, craft fair, Maypole and Morris dancing. There is even duck races. The highlight is the  Cuckoo Parade which by tradition takes place on the last Saturday of April. Local residents walk in procession down the high street waving coloured ribbons and handmade puppets. The parade is accompanied by musicians and dancers. It’s a unique experience!

The model of the Cuckoo in the photo is part of the welcome to the Cuckoo returning  to us as a herald of Spring.

The story of the reason for the Festival is part of Marsden’s folklore.

Signs of Spring chasing away a long harsh winter has always been important for people living in the Pennine hills. As I spent my childhood and teenage years on the other side of the Pennine Hills from Marsden I can remember the difficult winters all too well. When the snowdrops, crocuses and daffodils appeared, then we knew Spring had arrived.
Another sign, of course, is the sound of the first Cuckoo.
In the Marsden story, a cuckoo took up residence in a field, or in other versions, in a tree or even down a chimney. Whatever version is correct, the result involved residents in trying to capture the bird so that Spring would remain. The field wall was built higher, or a circle of stone was built around the tree or extra height was built onto the chimney! Whatever, the bird escaped anyway, mocking them all with its call – which was proof that this herald of Spring was still doing its job.
Other stories were  invented in other places and nearby Austwick claims to be the first to tell the tale. Rural rivalry in these matters is very strong!
The Festival continues to celebrate the event.
Of course, Marsden was not alone in celebrating the ‘first’ cuckoo of Spring. There is a custom that people who think they heard the first cuckoo in Spring every year, send a letter to the Times Newspaper. This is duly printed and the readers breathe a sigh of relief that Spring is now officially here.

It’s stay in England is at least until St. John the Baptist’s day on June 24th but other dates are later including into August. A rhyme about this is:

A sidelight to this is that the rhyme inspired Paul Simon to use it in what is the shortest song on the album he wrote with Art Garfunkel, The Sound of Silence.
The song is April Come she will, and it is believed that Paul Simon was influenced by a girl he met in England in 1964, who recited the song. He thought that this song of Nature was a useful metaphor for the changing moods of a girlfriend. The lyrics can work the other way and tell us something of the Cuckoo’s life.

It is possible that the Cuckoo has no idea of the role we have given it as herald of Spring but then we should remember that it is a creature of God’s own making and maybe, just maybe, God has given it a special role to help his poor humans cheer up as the season of new growth and life and love shows itself. It is after all, Eastertide.

[Mr G ]

Cuckoo in flight going out to sea (Photo from bird forum)

# April Come she will lyrics © 1965 Words and Music by Paul Simon

#There is a rather beautiful poem, The  Cuckoo, by the 19th century poet, John Clare.

#Thanks to the people of Marsden for information about their unique festival.

#P.S. Don’t forget to plant your potatoes! If you discover why send me a note on
geoffrey_connor@priest.com. You never know, I might send you a bag of crisps.

Cusp of Spring

Tarn Hows photographed at the eve of Candlemass/Imbolc by Gill Henwood.

The photo speaks its own message.
Very still, chilly breeze, birds singing for Imbolc/Candlemas ….But fallen giant conifer trees from the storms are on slopes exposed and waterlogged ground. After the storms, the birds sing of hope, for Spring, new life, another season to grow. Bittersweet calm, but the low sun rising is warming the cold wet land and her creatures. [Gill]

February
tiptoes across a winter landscape,
luring us away, from cold depression 
of dark, dank January.

Weak, shy strengthening Sun,
practices dazzling us with brightness;
whispering promises of hope
about Spring beyond.

Ah! What trembling beauty
lays a carpet of expectant joy!

Mr G  February 2024


Clockface migration

As summer progresses, Mother Nature begins to secure continuity of her gifts to the earth.
Seeds are dropped, others collected, plants dead-headed and wildflowers make thir provision for continued life.
The other day it was quite windy and I notice a profusion of white Dandelion seeds, taking their journey across the sky.
So being a fan of the dear Dandelion, I have marked this journey.

Dandelion Clocks

It is the time of migration.

Small gossamer parachutes
tumbling  freely on eddies of air
each carrying a speck of seed.
They will be carried to the ground
where they will hide like spies
at an unknown address.
In deep shadow and stillness 
They wait patiently, demanding nothing.
A time will come, a call to invade will be heard.

Following some unknown decision,
a pinprick followed by myriad others,
stirring from their closeted, soil wrapped cell,
they conquer the earth
with their spring clock faces
of brilliant yellow.

Here’s a thing: When the fluffy ball is ready to cast its seeds, why not take it in your hand and blow gently on it but,
instead of making a wish, send each seed on its way with a prayer to God .
This would make the Dandelion a prayer – wheel which  takes our prayers , sorrows and praises to God.
Just a thought.

[Mr G]

Simple Coltsfoot touching the soul

(Photo. Coltsfoot at Newhall. Mr G)

Reminder of Coltsfoot

The other day walking around the pond in woodland near my home, I was attracted by a clump of yellow, hugging the ground.Early flowering spring, the Coltsfoot.
Immediately I was taken back to the time of boyhood.

Life in the austere aftermath of World War II was far from easy.
In the Industrial North of England, children had few toys of their own though they shared what they had with others. We also had places for play including a side street containing 3 terraced houses where the occupants acted as street wardens. Cars rarely ever came along this street. It was the play street for children. Here we held our running  and skipping and jumping games. Footballs vied with tennis balls. We made makeshift go-carts out of old pram axels and rope, using wooden fruit boxes for the cart body. We staged plays and shows and entertained the adults who kept watch of us. It was often a joyful and very noisy place!

Nearby, the old Ruby Mill provided the best Adventure Playground you could ever find. This old cotton mill alongside its neighbour the Longfield,(always shortened to ‘Longy’) had served giant King Cotton until the decline of its production.
The mill, opened in 1889, was demolished in 1946, though had closed in 1930. All that survived where 4 concrete mounds of varying heights, which were the ‘engine beds’ from where was generated all the energy to power the mill.
By the time we children took them over they were renamed ‘Indian beds’, the perfect place to either catch Indians or lure cowboys into danger!
The way Mother Nature had taken over the ground of the former mill, we were gifted with a great area to enjoy the open air. From Spring to Autumn we hid in dens in the earth, ran hospitals to cater for budding doctors and nurses, ran buses along imaginary routes, waged war on cowboys, made camps as RedIndians, built dams so that spring water could flood the area. Occasionally we fought mock battles between the ‘Ruby gang and the ‘Longy gang’. We always made sure that our troops were far enough away to prevent real harm happening.
In a time of austerity we found amazing things with which to feed our imaginations and develop a sense of fun and working together,. We developed our social skills in a natural way. Sometimes we moved into commercial ventures!
My friend Michael and I would gather bunches of Coltsfoot and Dandelions. We would then arranged them into ‘bouquets’ wrapped in copies of the Daily Despatch newspaper and tried to sell them on the streets of our area. If it wasn’t a fruitful day we always had the fall back position of granny and various local ‘aunties and uncles’. They could be relied on to put a halfpenny or penny into our pockets.

In our adventure playground we saw so much nature taking over everything and we were introduced to wild flowers, grasses, insects and all that nature had to offer and which educated us in permanent and exciting ways.
Amongst the flowers which came to our attention were Coltsfoot.
There were lots of dandelions, buttercups, daisy and two colours of clover.
However, the little Coltsfoot was my favourite. The poem I have written below tries to say why.

When I saw that little drift of Coltsfoot, this memory came flooding back and with it, the remembrance of how, as children with little material resource, we found a wealth of gift to us on our own Ruby ground and a way of sharing it together which taught us friendship, kindness, care of others and occasionally how to have a very good ‘row’ which dealt with some of the tensions of childhood.
I was also taught that nature has so much to reveal about what I came later to know as creation and Creator God.

Finally, in the beautiful little, gloriously yellow/gold coltsfoot, I learned that in little, sometimes overlooked things, there is a joy and beauty which enriches life. The end of my poem is my comment on that.

Coltsfoot

Did you notice me
as you walked by,
a splash of yellow,
a jewel hugging the soil
brightly.
I have gnarled fingers
but not yet.
My flower needs no leafy announcement.
Yet I am not showy
like others who herald springtime.
I am not like cousin Dandelion
and share nothing with blousy,
trumpeting daffodil!
Tiny, I am easily overlooked.
But often it is simple things
which touch the soul
with colour and warmth.

[Mr G 27th March 2023]