Indian Summer Notebook Read online

  The Burrows are in danger from that world. During the Hitlerian war tanks and flame-throwers and later amphibian craft exercised here. The Americans practised landings under live shell and curving red tracer. They built a road across this haunt of marsh harrier and wild geese in winter.

  Once a Greenland falcon came south in a blizzard howling its way from the North Star. With the falcon came Bubu the great horned owl, birds with staring eyes, having seen the Aurora Borealis, Dawn of the Winter God, and their plumage had the hues of sleet and fog. Both, alas, to be seen later in the local taxidermist’s window, for our arctic visitors were knocked over or trapped by some sportsman surviving from the Victorian age of shoot-and-stuff.

  That was over forty years ago, in 1926, and you may read of that winter in a little local book called Tarka the Otter.

  Yes, the Americans built this road, of hard core, almost to the lighthouse and the pebbled watery shore of the estuary. Now there is talk of a right-of-way, for the road has been built over twenty years. Gates have been put up by the owner – for the Burrows are private property – anyone may walk there, but what about cars? Will the Burrows become another Blackpool? But away with all corroding thoughts, do not heed the milk bottles and the yellowing scraps of August’s newspapers.

  My feet purr in the hot loose sand of the dunes and I fancy that I can hear the inaudible – or is it real? – music of this magic place. The sand is almost white under a bleaching sun which has however in its rays just a little of the melancholy of autumn.

  I am alone in a hollow where four plants of the Great Sea Stock grew when I was here last, in June. And there was a Sea Holly, whose spiny leaves are as formidable to hand or naked foot as they are beautiful. Glaucous may be the word to describe their hue. If it is a wrong word I do not care, do not bother me with words while the still and hanging air is ringing with that strange remote music.

  Is Ariel come again? Those eyes of sapphire, the gentle lips of beauty entranced, the whisper of the name Prospero. Did I dream it once? All life is a dream. The music descends and rises within an octave, falling and rising about the azure. Just here, beside me, where the prints of feet lead to the wind’s oblivion.

  On a calm day such as this the Atlantic pulse is turned to gentleness. A wave rises thin and creams over at its leading edge and falls tinkling with sun-drops on my face and back. I have miles of sand to myself and my clothes lie on the shore scattered, and only the ring-plovers and shore-larks see me in the water.

  Sabrina fair,

  Listen where thou art sitting

  Under the glassie, cool, translucent wave.

  In twisted braids of lilies knitting

  The loose train of thy amber-dropping hair.

  Listen for dear honour’s sake,

  Goddess of the silver lake,

  Listen and save – *

  Someone in the summer, which is gliding away, seems to have wrenched out the Great Sea Stocks, which grew there in June. Their roots are strong and thick, like flexible canes. Some innocent child, maybe: but the seeds have dropped, there will be flowers here next June.

  Now the sun has gone down below the rim of the ocean, night is coming to the earth. I lie under the streaming light of the western stars, the driftwood fire is wan with dying embers. One last look around from the crest of the tallest sand hill above the Valley of the Winds. Those flashings along the rim of ocean are from the lighthouse towers of Lundy and Hartland. They will be there on the way back.

  [* from Comus (1637), by John Milton]

  Evening Standard, 16-20 November, 1964

  Collected writings of Henry Williamson published by

  The Henry Williamson Society:

  On the Road (previous title Contributions to the Weekly Dispatch)

  Days of Wonder

  From a Country Hilltop

  A Breath of Country Air

  Spring Days in Devon

  Pen and Plough

  Threnos for T. E. Lawrence

  Green Fields and Pavements

  The Notebook of a Nature-lover

  Words on the West Wind

  Indian Summer Notebook

  Henry Williamson: a brief look at his life and

  writings in North Devon

  Heart of England

  Chronicles of a Norfolk Farmer

  Stumberleap

  Atlantic Tales

  The Henry Williamson Society was founded in 1980 to encourage interest in, and a deeper understanding of, the life and work of the writer.

  It issues a newsletter and journal annually, which have a wide and varied content. A major project of the Society has been to collect and publish Henry Williamson’s many contributions to newspapers and magazine, as listed above.

  For further information about Henry Williamson, and how to join the Henry Williamson Society, please visit our website, www.henrywilliamson.co.uk.