#BeautifulNature

[forestduck]

the_hermit_142.

[missedmilemarkers]

A peaceful snowy scene comes to life with ducks gliding across a calm pond, framed by branches heavy with fresh snow. The serene reflection in the water highlights the beauty of winter in nature, creating a moment of quiet magic. Perfect for those who love winter wonderlands, reflection photography, and the charm of wildlife. ❄️🦆

[mensagensposts]

Tudo vale a pena quando a alma não é pequena.

[shorexen]

Forest 🌲🌳

[ryey22]

[dreamydewdrops]

[gmwc]

watercolor / gouache on toned bockingford watercolor paper

[insightdaily]

Graceful Glide: A Sea Turtle's Journey Through the Reef

[animex001]

[wallcute]

Which frame do you think is more beautiful? other images

[gardeningloverfamily]

Look for the reel in the next few days. I will tell you more about this year's harvest 😊 I have very mixed results.

💥follow us 👉 @gardenigloverfamily for more beautiful gardening contents

[forestduck]

Chloe Fernando.

[missedmilemarkers]

[mensagensposts]

céu e nuvens

sky and cloud

[shorexen]

Road and Shadow 🛣️👤

[alexandermcrow]

Into The Woods

A Fall in Time, long ago.

Our lives are shaped by the paths we take, whether through choice, or by chance.

Sometimes, this takes the form of the path not taken, sometimes that we follow. Often, both. The idea of how our lives might be utterly different, hinging on just one little thing, is a popular theme, whether in the written word or romantic comedy dramas.

Back in 2010, I was working for the civil service in a northern English city. I had already made some major changes to my life, going through a divorce and trying very hard to rediscover who I was—or perhaps who I thought I should be. But I was not content, nor was I as happy as I felt I should be.

I felt there was something missing, something crucial, a path which lay beyond my reach every morning as I would walk to work, a trail tantalisingly out of sight. I knew it was there, however.

At some point in the summer of 2010, I made up my mind to make some very big changes.

On the 14th of September 2010, a Tuesday, I caught a train just after dawn, after walking the short distance to the railway station, heavily burdened by backpack and shoulder bag, a walking staff I had harvested previously in my hand.

I headed north, initially to Edinburgh, then across to Glasgow, before going still further north.

That evening, after a long day of travel which, in turn, had followed an almost sleepless night before, I walked out from a request stop into the damp of recently-fallen rain, asking the train conductor to drop me off in what on my map looked a suitable location to spend a night or two. I could not walk that far, the weight of my pack was too great, and I was simply too exhausted.

That night, as the sky was beginning to darken, I set up my hammock between two gnarled oak trees, strung my tarp above, ate a quick dinner and fell asleep.

I was to stay out in those woods, alone, until December.

During that time, I cooked over flames every day, had to source, carry, and purify all my water, supplement my rations and supplies with wild food, from the land and from the sea.

Initially, I had intended to follow the coast further north, eventually ending up at my family’s home in Caithness for Christmas, but life didn’t work out quite as planned.

Instead, I built a shelter in those woods, exploring the area around me and immersing myself in all things natural. I slowed down, I listened and scented the air frequently, eventually understanding the language of the local wildlife and surprising myself when I could smell a deer ahead on the trail.

As far as human company went, I was alone the whole time, rarely seeing others apart from on distant boats, or the few occasions I bought some more supplies.

During the months I was out there, I kept a journal in a succession of small Moleskine notebooks, imagining myself the guardian of a tradition embraced by writers such as Chatwin, Hemingway, Laurie Lee, Thoreau and earlier adventurers and explorers.

I also handcrafted blog posts in the notebooks, then photographed the pages on my pre-smart phone, which I charged through a small solar panel. Following this, when the weather agreed, I would hike to find a spot of signal and slowly send them on to my sister, who patiently transcribed my scrawl, before uploading them to her website for others to read. 

A few years later, I shared some of this adventure by way of a now-private and dusty tumblr, uploading some of the thousands of photographs I had taken on my camera, and sharing snippets from those journals.

This year, 2024, I am returning to this adventure and sharing a lot more. Over on my Substack, I will be posting daily Notes and weekly summaries, sharing hundreds of photos, a few videos, and a lot of words and thoughts.

I have created this tumblr to specifically share a few posts and images and to say, if you like these, then there will be a lot more at The Crow's Nest letter. A lot of it is free and, as well as this adventure, I also share nature and place writing, discussion of ancestral skills and bushcraft, thoughts and feelings about those liminal spaces in our world, and also a weekly dose of fiction. I illustrate all of these with original photography or designs. No AI to be seen in that space...

Click below to follow along, I'd love to see you there and, if you do venture from this space to that, please say hello!