At last, a mountain hare in full winter ermine, stark against the Munro and in the middle of our frame. Near the top of the peak at Coignashie, part-driven, part-hiked, with whipping late-January winds, this beautiful mammal sat perfectly broadside, with us, too, in its sights. For an upbeat crew with an enthusiastic contributor and at only 11.10am, earning time for a coffee stop, it was a triumphant moment. And yet, reflecting on the experience, I felt... not very much.
Raking through my memories for this column’s brief – favourite wildlife haven or wild place – other wildlife wonders left me unemotional: releasing newly ringed birds directly from my palm, crouching inches from the vast head of a hulking bison in Kent, spray-painting pristine seal pups on the rocky shores of Skomer Island, assisting in hedgehog hospitals and hand-feeding red deer.
Is it because I’m spoilt? Yes. But something else as well. For each moment with these magnificent animals was tainted by the understanding that they were either terrified of me or fenced in. With all the ‘I come in peace’ vibes I can muster, the fact remains that humans are terrifying destructive predators and that truth rather gets in the way of being uplifted by the encounter.
For each moment with these magnificent animals was tainted by the understanding that they were either terrified of me or fenced in.
Back in May 2019, I saved a document entitled ‘30 Things I Want To Do Before I Die’. At number 23 was 'make friends with a wild animal'. Not a friendship that interferes with its world, but one that eventually reaches a moment of trust where it feels like we’ve seen each other on our own terms. I haven’t managed it yet. You have to put in the time.
But there have been experiences on Countryfile when I’ve got close – or at least got started:
- In the waters around the Farne Islands, an hour of trying to look unthreatening paid off when a lone male seal greeted my hand with its nose.
- Sitting on concrete bollards of Newlyn Harbour eating our packed lunch, we watched as the turnstone birds squeaked and comedy-ran in unison after the harbourmaster’s grain.
- Standing still on the lonely moor, alert to the curlew calls in the air above the lost farms of Weardale, sensing the coming of spring.
- The assault of thousands of flying insects, in nostrils, ear cavities and scalp, drawn to our vehicle’s headlights on the Avalon marshes near midsummer’s night.
- Approaching reverently to worship at the altar of an exalted ancient oak towering before me, in a bygone woodland dynasty at Blenheim.
- The clifftop night on Skomer, pulsating with single-minded storm petrels who had no mind for manners, passing inches from my unseeing head.
- Gazing bemasked, inches below the temporary water line, into a rockpool universe and the bizarre movements of crabs and beadlet anemones, to the sound of exaggerated snorkel breathing.
- Gannets raining down upon us to feast in the chummed waters around Bempton Cliffs.
These and more are what for me makes a wild place special: focus. The sad and small are included in this. Looking down at the blackbird, warm in my hand, as one of my tears splashed precisely into the now crumpled lens of its eye, after my car had hit and killed it. That same day, lifting my hand that had been resting on a door frame and seeing the spider that I’d leant on drop to the ground. Or tiptoeing, out of rhythm along the woodland path, trying to stand on as few wood ants as possible.
I have been in the most beautiful nature reserves – nowhere prettier for a picnic – surrounded by wildlife that can see me, while I can’t see it, and not memorised a thing about that day. But a moment of focus, in close frequency with the natural world, is when I recall the wonder. And when a spiritual connection with nature is made.
