I spent the weekend off-grid camping on a farm in Northumberland, tucked between woodland and fields beside an old barn that now belongs to barn owls.
On the first evening, a farmer’s combine harvester became a dark silhouette against an amber sky. A modern vision… yet somehow timeless.
On the second evening, when the crops had been harvested and all was quiet, numerous hares wandered close enough to inspect us as we watched the sunset over the fields again. Curious rather than timid, I found myself thinking about hares in old folklore. They, along with owls, have long been woven into stories of witches and the uncanny. Yet standing there, in their habitat, it seemed far more likely that they were simply misunderstood. Quiet creatures, going about their lives, observed from a distance until imagination filled in the gaps.
Perhaps that’s what folklore has always done.
During the witching hour of the second evening, somewhere beyond the trees came the most extraordinary chorus of hounds, all howling together in strange, haunting harmony. It lasted long enough to rouse us from sleep to listen.
Then at sunrise, we listened to birds exchanging messages we couldn’t hope to understand.
It was a soul-restoring weekend, away from people and close to something older.
It left me wondering whether the land has always been speaking and whether we’ve simply forgotten how to listen.
R. H. DIXON 