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Here at BOW, we sometimes like to write about what we're up to. This Blog page is our chance to report from the front line of wine making and we hope you like our silly little thoughts!
The Forest Walk.
Posted on: 29th January, 2010
It is so quiet in the 400 acre forest behind us. While the wind throws itself at the Western front of the stand, I am walking quietly along the Eastern path with my feet pushing through damp leaves sounding swooshes and a sub-rosa of calming crinkleness. I think of rice crispies. The branches are bare having left their leaves beneath; bare enough so that the interior processional of the forest is made clear. The grey squirrels forage and leap, theirs is a constant if not meek background rustling of small joy; alone or in pairs or threes but ever present as they hop and and climb and scold, watching my passage warily.
I bend over to take a closer look at a long-dropped tree root ball. It is nearly six feet across and has been revealed to the weather for several seasons. There are termites marching with white pods; a clear relocation of the nest. Among them are the ants marching in the opposite direction and seemingly moving into the former spacious termite quarters. Perhaps they'll also become tired of the accommodations once the rains return. There are a few centipedes moving madly yet slowly toward their fetid destinations; and the worms try but cannot keep up. "Oh but to have been given one hundred legs..." -All are living and being under but one ordinary log.
Returning to the path, the cattle are seen off to the right through the bare ivy vines; oblivious to everything but their perpetual cud-munching and tongue deeply into the nose licking. Up ahead is my turn to the left, down the hill to the North West. I am now moving further into the forest. Might there be beasts here?
Three does and a young buck stand noses to the ground. They catch my presence immediately frozen and head up. I must be downwind to have gotten this close and they know it is time to flee. But not too quickly; the season is not yet begun of course and yet they can't be too sure. Off they bound high-leaping and determined to place safety between them and the bipedal intruder. Their instinct is formed upon millennia of experience and they know that I am bang-stick.
But not today. A creek issues from the damp dark soil from beneath a large, square, flat striated stone. There has been enough rains that the water emanates with enough force to create a pizzicato ripple; the accompaniment of freedom. I strain to hear the forest's poetic song. While the wet winter ground cover would hide this magic, the trees embrace it, bouncing the quiet joy among their bare trunks, amplifying the life it brings into and among the bound procession. Here, now, the sounds are the dance; subtle and indistinct until I stop and really listen. The wind in the tops of the trees is now accarezzevole: expressive and caring. Maestoso but not too ma non troppo. The squirrels add staccato to the forest's classical rhythm and, eyes closed, my other senses draw upon memories of playing classical flute. What was very soft is now suddenly quite loud: diminuendo poi subito fortissimo. What was silent is now revealed. Dreamily, the forest sings: Sognando aria. My, what a gift...
I have promised the lovely Sharon and other family that I will this year do more to get out and take care of myself. For three years I have given everything I have to ensure the success of this complex and magnificent business. It is the most creative endeavor that I have ever undertaken and it has take a great deal to stoke and to nurture. One of the things that I have promised myself is to walk the beautiful forest located just outside my office door. Now that I have imagined the walk, perhaps next week I will actually take it.
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