Winter's Reward

Winter’s Reward:

Learning the Land Close to Home

By Diane Duckworth

The Woodland Apothecary

“My observation of the forest has held up a mirror to my own nature.” 

David George Haskell

It’s the time of year when the cold walls us in. When warm cups of tea or cocoa feel more inviting than warm mittens and winter’s cold embrace. Stepping outside can require a bit of bravery. Once I am out, it feels wonderful. But getting out that door can be a challenge. Lately, the world has felt very loud. The news is bleak, to say the least. The headlines have been heavy, and everything seems tilted towards worry.

On days like these, stepping into nature isn’t just “nice.”

It’s medicine.

A brisk winter walk coaxes the body into motion, and the body, in its ancient wisdom, tells the nervous system: You are safe. You are here. Keep going. The heartbeat rises, the lungs expand, the brain’s alarms quiet. Slowly, the mind unknots itself, and the soul finds room again. Nature doesn’t fix the world. It fixes the way we carry it. 

And once you actually step outside, the winter rewards arrive quickly. Birds reveal themselves now. Without summer’s thick green cloak, their small bodies are lanterns against bare branches. Wrens are zipping through the hedgerows. Blackbirds are turning over leaves. The soft colours of robins are gentle embers glowing against a gray sky.  Their movements feel sharper, more legible. They have stories to tell. You just have to observe. 

The light in winter is always changing, giving a spotlight to the evolving characters on the forest stage - a wild fern, a shimmering bit of ivy climbing a tree trunk, a patch of moss clinging to an old stump. We’re past the winter solstice now. The year is tipping towards brightness. Currently, in the north of England, the mornings are still shrouded in darkness. There is still time for owls and headlights and for the morning moon to share the sky. It gives us a chance to greet the day before it begins. I’ve learned that walking through winter does not close the world. It clarifies it. It asks us to notice things we would normally stride past in July, like hedgerows holding the bones of the year, lichen creeping across old stone, moonlight polishing frost on fence rails, and the quiet architecture of the trees. 

Lately, I’ve been learning more about the geography close to my new home. There are so many types of landscapes to explore. I have been reading Robert Macfarlane to my absolute delight and enjoyment. Is A River Alive? was a fascinating read, and he has so much more to offer. He writes in a way that makes nature come alive on the page, and it invites us to be part of the story. 

I have been surrounding myself with books about the wild by Tristen Gooley, John Muir, Henry David Thoreau, along with books from Reader’s Digest Nature Lovers Library, The Trees and Shrubs of Britain, Collins Complete Guide to British Trees, and books by Mary Koch, such as Bird, Egg, Feather, Nest and Pond, Lake River, Sea. I’ve even been picking up books on Biophilic Design, Caring for House Plants, and the poetry and philosophy of David George Haskell. I’ve been learning about hedgerows and holloways and exploring landscape vocabulary in Macfarlane’s book Landmarks. 

I’ve been trying to draw sensory maps of Crow Park, not as a grid laid out on Google or My Three Words, but rather as a picture of what I notice and how it makes me feel. Learning the names of the trees and the words for different landscapes helps me to notice what is around me and makes it come alive. 

Winter is good for that kind of learning. It slows the world for us enough to pay attention. 

You don’t have to travel far. In fact, there’s something delicious about becoming an expert on the place you already stand, your village, your park, your street, your nearest woodland path. The old ways are stitched into these places, waiting for someone to walk and wonder.

So if you are feeling stuck indoors or out of ideas, you might want to try this:

The Woodland Apothecary Task: Name Your Winter Way

Duration: 15 minutes

Tools: warm coat, notebook or phone, curiosity

1. Go for a short winter walk near home - a loop, an out-and-back, or even just around the block. 

2. Choose one feature to learn about. Just one. It could be:

• a hedgerow

• a stone wall

• a lane or footpath

• a stream

• a patch of woodland

• a particular tree  

3. When you get home, look it up - its history, its name, its species, its purpose, its folklore.

4. Write down three things you didn’t know before.

5. Share one with someone else. This is how local knowledge spreads and takes root.

Expected effect: renewed curiosity, a sense of belonging, calmer nerves, and a strange desire to go back out again tomorrow. 

Winter isn’t barren.

It’s just honest.

And once you step into it - really step - the land begins to speak, and the body remembers how to listen.