Happy new year. Well, sort of new. The Earth is on its orbit whether humans mark its passage or not, but December 31st is of course where we draw our line, and ring out the church bells – or, these days, set off fireworks. Personally, I would rather we kept to the bells, which cause much less stress to pets, livestock and wildlife.
But out on the downlands, there is peace: a strange sprinkling of colour, speaking not only of the future but the past.
A small scabious Scabiosa columbaria, clinging brightly to the chilled grasslands even on New Year’s Eve. Its imprudence in persisting deep into winter is a reminder of last autumn and a promise of next spring. It grows because of the past – because this chalky ridge has been farmed in traditional ways since the Celtic era. This scabious and the hundreds of thousands of other wildflowers here are a living, wind-danced diary spanning millennia. They make no sense without that history, and nor can there be any hope for future butterflies and crickets without them.
Today the rain lashes the window and there is no prospect of photographing either flowers or foxes. But I have been thinking about this shot, which I took on New Year’s Day a few years back. Fox in the mist, no doubt looking for a mate as they always are in this season. The dog foxes are splendid at present in their thick winter coats, and the vixens slip across lamplit roads like shadows.
I don’t know if this particular fox is still with us; even if alive, he may wandered far. But any cubs that he sired during that winter, any fights he fought, any scent marks he left on gateposts and hedges will have subtly steered the fox dramas in the seasons since.
In the wild, the old is never ‘out’. It is the undercoat of paint that gives purpose and context to the new.
A Walk with Wildlife 
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