Shedding

Years ago, twenty I think, I was tootling along the hedgeline of one of our fields, peering over the fence and getting acquainted with the various scrubby bushes, saplings, tuffets of grasses and twined dried tendrils of honeysuckle and ivy when I saw something unnaturally white and smooth in the undergrowth. I scrambled over the fence and gave it an experimental tug. It wasn’t a small piece of bone as I’d thought, it was a complete antler from a red deer stag. The fence post must have been a conveniently satisfying scratching post for an itchy head, as antler became detached at shedding time. I’ll never find another antler there, but I always look, just in case. I was doing that just the other day, and started to contemplate the whole concept of shedding. We certainly find the sloughed off skins of grass snakes here and there, particularly near the compost heaps. And my dog is on a permanent mission to litter as much of his fluff as possible in the house, particularly the moment the Henry has been stowed back under the stairs. And talking of vacuuming, I don’t want to google exactly how much skin a person sheds in the normal manner of things, because the idea of it is somewhat yuck.

Being January the trees have long since shed their leaves and incipient buds are already starting to appear. The shape of trunks, branches and twigs are revealed in all their nakedness, but two days ago I saw the first white signs of hawthorn blossom emerging, and in just a few weeks the trees will start to put on their clothes once more.

There’s something poignant and vulnerable about things animal, vegetable and mineral shedding their coverings, standing buff and nude and specific. They show their heft, their weediness, their musculature, their excess, their age and youth, flaws and beauty, difference and similarity.

It makes me smile that just as much of nature becomes fully dressed, dandling blossom and fat leaves and seed heads, that the sheep are not far off being shorn and bare, and we the farmers join the posties in donning shorts and t-shirts, even when stout boots and wellies are still required. Our shedding is at the opposite season from the trees and when they start to drop their glories, we pull on thicker sweaters and waterproofs.