It’s not so much what you see as what you are seeped in.
This quotation comes form a review in the Guardian. I have to confess that I originally read it as:
It’s not so much what you see as what you are steeped in.
Which I prefer. Perhaps it was a typical Grauniad misprint. Either way I can see that at some point I shall have to investigate Alice Oswald’s poetry.
The last couple of evenings, with the light lasting that bit longer, and with my parents visiting, TBH and I have been able to get out for an hour or so for ‘a quick stomp’. On Friday night we climbed up the Pepper Pot and then walked along the spine of the hill before heading back down through the trees. The light was generally too low for photographs, but we were rewarded by the remnants of the sunset which we had missed – soft fat cumulus clouds turning purple in the darkness but with their edges glowing pink with the last rays of the vanished sun.
Last night we were even later and photos were out of the question. TBH was frustrated by my inability to stomp as fast as she would like, but at the Cove even she was content to stop for a while and take it in. The sky was cloudless and deep blue rimmed with an orange glow. The channel in the bay was quicksilver bright by contrast with all around it. Silhouetted against that mirror surface the distinctive angular form of a heron, stalking patiently and as we watched striking into the shallows with its rapier beak. Did it catch something – I thought perhaps it had, but in the half-light it was hard to tell. We watched it continue to fish. Bats flickered around us in the unseasonly still, mild air. Two crows cawed from the trees above us on the cliff-top. Pure magic.
Sycamore leaves bursting from their bud.