Voices From The Crow's Nest Titelbild

Voices From The Crow's Nest

Voices From The Crow's Nest

Von: Alexander M Crow
Jetzt kostenlos hören, ohne Abo

Über diesen Titel

 Here, I share the voiceovers from my letters as a podcast, with occasional extras. I talk about being a part of nature, not apart from it, I talk about ancestral skills, or bushcraft, and I talk about our possible futures as a species living in uncertain, often dangerous times. One day, I might even narrate my fiction. All with hope, joy, and kindness.

alexandermcrow.substack.comAlexander M Crow Sozialwissenschaften Wissenschaft
Folgen
  • Isère, France. April, 2021.

    Isère, France. April, 2021.
    Apr 28 2026
    (After you have read these introductory paragraphs once, you can skip to the new/old content below. If you are listening, then the time stamp is around the two minute 45 second mark.)IntroductionThe word settled, to me, carries connotations I am keen to avoid. I have never felt settled or, perhaps, I cannot recall a time I felt settled. I do not feel settled now, writing this, and I’ve lived in the same house for three and a half years. Without even discussing the obvious issues of colonisation, I just don’t feel like I could, or should, settle; better to keep my constituent parts shook up, agitated perhaps, rather than separating and stagnant.Instead, I feel as though I have been travelling for years, maybe because I have not lived in my ‘home’ nation of Scotland for eight and a half years, perhaps because I know I won’t stay here forever, or maybe because I carry that concept of home in a way which differs from many?More precisely, I still think of myself as a slow traveller, globally feral. Recently, I have been revisiting places through the photographs and words I recorded when my feet crossed their soil. This is a way of reminding myself of where I have been, not just in space and time, but in mind, too. It is a wonderful thing, to come out of a low and rediscover myself through words I crafted, through the lens of a camera, when memory has wandered in the fog for too long. Thank you, past me.When I first started sharing letters with the world in this fashion, six or more years ago, I usually began them with a vignette of where I was, a sort-of travel diary, mixed with nature observation, locking in the setting for the reader, before I spoke of other things—and, by so doing, ensuring that place fed into the whole. It was a useful device, for reader and myself both but, as these letters were sent to so few readers, and now languish archived behind a paywall, I thought it a shame not to share these snippets again.As such, I am going to share a short series of these sketches, accompanied by a photograph from that time, sent to you in date order.I shall include the above paragraphs in each of the letters in this series, but I shall also include a link at the very start, so you can skip ahead once you are familiar with the above words. If you are listening and similarly want to skip, then the timestamp you want to navigate to will be in the same place.Taken without these paragraphs, each is a short read, and I hope you enjoy them.Isère, France. April, 2021.As the sun warms, the water flows. Everywhere on the mountainside, the sound of running streams, whether tumbling and brim-full of snowmelt, or thin rivulets, snaking to join their companions. Rhythm, rhyme, melody and music. Other than this, the sounds are mostly birdsong, each feathered bundle welcoming the spring with frantic activity. Nests are being built, relationships founded or reinforced, food collected and rivals discouraged. Birds and the water, wind in the trees, creaking of branches and the humming of bees.Bright flashes of fungi litter the forest floor, the warming days and wet conditions welcoming weird and beautiful shapes and sizes. Many I do not yet know, others old friends. Tracks in the ground, traces of those who came before, dropped deposits handy markers for identification: ermine and weasel and mole. The ground has been turned over by the snouts of the wild boar, the sanglier, capable of lifting rocks weighing half their hefty bodyweight, or more. Their disturbance is excellent for the soil, aerating and dispersing, encouraging seeds to sprout. Natures’ heavyweight gardeners are often accompanied by the robin, who has now also transferred his attention to the allotments and gardens of mankind.These woodlands are worked, tall giants felled individually, rather than the vast denudation of the clear-cut system. Piles of logs slumber by the road and trails, gently drying and beginning to season, often covered in bright flashes of identifying numbers, or scrambles of children, playing.Much of this area has altered in the last few generations. As small scale sheep and cattle rearing became economically unviable, their pastures and slopes were left fallow and in moved the birch, followed by others: Norway maple, linden, beech, oak, chestnut, poplar, mountain ash, larch, Norway spruce, silver fir, and various pines. Today these woodlands look older than they are, perhaps because the land still retains a memory of their cover from long before, perhaps because it feels right.As the woods returned, so did the animals, the deer, the boar, even the wolves. Higher, the remaining flocks of sheep and goats are sometimes interspersed with dogs, bred to look like the sheep they guard, but sheep with big teeth, loud barks and snarls. There are shepherds here, moving the animals from slope to slope, above the forests, in the places where the snow sits deepest in winter, the hillside ringing with the stone-crack of the raven call, ...
    Mehr anzeigen Weniger anzeigen
    8 Min.
  • Isère, France. March, 2021.

    Isère, France. March, 2021.
    Apr 21 2026
    (After you have read these introductory paragraphs once, you can skip to the new/old content below. If you are listening, then the time stamp is around the two minute 45 second mark.)IntroductionThe word settled, to me, carries connotations I am keen to avoid. I have never felt settled or, perhaps, I cannot recall a time I felt settled. I do not feel settled now, writing this, and I’ve lived in the same house for three and a half years. Without even discussing the obvious issues of colonisation, I just don’t feel like I could, or should, settle; better to keep my constituent parts shook up, agitated perhaps, rather than separating and stagnant.Instead, I feel as though I have been travelling for years, maybe because I have not lived in my ‘home’ nation of Scotland for eight and a half years, perhaps because I know I won’t stay here forever, or maybe because I carry that concept of home in a way which differs from many?More precisely, I still think of myself as a slow traveller, globally feral. Recently, I have been revisiting places through the photographs and words I recorded when my feet crossed their soil. This is a way of reminding myself of where I have been, not just in space and time, but in mind, too. It is a wonderful thing, to come out of a low and rediscover myself through words I crafted, through the lens of a camera, when memory has wandered in the fog for too long. Thank you, past me.When I first started sharing letters with the world in this fashion, six or more years ago, I usually began them with a vignette of where I was, a sort-of travel diary, mixed with nature observation, locking in the setting for the reader, before I spoke of other things—and, by so doing, ensuring that place fed into the whole. It was a useful device, for reader and myself both but, as these letters were sent to so few readers, and now languish archived behind a paywall, I thought it a shame not to share these snippets again.As such, I am going to share a short series of these sketches, accompanied by a photograph from that time, sent to you in date order.I shall include the above paragraphs in each of the letters in this series, but I shall also include a link at the very start, so you can skip ahead once you are familiar with the above words. If you are listening and similarly want to skip, then the timestamp you want to navigate to will be in the same place.Taken without these paragraphs, each is a short read, and I hope you enjoy them.Isère, France. March, 2021.In the morning, the great looming bulk of the Vercors Massif is lit pink with the dawn, a line sliding down the cliff face to meet the trees below, the tenacious patches of snow a constant switching of pastels; an artist who can’t quite decide on the right shade. The snow is no longer pristine white—instead, the desert came to the mountains, strong winds from the south bringing Saharan sand to dust and coat all, concealing the view and make breathing harder for many. Ridge-lines appeared and disappeared, orange haze obscuring then lifting, revealing the serried rows and points of peaks.We are all connected, parts of a whole, a puzzle beyond simple comprehension, full of chaos, full of new beginnings, often at the expense of something else’s end. The wind blows from Africa and the snow in the Alps turns brown.Here, in Isère, winter is settling down for her long summer nap. She may yet toss and turn, throwing off a fresh blanket of snow with her movement, or crisping all with frost, but the sun is lulling her to sleep, simultaneously charming catkins, blossom, and early spring flowers towards the light. The ground is a riot of primrose in particular, with the blues, purples, and pinks of other fresh-faced early flowers scattered betwixt and between.The birds are, in some cases, already nesting. Their songs strong and almost constant, here a great tit, there a serin, everywhere the blackbird, each defending their parcel of garden and urban oasis. I have my binoculars again, arrived from Portugal safe and in one piece, and I have an app or two to identify and suggest bird song. I did not know the call of the serin until last week—they hide in the trees, thrilling, trilling, then flitting across the field of view swiftly; blink and you will miss them.Yesterday, the cherry trees began to tentatively unfurl, unsure whether winter is definitely sleeping or not. With luck, she is—some years, I am told, they get it wrong, and all the fruit is frost-murdered, long before it gets a chance to properly form. In the recent winds, clouds of pollen were shaken loose from the Italian cypress, so thick and dense that I initially thought it smoke. I am very glad I no longer suffer from serious hay fever. The sharp, acid-green leaves of the very first deciduous trees punctuate the woodlands, arriving in one day, unfurling their flag and claiming this early spring sun for their own.In the evening, before the sun slips behind the Vercors, she ...
    Mehr anzeigen Weniger anzeigen
    7 Min.
  • Cercal, Portugal. February, 2021. Pt. 2

    Cercal, Portugal. February, 2021. Pt. 2
    Apr 14 2026
    (After you have read these introductory paragraphs once, you can skip to the new/old content below. If you are listening, then the time stamp is around the two minute 45 second mark.)IntroductionThe word settled, to me, carries connotations I am keen to avoid. I have never felt settled or, perhaps, I cannot recall a time I felt settled. I do not feel settled now, writing this, and I’ve lived in the same house for three and a half years. Without even discussing the obvious issues of colonisation, I just don’t feel like I could, or should, settle; better to keep my constituent parts shook up, agitated perhaps, rather than separating and stagnant.Instead, I feel as though I have been travelling for years, maybe because I have not lived in my ‘home’ nation of Scotland for eight and a half years, perhaps because I know I won’t stay here forever, or maybe because I carry that concept of home in a way which differs from many?More precisely, I still think of myself as a slow traveller, globally feral. Recently, I have been revisiting places through the photographs and words I recorded when my feet crossed their soil. This is a way of reminding myself of where I have been, not just in space and time, but in mind, too. It is a wonderful thing, to come out of a low and rediscover myself through words I crafted, through the lens of a camera, when memory has wandered in the fog for too long. Thank you, past me.When I first started sharing letters with the world in this fashion, six or more years ago, I usually began them with a vignette of where I was, a sort-of travel diary, mixed with nature observation, locking in the setting for the reader, before I spoke of other things—and, by so doing, ensuring that place fed into the whole. It was a useful device, for reader and myself both but, as these letters were sent to so few readers, and now languish archived behind a paywall, I thought it a shame not to share these snippets again.As such, I am going to share a short series of these sketches, accompanied by a photograph from that time, sent to you in date order.I shall include the above paragraphs in each of the letters in this series, but I shall also include a link at the very start, so you can skip ahead once you are familiar with the above words. If you are listening and similarly want to skip, then the timestamp you want to navigate to will be in the same place.Taken without these paragraphs, each is a short read, and I hope you enjoy them.Cercal, Portugal. February, 2021.The bedroom—my office—window is open, despite the downpour. At this side of the building it mostly flies beyond the eaves, lashing into the orange grove and obscuring all but the nearest hill.Such is the threat of nest theft, a single stork stands guard, head down into the wind and rain, sodden and bedraggled and clearly remembering a time when its ancestors all left for Africa every winter, before the lure of landfill scavenging and warming European winters meant some chose to stay year-long.When there is a break in the rain its partner arrives and, after a brief clatter of beaks, display and reaffirmation of their bond, they switch places. In my mind’s eye I suddenly suspect whichever partner is no longer on the nest is under a bridge somewhere, standing around with his or her friends, chatting idly, complaining about the rain, talk of tasty insects, and whispering of Africa, as they all wait to switch positions. Maybe they loiter together in bus shelters, or beneath the same ancient, spreading cork oak.Today, the wind and the rain are back, piling in from the Atlantic to crash into these hills. It is hard to remember how dusty and dry it can be in summer, or how last year there were months and months with no rain at all, and barely a cloud to be seen. This direction may bring water—lots of much needed water—but thankfully it doesn’t bring the cold of January. The days are warming, the nights too.A few days ago, the sun appeared: sun and showers, rainbows and warmth. The clouds were majestic galleons, sailing across the blue, the rain sporadic, excitingly fleeting, pouring fast and true, before retreating in a gentle, misty steam. I stood in the kitchen, making a cup of tea, when a movement caught my eye. When you have watched birds and animals (and, indeed, trees and flowers and butterflies and…) for as long as I have, you sometimes only need a glimpse, especially when there is movement involved. Something ancient in my head, something instinctive kicks in, linking the pattern with memory, with knowledge.Swallow?I turned to check and, sure enough, my instinctive, sideways snatched glance was right. The first swallow of the year, on February the 7th. The following day, another snatched glimpse, another check, two house martins, chasing insects. Summer is whispering to the birds too.Now, as I redraft this piece, it is again raining, hard, harder than before, and has been for many hours. This morning, I heard a huge ...
    Mehr anzeigen Weniger anzeigen
    8 Min.
Noch keine Rezensionen vorhanden