Find out what it means to be a master of observation with The Hidden Seasons—a compendium of the clues, hints, and oft-unnoticed wonders of nature and its changing seasons. In this sneak peek from the book, Tristan Gooley asks us to think outside the box and observe how nature reveals all manner of seasonal clues, from butterflies hinting at spring to constellations heralding autumn. Inviting readers to peek inside at the hidden gears of nature’s clock and become attune to the tiny shifts that make it tick, Tristan weaves together observations from the minutiae of moss to the grandeur of the skies, casting off traditional assumptions about the seasons (and possibly the calendar as we know it) in favor of joyous new discoveries.
Opening the Back of the Clock
On a cool, blustery March morning I arrived at St Mary the Virgin Church in the coastal town of Rye, a once notorious smuggler’s haven in East Sussex. I paid a small fee to gain access to the tower, which promised the best view in the town and thanked the old lady who took my money for her warnings: ‘There are eighty-five steps. And mind your head!’
My pulse throbbed below my jaw as I paused next to the turret clock that had been installed in 1561, making it the oldest of its kind in the country. I scanned the open workings of the antique timepiece, looking from the pendulum to the escapement and then from one dark metal cog to another, trying to make sense of the elaborate mechanism. But I am no horologist and much of it remained puzzling.
The Rye turret clock has a claim to fame beyond its great age: it once struck an Orwellian thirteen. After many years of wear, the notch for the number six failed, the holding arm bounced out and the clock struck seven more times instead of six.
At the top of the tower, a plastic owl was meant to scare the pigeons, but it failed to fool them and they shat where they pleased, coating the wooden beams with their mess. I squeezed past stone walls and guiding rails, around the church’s mighty bells, before lifting a narrow wooden trapdoor and emerging into bright grey light and cold air. A narrow walkway wrapped around the church’s spire and offered a view worth double the climb. I could see for miles in all directions and the land offered up its history. The river Rother cut bright curves on its way past two castles, many churches and a smuggler’s watchtower.
The rooftops below were bright green on one side and bright orange on the other. Two seagulls perched on the apex, the line dividing green from orange, and a third swept in and joined its colleagues. The birds faced towards the orange and had their backs to the green side of the roof. They confirmed there was a southerly breeze. Unlike the old clock in the tower, I could decipher the workings of this instrument without effort.
The orange colour on the roof was a lichen called Xanthoria, which turns a more determined golden colour in direct sunlight; it is much more common and much brighter on south- facing roofs. The green was a mix of algae and mosses, more common on the shaded, damper north side of roofs. Perching birds face into the wind: it stops their feathers ruffling and allows them to take off quickly. They acted as a weathervane and, paired with the colours on the roof, gave me information as easy to read as a clock face.
An hour later, I was walking out of Rye towards the sea under clearing skies. The yellow daffodils were in bloom, and there was a sprinkling of green dots in some trees but most were still bare. I could hear a single songbird, a chaffinch, and the pale wings of a butterfly passed at the edge of my vision. I sensed early spring in the land, but had no real understanding of what was going on in the clock. Why did I see a flower, a butterfly, and hear a bird when I did? What unseen forces regulated these individuals? I had spent decades walking through landscapes, growing more confident in my reading of Nature’s signs for navigation, but all the time I was half blind to the timekeeper behind them. I decided I wanted to change that, to open the back of the seasonal timepiece.
How do the plants and animals know what time of year it is? What part is played by the sun, moon, stars and weather? By investigating the inner workings of the seasons, we learn when, how and why things change. Next, we discover the key moments to look for, which lift our focus from science to experience. Soon we find we can anticipate and celebrate predictable changes, which few notice, and decipher any surprises. When Nature strikes thirteen, it’s good to know why.
Some of the most rewarding observations are seasonal but not confined to a single month. In this book I want to share the best times to seek out some of my favourite clues and signs in nature, but also to reveal why they appear when they do and why that sometimes varies. January comes towards the end of the book for a reason: the unorthodox calendar I have chosen will give you the best chance of success early on, then lead you towards a less explored place. By the end of the book, you will no longer see seasons in terms of months but, instead, identify more than one season in each day and know how to unwrap and decipher each moment.
My first tip: see nothing in isolation. If you notice one thing, notice two and try to leap over an imaginary boundary. There is nothing wrong with noticing that two plants come into flower at the same time–it is an observation that will pass most by–but try to take an extra step and make a pair with another part of the nature spectrum: a blossoming flower with a bird’s song; a falling leaf with a cloud shape; a constellation with a scent. Soon we will meet the science that explains the pairings but, as our ancestors knew long before we uncovered the science, there is satisfaction in the pairing alone. It sharpens our powers of observation, deduction and prediction. And it’s joyous. When we know what to look for and what it means, seasonal moments that were once hidden suddenly shine brightly.
