when California was wild, it was one sweet bee garden throughout it's entire length. Wherever a bee might fly within the bounds of this virgin wilderness ... throughout every belt and section of climate up to the timberline, bee flowers bloomed in lavish abundance. John Muir
The rolling downs of West Sussex and a lavender field filled with chattering children, little girls running in fairy dresses excited and giggling down the rows of lavender. England in the summer, lush and warm and humming with life.
Contrast this with a huge landscape, very little rain and a mountain. Mt Shasta lavender farm on the border between Oregon and Northern California.
2 totally different lavender farms. Two things they both have in common = lavender & bees.
I visited Lordington lavender farm this week with my brother and sister-in-law and spent a happy morning soaking in the scent of lavender and listening and watching the hum of bees that surround the flowers. It was a delicious, sensual experience and I immersed myself in the saturated colours and smells and tried to capture as many shots of incredibly cute children exploring the lavender as I could.
Something wonderful happens in your brain when you saturate it with lavender scent.
You unwind, you feel your anxieties easing. You let go and you realise how small and limited your world was before you came across this field of dreams.
A farmer saw the potential in this land. He imagined a field of purple lavender. He planted and put money behind his imagination. His dream became a reality. A home for insects and a blessing to all of us who visit just to be inspired.
My first visit to a lavender farm was many years ago while I was working in Northern California. Mt Shasta Lavender farm became the place to go on your day off from work. A secret world of bees and vintage cars to escape to. A long way away from the valley where our happy but manically busy work life unfolded.
Both lavender farms are completely different but something they have in common is a humming cloud of insects and hundreds of thousands of bees. You hear the army of insects before you see them. A gentle but consistent humming drone. If you look carefully there is a swathe of insects hovering over and around the purple flower heads. Lying down and looking up at the sky you will see them flying over, trailing lines of bees intent on harvesting the nectar. It is a wonderful experience. The English one saturated in colours, deeper and more intense than the American one. The American one bigger, the landscape enormous,the land bone dry.
The purple fields contrast with the endless blue sky and Shasta mountain far off on the horizon.
And it is that same mountain that was part of our summer programme at the Ranch. Taking the Track 2 guests up to the summit twice every summer.
Here is something I wrote in July 2004 when I was at Mount Shasta basecamp hut accompanying our guests on a T2 programme at JH Ranch:
sitting back against stone warmed through the day by blazing alpine sunshine in this thin air
the heat of the day drifting heavenwards
dispelling the clouds, blue sky & evening softness permeate the cool mountain air
chatter from the Sierra Wilderness Club, smells of garlic drifting from their impromptu kitchen
i am content and aware of you sitting beside me
white tents scattered through the woods,
my charges sleep ...
You comfort & reassure me the creator of the vast sparkling galaxies sits besides me ... so humble.
Your close presence, smiling at my furrowed brow ...
That time I wasn't climbing the mountain, but the summer before I did.
I only climbed it once. I wouldn't have chosen to do it but it was part of my commitment to lead the T2 programme one year. I remember the journey from the Ranch to the lower slopes of the mountain on the iconic yellow school bus. No air conditioning, a busload of teenagers and some nervous but excited leaders.
I remember the dry walk along dusty paths to base camp in the afternoon, walking across small patches of snow, the air cooling and smelling of pine needles. Dinner around the campfire. Making sure we were hydrated. Drinking lots and packing water for the ascent.
Before bed time I caught the sweet smell of garlic drifting across to our campsite from the basecamp hut where a group of Sierra Club members were cooking a fine meal with wine. Here a group of seasoned hikers unwound, able to relax and enjoy themselves as they was not about to attempt the demanding climb of the mountain.
I remember the early night settling down to sleep on the hard earth beneath the pine trees as soon as it was dark around 9.00pm. We needed to snatch a few hours rest before rising in the early hours to attempt the hike up to the summit before the heat of the day and potential snowmelt and avalanches.
I remember the alarm clock going off around 1.00am and rising under an ocean of stars, the air cold, the night dark. Putting on our hiking gear, checking backpacks, starting the long hike. One hour, two hours, three hours into the black night. A trail of headlamps winding its way into the darkness. Rising higher and higher, through loose rocks and loose footholds until we reached more solid ground. Upwards, ever onwards and upwards.
Behind us far away in the valley the sleeping city lay quiet and peaceful. Only a few street lights sprinkling the horizon. Later on the light changed, a soft pink seeped into the sky above as the sun rose far far way in the distance. Ever increasing light and warmth.
There were so many hours of walking. Conversations started and run dry. Quiet fell and then a joke was thrown out, a comment made, a new conversation begun.
There was a change from rocky ground to thick densely packed snow & ice. People began to struggle. The ones who didn't make it turned back at intervals along the way. The headaches came. The vomiting due to altitude sickness.
It was hard physically and psychologically. We all battled on but there was always the encouragement of the group. The comraderie.
We reached a point where we needed to be attached to each other, linked in to a length of rope in small groups of up to 10 people. This was so that if one slipped, the others would catch them. Next we attached metal spikes to our hiking boots. I remember having to go to the loo behind a rock with a group of people tied to me by a rope!
It continued, the constant climbing and awareness that time was running out. There was a deadline to reach the top by a certain hour in the day. If you arrived too late it would be too warm to climb in safety, too much of a risk of avalanche, not enough time to descend back down the mountain before dark.
I remember the final ascent, jubilation but then desperation as you realised that now you had to get back down and there was no helicopter waiting to lift you off the mountain. Utter exhaustion. A battle with the mind. The weary descent. The slipping and sliding and joy of glassading when the snow was thick enough. I could go on but that is enough. Below is a little piece of prose I wrote about it at the time.
giant monolith of granite, lava & snow
i never set out to climb you
your challenge i never claimed my own to meet
stumbling under stars and moon in inky night
together we climbed in bitter cold
behind us rose pink curtains bathed in spreading morning light
a city lies sleeping below
onwards & upwards, leaving the world far behind
step after step, together we climbed
blue circles of light dug deep in crusty snow
the spreading stain of rust creeping from the mineral below
a tale of a tiny bird caught in a storm
sheltered in a downy pocket, delivered back to its pine fields kept us moving,
imagination freed from the heavy cement that held our feet of clay
and when we passed the warmth of 'the redbanks'
scaled the 'short hill'
and determined never to give in to 'misery hill.'
finally through sludge and ice we slogged the final snow plain, climbed the summit & wept for the realisation of the descent still to come.
our legs crumbling under us, twisted ankles
sad & sorry for ourselves we slipped and fell
until the snow spread wide and deep
welcoming our downhill glacade
rivers of snow crumpled & running before me
a mini glacier, the miracle of being alive!
22nd July 2003
My visit to Lordington Lavender farm this week set me to thinking. It was a good way to slow down and reminisce.
I take many of my lessons from the world that surrounds me. I came away from the field of lavender thinking how abundant creation is. Not just one lavender flower head per bee, not just a the necessary number to bring in the perfume they harbour. Not limited and countable. No, more than enough, over and above. Abundant extravagance.
I imagined what it must be like to be a child in this sea of purple. Flowers at eye level, bees humming around your hands, your head your body. Perfume wafting over you. The purple seeming to go on forever.
I remembered the other lavender field on another continent and the mountain that overlooked it.
