{"id":20330,"date":"2022-10-13T00:00:00","date_gmt":"2022-10-12T22:00:00","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/c01.purpledshub.com\/bbccountryfile\/?post_type=purple_issue&p=20330"},"modified":"2022-10-27T15:46:13","modified_gmt":"2022-10-27T13:46:13","slug":"new-nature-writer-of-the-year-2022-3","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/c01.purpledshub.com\/bbccountryfile\/2022\/10\/13\/new-nature-writer-of-the-year-2022-3\/","title":{"rendered":"New nature writer of the year 2022"},"content":{"rendered":"\n
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NEW NATURE WRITER OF THE YEAR 2022<\/span><\/h2>\n\n

Seeking talented new faces in the world of nature writing, we set you a challenge: to write about a special place where you feel close to nature. Joe Pontin <\/strong>introduces our winning entry<\/p>\n\n

Illustration: Lynn Hatzius <\/p>\n\n

\n\n

G<\/span>limpsed through darkened trees, the sea below glimmers with moonlight; the wood holds its breath. Then \u2013 sudden, close, loud \u2013 the shriek of an owl leaps into the night, its wild and melancholy flute defining the moment, defining the space; a jolt of adrenaline quickens the pulse. <\/strong><\/p>\n\n

Many of us have special places like this wild wood on the Cornish coast. Places where we feel intimately connected with nature. They might be meadows humming with bees, or urban railway sidings where foxes flit through the buddleia. <\/p>\n\n

We asked you to celebrate these special places in our New Nature Writer Competition for 2022. And celebrate you did. Your many entries roamed from urban park to moorland; mountain to lake; coast to garden. Reading them was a thrilling reminder of the power of nature to soothe and heal, but also to energise and excite. Choosing a winner was difficult. Thank you to our judges for their thoughtful consideration. <\/p>\n\n

One entry stood out as the winner. Scarlet Ribbons <\/em>by Elizabeth Stanforth-Sharpe<\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n\n

<\/p>\n\n

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SCARLET RIBBONS<\/h2>\n\n

BY ELIZABETH STANFORTH-SHARPE <\/p>\n\n

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Elizabeth says the events she describes in her story took place \u201ca very long time ago\u201d in the North York Moors. \u201cAlthough I live in a seaside town now,\u201d she says, \u201cI have absolutely no resonance with the sea or the nature it inspires. As soon as I\u2019m standing in a country lane, with grass verges, birdsong, wildflowers, trees and a stream nearby, the energy just pours back into me.\u201d With a background in theatre and textiles, Elizabeth says she would like to do more nature writing, adding: \u201cWinning this prize has boosted my confidence in my writing hugely.\u201d <\/span><\/p>\n\n

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Frost dusts the grassy open moorland in the North York Moors National Park <\/figcaption><\/figure>\n\n

I <\/span>was two when I came to love the tiny, red flowers that spilled over the worn doorstep of my first home and splattered the cracked pathway to the beck with vibrant colour. Like Hansel\u2019s breadcrumbs, the scarlet pimpernel ribbon was my security on those earliest <\/strong><\/span>adventures, as I negotiated the bracken-laced slope to the water\u2019s edge, steadying myself by clinging to the lichen-covered stone walls built by my father and generations of tenant farmers before him. Not yet high enough to see over the coping, I peeped through gaps between the hearting stones, following the sound of the tractor, to glimpse him as he worked in the fields beyond. <\/strong>The beck, after which our farm was named, opened into a shallow, rocky strand just yards from the house and it was, in turn, my playground, my confidante and my muse. The sparkling, pellucid waters murmured continuously, flowing over algae-dressed boulders where newts and sticklebacks weaved in and out of view, receiving my secrets and songs as I stirred up cloudy drifts of silt with wellington-booted swinging legs, nibbling on the citrusy leaves of the wood sorrel, and gathering my favourite red sandstone pebbles into organised piles.<\/span><\/p>\n\n

The banks of the beck punctuated the passage of the years, each flower and bud holding its beauty in tension with the local folklore in which it was wrapped. The snowdrop nodded a lady-like white head to Candlemas Day, but the flower must never be carried into the home, as it brought death over the threshold and curdled the milk of the cows. The knotted and fissured hawthorn tree was a heady, fragrant source of pleasure. Birds raised their young in its branches; dormice nibbled the papery, white blossom; insects, bees and long-nosed lappet moths hovered in, out and through the foliage, and the hairy caterpillars of the zig-zag dancing eggar moth wriggled slowly over the toothed leaf lobes, but the plant was another harbinger of doom, and no matter how much the temperature may rise, we stayed bundled up in our winter clothing until the last blossom had faded. The miniature daffodils were the Lenten pride of the moors, primroses arrived for Easter, speedwell, cowslips, foxgloves, violets and wood anemone followed as the days lengthened, and the blushing dog rose never forgot my birthday.<\/span><\/p>\n\n

Sucking the nectar from clover, holding buttercups under my chin, gobbling blackberries and wild strawberries from stained fingers, and always fascinated by the waters of the beck \u2013 sometimes gushing hurriedly over the rocks like a harassed businessman rushing to catch his train, sometimes dawdling like a child reluctant to be cooped in the classroom, and sometimes absorbing the soft blattering* of a warm dagg** \u2013 I never tired of the days passed in that special place. <\/p>\n\n

\u201c<\/span>The knotted hawthorn tree was a heady, fragrant source of pleasure\u201d <\/span><\/p><\/blockquote>\n\n

Beyond the opposite bank of my beck was a canopy of trees, surrounding a clearing that emanated peace and tranquillity. It was the final resting place of a Quaker community of the 17th century, persecuted for their faith and denied church burial. In the summer months, the glade was a froth of oxeye daisies, cow parsley and poppies, attended by shimmering dragonflies, bees, cinnabar moths and a myriad of butterflies. The paintbox palette gracefully gave way to the rich crimsons, deep ochres and rust browns of autumn as the trees blanketed the ground with their fluttering leaves. I could not imagine a more delightful spot to spend eternity. <\/p>\n\n

On days so dreary that the scarlet pimpernel closed its petals tight, and the uneven ground was too slippery to navigate, I would curl up on the window seat of my bedroom, feet wrapped in my winceyette nightgown, and peer through the tiny panes of the Yorkshire window. The winter that the beck froze over, I ached to touch the cloudy white sheets of thick ice that stopped the flow and to walk through the snow that stretched over the countryside, but I was not allowed out. <\/p>\n\n

That was the winter that my father took up his Tilley lamp and went to rescue the and <\/strong>fissured <\/strong>sheep. He fell into a deep gully and lay in the frigid conditions until an RAF helicopter was able to reach him. The thaw never came for our moorland household. By the time the big freeze was over, the snowdrops had cast their morbid spell, my father was dead, and the little beck was no longer \u2018my\u2019 special place. Mine and my mother\u2019s possessions were packed, and the farm had a new tenant. <\/p>\n\n

Access to the scarlet pimpernel path was gone, but I feel so blessed and privileged that it once presided over magical days in that gloriously gorgeous place that held my glistening, beautiful beck. <\/strong><\/span><\/p>\n\n

<\/p>\n\n

\n\n

* Blattering \u2013 North Yorkshire dialect, meaning \u2018splashing\u2019 or \u2018puddling\u2019 ** Dagg \u2013 North Yorkshire dialect, meaning \u2018drizzling rain\/shower\u2019 <\/span><\/p>\n\n

\u2022 Read the fabulous runners-up and highly commended entries at countryfile.com<\/a> <\/strong><\/span><\/p>\n\n

<\/p>\n\n

<\/div>
\n
OUR JUDGING TEAM <\/span><\/h5>\n\n\n\n
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Gillian Burke <\/strong>
Biologist Gillian presents the BBC\u2019sSpringwatch <\/em>series and pens a column for our sister magazine <\/span>BBC Wildlife.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAchingly beautiful. This piece is near-perfect as far as I am concerned. It hit every mark, delivering all the elements set out in the brief and more. I could read it again and again and again…\u201d <\/strong><\/em><\/em><\/strong><\/strong><\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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Nicola Chester <\/strong>
Nicola is the author of On Gallows Down, <\/em>winner of the Richard Jefferies Award for the best nature writing of 2021. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI loved the \u2018Hansel\u2019s breadcrumbs\u2019 of the scarlet pimpernel path that led you back to the past, to a Lost Eden. The line \u2018the thaw never came for our moorland household\u2019 has such devastating power.\u201d <\/strong><\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

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Cal Flyn <\/strong>
Cal is a journalist and author of Islands of Abandonment, <\/em>shortlisted for the Wainwright Prize 2021 for Nature Writing. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat a striking piece of writing. This was lyrical, knowledgeable and showed deep connection to a place. It also came with an emotional whack that made me want to lie down.\u201d <\/strong><\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

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Joe Pontin <\/strong>
Joe is BBC Countryfile Magazine\u2019s <\/em>features editor and chair of the New Nature Writer judging panel. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWritten with elegance and passion, Scarlet Ribbons transports you to the idyllic summer days of a young child exploring the countryside around the family farm in Yorkshire.\u201d<\/strong><\/em><\/p>\n<\/div><\/section>\n\n

<\/p>\n\n

Photos: Alamy <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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