I wish we did not rush our seasons. Too often, in the depths of Winter, we ache for Summers embrace. Yet when the days are hot and the sun is burning, we yearn for coldness, to snuggle beneath our blankets as the snow falls. It is a tragedy that we do not relish the seasons, for they all have their own charms to fall for.

The beauty is that the natural world is forever in motion, always changing. As the seasons shift, we rediscover the forgotten delights and the lost loves, the hidden songs and secret treasures—all waiting to be found again.

Spring’s arrival is a gradual one—cautious almost, wary of Winter’s icy presence. Snowdrops are the first sign. They appear along the hedgerows and from beneath the last remnants of Winter’s snow. The snowdrops stand with their heads bowed low, small and respectful lest their arrival taunts Winter into a prolonged rage.

Daffodils soon follow: bold, standing tall as a firm declaration that Spring is here. They dare Winter to defy this truth—Winter seldom answers back. Then, seemingly all at once, the air is filled with the rich melodies of birdsong, flowers begin to blossom and the bees begin to awaken.

Colour begins to bleed through the grey. Patches of yellow appear as the primroses poke their heads from the ground. The musky scent of wild garlic hangs in the woodlands and seas of blue carpet the forest floor as the bluebells begin to bloom.

Frogspawn appears in clumps among the reeds, the hares begin to box. The nightingale starts to sing. The beauty of Spring is the reawakening of life. With this we soon forget the tyranny of Winter’s reign.

The ferns unfurl and the trees become adorned in vibrant green as Spring bids farewell and Summer takes hold. With Summer’s arrival comes long nights filled with laughter and days spent lounging in the sun. When the rain falls, it is warm and much desired, leaving droplets in your hair that glimmer like a crown of pearls.

The breeze is soft and the sky is a hazy blue, the hedgerows and meadows vivid patchworks of colour. Foxgloves, honeysuckle, campion, knapweed, scabious—the names forgotten in Winter now roll off the tongue once more, spoken like secret spells.

White daisies blanket the grass resembling tiny stars. Butterflies dance among the flowers, greedily feasting, all manner of sizes and mesmerising colours - shimmering blues and dazzling reds, white and yellow and green. Everywhere is alive with the sound of birdsong and the buzz of insects.

The swifts scream across the rooftops, whilst the swallows and martins swoop over the fields. Along the cliffs, the cacophony of roosting seabirds joins the roar of the waves. Alongside the river, the dragonflies hunt whilst the ducklings watch for the shimmer of pike scales beneath the water. The chirp of grasshoppers—another lost melody remembered.

Summer is loud and intense, pulsating with energy that delights and intoxicates. From the coast to the highlands, there is something to be found, a hidden memory to rediscover. Some say that Summer is selfish, hoarding much of nature’s delights. Yet not all of nature’s spectacles belong to Summer.

Autumn is subtle in beauty, a contrast to the bold brightness of Summer. Oaks and elms, sycamores and beeches, once emerald green now fade to rich red, burnt umber and amber yellow. They begin to shed their leaves, which crunch underfoot. A serene stillness fills the emptiness left by the mania of Summer. The breeze is still warm and tickles at your cheeks.

Stags begin to bellow, their roars echoing across the landscape, an ancient voice that speaks of a time long lost. Antlers clash in brutal battles, one of Autumn’s grandest displays. Mornings are shrouded in mist and spiderwebs become coated in dew. As the sun rises, they catch in the light and sparkle like golden thread.

Rosehips, sloes and blackberries appear, tiny gems amongst the hedgerows. The birds gorge themselves on this elaborate banquet. Of the night-time, hedgehogs snuffle amongst the leaf litter, digging up worms, beetles, slugs and all manner of creepy crawlies to fatten up for the cold months ahead.

Perhaps one of Autumn’s most beautiful treasures is the one that thrives in the dark and on decay. Home to mischievous fairies and pixies, fungi flourish among the fields and within the woodlands. Their names as unusual as their appearance—devil’s snuffbox, amethyst deceiver, fly agaric, scarlet elf cup, and yellow brain to name a handful. They are Autumn’s most precious jewels—as butterflies are to Summer.

In Autumn, everything is painted in shades of amber. But this season can often feel brief. The warm breeze begins to bite; the cold starts to gnaw at your bones. The gold dissolves and melts away. The trees are laid bare, their branches towering above, web-like in their intricacy. Winter has begun.

Winter is an artist that works with a palette of greys and whites. Swirling brushstrokes paint intricate patterns of frost upon the puddles and lakes. A sweeping brushstroke coats the moors and highlands in snow. Yet, here and there, a dab of colour—deep red, chocolate brown. A bullfinch flitting between the branches. A glimpse of russet fur as the fox passes through the thicket.

Shades of grey dominates the landscape, tinged only gently with soft blues and green. Storms surge across the coast, the waves pounding relentlessly at the cliffs. This power is unforgiving and dangerous in its beauty. Seals shelter in enclosed coves, hiding from the sea’s fury.

Snuggled beneath a blanket, sipping at a mug of hot chocolate or mulled wine, we can rest and watch the wind tear at the trees and the rain lash upon the window. Winter allows us this pause, a quiet lull. We can watch the steam rise from our first cup of tea in the morning light, our thoughts quietened.

Winter is often depicted as cruel, harsh, devoid of life. But the birds are still joyous, and the deer still roam across the fields. Winter also plays host to one of nature’s most captivating of performances—the starling murmurations. They move as one, dancing over the treetops, their display mesmerising.

Perhaps we are too harsh on Winter. Winter can be as lively as Spring, with a beauty as gentle as Autumn—with the same raw, restless energy that possesses Summer. There are still moments to find, memories to be discovered and treasured in this season—they are just more closely guarded.

As the air warms, the snowdrops begin to shoot.

Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter: each of them are unique in the beauty they bring, in the changes they make. Romanticising the seasons, enjoying the gradual flow from one to the other, allows you take note and observe the details otherwise missed. The blossoms of blackthorn, the gleam of light upon the river’s surface. Acorns and conkers. The crunch of breaking icy puddles.

The forgotten charms, all waiting to be found and cherished again.

But wait.

Something is wrong.

Something is not right.

Something has become tilted, askew. Imbalanced.

The seasons have become blurred; chaotic and unsure of when they should exist. No longer existing in unity with each other, but arguing and fighting. The bones of trees shatter; golden blood is spilled.

Spring no longer heeds Winter’s warnings. Spring arrives earlier without so much as a courtesy call. The caterpillars hatch too early, leaving the birds struggling to feed their young. Winter can do nothing but scream, the sound muffled by a carpet of daffodils, bright yellow against the frost.

When Summer arrives, the anger can be terrifying. Fires ablaze amongst the dry heathlands and the soil cracks, parched from lack of rain. Summer is a burning rage, which keeps getting hotter. The flowers burn; their petals turn to ash. The birds, exhausted from the heat and lack of water, either wither away, or leave.

Autumn can do little in defiance against Summer’s wrath and is quiet and still as the temperature rises. The leaves hold on a little longer; Autumn is quick and overshadowed. Autumn does nothing but weep as the fires still smoulder.

Winter, too, has become hotter. The snow has stopped falling upon the highlands. The mountain hare, whose coat once protected it, is now left vulnerable—bright white against the bleak grey. Where snow should fall, rain has become the constant. The mornings are less frosty and no longer sparkle beneath the Winter sun.

Then the green shoots of daffodils break through, piercing through cold.

We do not acknowledge this turmoil, the endless battles and pleas for help. We knowingly turn our heads and continue to admire the butterfly as it flies pass, not wondering why it has shown itself during a warm Winter’s day.

We have forgotten how to watch the seasons turn, how they shift and change seamlessly. If the fighting is to stop and bloodletting to end, we must relearn these patterns. We need to become entwined with it all – and take notice. If we are to wipe away Winter’s tears and quell Summer’s anger, we must listen to them and do what is needed to end the war of the Four Giants.

Rosie Brown

Rosie is a photographer and writer based in north Cornwall and a Marine and Natural History Photography graduate. Her obsession with nature stems from a childhood spent running feral in the countryside and along the rocky shores. Interweaving her love of stories and all things wild, Rosie seeks to create content that gets people thinking and back outside exploring. Rosie has had work published with a number of publications and is currently working on her next photography project.

You can find more of Rosie’s work at www.rosiebrownwildlifephotography.com and on Instagram @rosiebrownphotography.

"Four Giants" by Rosie Brown

Rosie Brown