What looks empty isn't always barren

There are weeks when the landscape changes almost overnight.

Over the last few days, the barley fields surrounding our home have been harvested. One day they stood tall, rippling gently in the breeze; the next they lay bare beneath a hazy summer sunset. The familiar scent of straw hangs heavy in the air, mixed with the fine dust of chaff that seems to settle on everything.

Every year, as the combines roll through the fields, I know I'll spend a week or so feeling under the weather. This year, though, I was grateful for the excuse to retreat into the welcome coolness of the air-conditioned house as another spell of intense heat settled over us.

Perimenopause and thirty-odd degree temperatures are not the happiest of companions.

The harvest has changed more than the view. The deer that regularly emerge from the barley have disappeared, no doubt taking refuge amongst the still-standing wheat and bean fields nearby.

A lone hare bounded across the open ground one evening, seemingly making a determined dash for cover, a poignant reminder of how exposed wildlife becomes once the crops are cut.

Seconds later, a kestrel that had been watching and waiting on nearby powerlines hovered over the cropped field looking for exposed mice and voles. A second kestrel swept low over the hedge just a few feet in front of us before drifting effortlessly across the harvested field. It paused, hovering with extraordinary precision above the stubble, patiently scanning the ground for its evening meal.

Earlier in the week, a partial hare carcass on the lane served as a sobering reminder of the risks that come with having nowhere left to hide.

In the cooler evenings we ventured out along the river. An easterly breeze softened the heat just enough to make walking comfortable again. Then, against the backdrop of a rich golden sunset, came a moment neither of us had experienced here before.

A sharp, piercing call overhead.

A Eurasian Hobby, twisting and diving through the evening sky, relentlessly mobbing a much larger buzzard above the old fishing ponds. The speed, agility and determination of such a comparatively small bird were remarkable to watch, its distinctive calls carrying across the stillness long after the buzzard had retreated.

Elsewhere, nature continues to adapt, more readily than us, to the conditions. The riverbanks are dry and parched, with towering ragwort and thistles brushing against our legs as we walk – a reminder that spring, at least, was wet.

The usual emergence of tiny frogs and toads hasn't happened yet; perhaps the prolonged heat and lack of rain have delayed their appearance. Each summer we normally find ourselves carefully watching each step as hundreds of tiny amphibians make their journey across the bund and lane as the sun sets. This year, we're still waiting.

Yet there are signs of abundance too.

Butterflies and moths are everywhere in the fields and the garden, including Small Blues that we've never noticed here before. House martins continue to zip overhead, their white undersides catching the evening sunlight, while the garden birds repeatedly bathe before stretching out their wings to dry in the warmth, even at the risk of predators..

Returning

Today, I finally escaped the house during the day and returned to one of my favourite places to walk and to coach.

The moment I stepped beneath the pines, everything changed.

The heat still lingered, but beneath the canopy it somehow felt gentler. Towering ferns lined the paths, birds called from every direction, and the familiar scent of pine immediately quietened the noise I'd been carrying all week. Within moments, I could feel my shoulders relax. The endless mental lists faded. I wasn't trying to think anymore.

I was simply there.

I've often noticed that walking in nature alone feels very different from walking with someone else. Conversation naturally draws our attention towards each other. Solitude quietly returns our attention to everything around us.

Every rustle becomes a possibility.

Every movement catches your eye.

Every birdsong feels closer.

Rather than simply observing nature, you become part of it.

Almost exactly a year ago I stood beside one particular field photographing a roe deer watching me from the wheat. Today I paused in exactly the same place, remembering that encounter.

As I turned back towards the path, another deer was standing less than ten feet in front of me.

Neither of us had realised the other was there.

For a brief moment we simply stared at one another before it startled, bounded into the field, then reappeared further along the path. It paused once more, looking back over its shoulder as though curious about this unexpected meeting, before disappearing into the trees.

Was it the same deer?

I'll never know.

Perhaps that's beside the point.

Some moments become special because they're rare.

Others become special because they return.

My time in the woods unfolded at its own tranquil pace.

Butterflies danced between the wildflowers. A common darter dragonfly rested just long enough for a photograph before darting away again. Hidden crickets sang loudly from deep within the undergrowth while a family of juvenile goldcrests seemed determined to announce their presence without ever revealing themselves amongst the branches.

Even a young cocker spaniel decided to become part of the adventure. It bounded cheerfully ahead of its owner, then seemed to adopt me instead, faithfully following each turn I took before running on ahead again. As though sensing the camera in my hand, it stopped, turned, and posed perfectly for a portrait before racing off once more.

In places, the ferns towered well above my head, spilling across the paths until I found myself gently pushing my way through them. I half expected to return home covered in ticks.

I arrived home hot, slightly scratched, smiling, and with a camera full of photographs of butterflies, dragonflies and woodland treasures to add to my ever growing nature albums.

But what I really brought home was something less tangible.

• Calm.

• Perspective.

• A quiet sense of belonging that is difficult to put into words.

  
  

People sometimes ask why I choose to coach outdoors.

This afternoon is my answer.

Places like Wheldrake Woods create something that's surprisingly difficult to explain.

• Conversations become less hurried.

• Thinking feels less forced.

• New perspectives emerge almost without trying.

• People often say things they didn’t realise they were thinking until they slow down.

Perhaps that's because nature asks nothing of us.

It doesn't judge.

It doesn't interrupt.

It simply creates enough space for us to hear ourselves again.

For me, Wheldrake Woods isn't simply somewhere I walk.

It's my enchanted office.

Back at home, life carries on at a gentle pace too. Even our resident hedgehog has acquired a name, courtesy of our nephews. Apparently, he now shares my husband's name, which, I have to admit, is more original than calling him Spike.

Away from nature, I've also found myself reflecting on a different kind of growth.

During a coaching session of my own, I explored a situation where the possibility of an unexpected paying client led me to decline payment altogether. Reflecting on it, I determined that I would handle it differently in future. Nothing dramatic had changed, but something had shifted, and I gained some clarity on the issue.

Sometimes growth isn't about making bold moves; it's simply recognising that next time, you'll choose differently.

This week I'll also be coaching someone new, something I'm genuinely looking forward to. Alongside that came an unexpected boost when someone I had coached shared a social media post from a well-known figure speaking openly about the value of coaching. My former client described her decision to engage a coach as one of the best decisions they had made and kindly tagged my business underneath.

Small gestures like that probably take only seconds to make, yet they can mean far more than the person sending them ever realises.

As I reflect on the week, it struck me how easy it is to become impatient.

When you're building something new, whether that's a business, a relationship, confidence, or simply a different way of living, it's tempting to measure progress only by what you can see. We want immediate signs that our efforts are paying off.

Nature rarely works like that.

The frogs haven't appeared, but that doesn't mean they won't.

The deer have vanished from the barley fields, but they're still there, quietly sheltering elsewhere.

The harvested fields look empty, yet those bare acres are not barren. They represent the culmination of months of unseen growth and the beginning of the next cycle.

Perhaps our own lives are much the same.

Not every season is one of visible growth.

• Some seasons are for putting down roots.

• Some are for flourishing.

• Some are for harvesting the rewards of work already done.

• And some are for quietly preparing for what comes next.

  
  

We often mistake stillness for stagnation.

We assume that if we can't yet see the results, nothing is happening.

Nature gently reminds us otherwise.

Sometimes what looks empty is simply making space for what's next.

And sometimes, all we need is to step quietly back into the places that remind us who we are.

If this week's reflections resonated with you, perhaps they're inviting you to make a little space for yourself too.

Whether that's a quiet walk, an hour without distractions, or a conversation with someone who will simply listen, you might be surprised what becomes clearer when you give yourself permission to pause.

If you're longing for a little more space to think, reflect, or find your own way forward, I'd love to walk alongside you.