Celebrating the Autumn Equinox Live Campfire Nature Storytelling Special

Hello and welcome to this week's A Wildlife Matters Podcast podcast where tonight we are celebrating the autumn equinox by sharing two nature based folklore stories we told to a live audience.

So if you're ready, let me take you to your seat on a fallen branch at the heart of the woodland.

Thank you for joining us tonight.

Around the fire pit deep in the heart of the dark woods, the air is thick with the scent of moss and earth, and the trees loom like silent sentinels beneath the night sky.

We gather as the shadows begin to dance upon the trees, ready to share stories and mark the turning of the autumn equinox.

Throughout time, the autumn equinox has symbolized the delicate dark dance between light and dark, reflecting the transition unfolding around us.

The vibrant energy of summer begins to soften, surrendering to autumn's golden hues and crisper air.

This gentle turning invites us to pause and wonder where balance might be restored within our own hearts.

For many, the equinox is a time of harvest and quiet gratitude.

We gather not only the fruits of the earth, but also the memories and lessons that have ripened as the seasons have turned.

As we gather these gifts, we pause by the fire to honor what has flourished and gently notice what still waits for our tending as the long nights draw near.

If your hearts are open and your minds are quiet, let us begin our first, first tale.

This is a story carried on the wind and whispered through the leaves by generations of woodland folk.

It is the tale of the king and queen of birds.

The Thorns.

First light crept through the tangled treetops.

A golden glow spilt softly into the woodland, bathing every leaf and mossy branch in a quiet promise of a new beginning.

The forest held its breath as if the trees themselves were waiting for something wondrous to unfold.

Birds of every feather flickered between branches, restless with anticipation.

Robins poured sweet bubbling songs into the morning.

Blackbirds leapt nimbly from perch to perch.

And woodpeckers sent secret rhythms echoing through the treetops as if inviting all to a grand adventure.

The air shimmered with feathery whispers, bursts of laughter and playful quarrels of neighbours all seeking the finest nesting spot.

Each branch trembled with excitement and with hope.

But on this morning, a peculiar thrill danced through the woodland.

A hush of expectation hinting that something truly remarkable was stirring in the cool shadows beneath the ancient oak tree.

A fox with russet fur and eyes bright, bright as polished amber, watched in silent wonder.

Not even the sharpest eyed magpie glimpsed her as she slipped into the roots and the Leaves.

She had seen many contests in her time, but today carried a different kind of magic.

A whisper of magic tingled on the breeze, promising to weave new stories through the woodland.

And all eyes turned to the sky, sky hearts beating with a quiet anticipation.

Who, they wondered, would rise above the rest to become the Woodland's new king and queen of the birds?

Our story had started a week before, when the bird council gathered in a flurry beneath the oldest oak tree.

Wings fluttered, feathers drifted, and voices rose in a flurry of excitement.

Excitement, until at last a bold idea took flight.

A grand contest to crown the rulers of the woodland skies.

Whispers of the contest had rippled far beyond the trees and woodland.

In the distant meadow, a family of hares perked up, eager for the unfolding drama.

Even the wise old badger, seldom seen above ground, vowed to watch the spectacle.

For once, every creature, furred or feathered, shared in the same bright excitement.

At last, the wise old owl blinked his golden eyes and spoke.

His voice was soft as moonlight, yet impossible to ignore.

Let the birds who saw the highest be our king and queen, he declared.

The birds and animals of the woodland all nodded in agreement.

And this would be the challenge for.

For the ages high above.

A sudden breeze curled through the branches, carrying a single shimmering feather on its breath.

It drifted down and settled at the feet of a young wren, who tucked it behind her ear for good luck.

May it bring you courage, her grandmother whispered, her voice trembling with hope.

The little wren looked to the sky, wondering if she might do something, something extraordinary.

On the chosen morning, as sunlight shone through the trees, every bird gathered at the edge of the woodland.

As the birds gathered, sunlight danced on the wings of a visiting swallow, newly arrived from faraway lands.

He spoke of journeys over mountains and seas, filling the young birds full of dreams of adventure beyond the woodland's edge.

Today, he promised, is a day for legends.

Sparrows strutted with bellies full robins polished their scarlet chests until they gleamed.

And buzzards stretched their broad wings, eager as ever for the challenge ahead.

The woodland was a kaleidoscope of color and basically feathers alive with hope and anticipation.

Soon, every kind of woodland bird pressed close to the starting line.

Collared doves puffed their chests and cooed with pride, while wood pigeons strutted back and forth, fussing over every feather and making sure that all were ready.

Amongst the crowd, a tiny mouse in a patchwork set scarf scrambled up the tallest route for a better view.

She scribbled in her leaf bound journal, determined to capture every moment for the storytellers yet to come, the excitement bubbled as the crowds craned their necks, eager to catch every detail.

The blackbird paraded onto the chosen branch chest, puffed with pride and ready to dazzle.

The vixen watched quietly, her heart rooting for the smallest birds, knowing that courage often hides in the tiniest of hearts.

At the ceremony, the countdown began, voices echoing through the leaves.

The wood pigeons and collared doves led the countdown.

The entire woodland seemed to vibrate with anticipation.

Can you help me with the countdown?

Get ready.

Get set and get ready.

Get set and get ready.

Get set and go.

Now, you may be thinking, why have we all chanted the starting call three times?

Well, that's because.

Because the wood pigeons, if you listen to their calls, always repeat themselves three times.

The crowd crackled with anticipation, knowing well the hawks and falcons taste for the spectacle.

Suddenly, wings thundered and the woodland erupted into motion.

At the edge of the clearing, the badger blinked sleepily in the sunlight.

Who do you think will win?

He asked the hedgehog beside him.

The hedgehog grinned.

I'm betting on the clever ones, not the biggest.

Nearby, the hares bounced with excitement, shouting encouragement to every bird.

Their wings beat in the air as birds shot skyward, sending mice scurrying and squirrels racing along their branches.

Every shape and colour of feather spiraled upwards, their swirling flight dimming the sun and painting the ground with a dance of shadows.

The sparrows shot upward, wings a blur, as they darted past the robins.

The robins swelled with determination, cheeks flushed with effort, unwilling to fall behind.

Feathers flashed, sunlight sparked, and every bird pressed for the sky, each chasing their own dreams of triumph.

Far below, the mouse chronicler's tail twitched as she scribbled furiously, eager to capture every twist and every turn of this contest.

The vixen's pride grew as she watched the smallest birds, her heart swelling as the wrens darted bravely through the swirling chaos.

Soon, though, weary wings began to droop.

Starlings shimmered above the sky, sparrows and robins, their feathers glinting blue and green like scattered gems.

Higher still, magpies soared, their plumage flickering with secret iridescence.

Buzzards and red kites climbed even higher, riding invisible rivers of warm air and gliding in slow, majestic circles as if dancing with the clouds.

The swallow flew high above, whistling a bright tune that lifted the weary wings and spirits alike.

The whole woodland seemed to join in, every leaf and creature humming with hope, climbing a staircase woven from wind and sunlight and gazing down at the distant earth with tired, determined eyes.

Below the squeaks of seagulls and the cause of jackdaw's echo echoed in defeat.

They too had been left behind by the dizzying climb.

After nearly an hour, only a handful of birds lingered, specks against the endless blue sky.

The crowd below squinted and shared binoculars, breathless with suspense, unwilling to miss a single heartbeat.

Mouse's paws trembled as she wrote her journal, nearly slipping from the root.

I mustn't miss a word, she whispered, eyes wide with wonder.

And all around her, the terrestrial animals hovered close, spellbound by this spectacle unfolding above.

As the birds climbed higher, the air thinned and turned icy cold.

One by one, even the mighty buzzards and kites hit had yielded, spiraling down in graceful loops.

At the same time, the crowd gasped at the few brave birds pressing ever higher.

All eyes turned skyward.

With a sharp, searching gazes, the crowd spotted the last champions, golden eagles circling higher than any, proud and gleaming in the sunlight.

And from her secret sky spot, the vixen narrowed her eyes at the eagles, sensing their pride.

Quietly, she wished for the small birds to prove the greatness can live in the humblest of forms.

But now the eagles victory seemed certain.

They were the largest, they were the strongest, and they were the most regal of all.

But just as the eagles basked in their triumph, a bright joyful chirp rang out, stopping everyone in mid celebration.

From the golden feathers of the eagles burst the two tiny wrens who had hidden there all along.

With clever wings and a burst of courage, they darted above the stunned eagles, rising higher than anyone had dared to dream.

On the ground, the mouse chronicler squeaked with delight, her journal slipping from her grasp.

They did it.

She cried, her words swept up in the crowd's joyful roar.

The vixen's tail twitched and her whiskers rippled with excitement, her eyes shining as the wrens soared high above the rest.

The wrens have done the impossible.

Their courage and cleverness shone as brightly as their tiny wings.

And now they would be crowned the king and queen of the woodland.

The eagles, stunned and flustered, swooped after the wrens, sending them tumbling and spinning like tiny acrobats.

Down they spiraled, laughter and cheers trailing in their wake.

The whole woodland held its breath as the wrens tumbled past the eagles and landed with a chance giant bud.

At the very heart of the woodland.

On top of its highest hill, a soft cloud of dust billowed up towards the sky.

For a single heartbeat, everything was perfectly still.

The vixen padded closer, giving the wrens a respectful nod.

The mouse chronicler sketched the new king and queen, her heart brimming with hope for every small creature.

And even the old badger cheered, his voice rumbling like distant thunder, while the hares danced in a jubilant circle around the hill.

Then a roar of cheers erupted.

The wrens rose, a little dizzy, but glowing with pride.

Their tiny tails pointed bravely at the same sky.

The wrens supporters burst into celebration.

For the clever little wrens were the Woodland's first true king and queen was not their size, nor their strength, but cleverness and courage that lifted the wrens to their victory.

Outsmarting birds ten times or more their size, the wrens showed every creature of the woodland that anyone, no matter how small, can shine.

And so even today, the wren's tail points towards the sky.

It's a quiet reminder, hidden in every little bird's feathers that even the smallest amongst us can reach the greatest of heights.

So now we know why the wren, though small, fills the wood with such bold and cheerful song.

Cleverness and spirit shine bright no matter the size.

And that proud little tail held high is a living reminder of the day the wren's ancestors outwitted all their feathered kings in to claim the woodland crown.

Our next story is one I always look forward to sharing.

It brings a smile to the firelight.

And hidden within its winding path are curious truths about the creature at its heart.

This is an old tale dusted with a little of our own magic.

And tonight we share it with you to reveal why the mole makes his home underground.

And now it's time for our main story of the evening.

A woodland folklore tale called why does the Molecule Live Underground?

On a cool woodland morning, Mole found himself beneath the ancient trees, his nose quivering with anticipation, drawn by the promise of golden honey, a rare delight for a creature of the earth.

He began to climb, paws gripping the rough bark as he searched for the bee's hidden nest.

If you've ever seen a mole, you'll know that they're not made for climbing.

Least of all towering trees that reach for the sky.

Yet the longing for honey was stronger than his fear.

And so Mole pressed on, heart thumping with hope.

Each dawn, Mole dreamed of honey, sweet and golden as sunlight through autumn leaves.

He clung to the bark with his long claws and back legs slipping and scrambling.

His climb a comical dance beneath the watchful eyes of birds who chirped and chuckled from the perches above.

Mole remembered well the sting of the bees, for he had braved their nest before.

He knew their guardians would not welcome him and that he would need to be swift if he hoped to taste their honey and escape.

Escape unscathed.

Mole drew nearer.

The air shimmered with a low hum of bees.

His belly rumbled.

But just as the nest came into view, his right front paw slipped, leaving him dangling from the branch by a single trembling foot.

Mole pressed his face to the rough, mossy bark, willing himself not to glance at the dizzying drop below him.

He clung on so tightly that the tree bark left its mark on his cheek.

But after a breath, he found his grip once more.

Mole paused, drawing in the cool woodland air, waiting for his heart to quieten.

When he felt steady, hunger urged him upwards once again.

As he drew closer, Mole breathed in the thick, sweet scent of honey drifting down through the branches.

He knew the bees would soon sense his presence.

Their stings were legendary in the woodland, and Mole had not forgotten their sharp warning.

Inside the hive, the queen received alarming news of his approach.

She was concerned, knowing that every few weeks Mole would invade, stealing her honey and damaging her hive in the process.

It took the drone bees so much time to repair the damage that Mole had caused, so she was determined to protect her home and her honey.

The queen summoned the fighter bees to prepare for battle.

It was then that a young drome beast strode into the queen's throne room, and, full of the confidence of youth, said, your majesty, I understand you wish to rid yourself of the mole.

I have an idea.

The queen cast a disapproving glance at him, but the drone smiled and requested permission to speak.

Please, your majesty, he said, bowing respectfully and waving his antennae.

Although slightly annoyed, the queen wanted to deal with the troublesome mole, so she beckoned the drone closer and urged him to share his idea.

High among the swaying branches, Mole had caught scent of the bee's new nest and remembered the chaos of his last visit.

It was just then that a young bee emerged suddenly from a secret doorway inside the tall tree, his furry stripes gleaming golden and black in the dappled light.

Mole was surprised and curious as he had never seen a bee up close before.

He quite admired its shiny stripes and the golden fuzzy body, which reminded him of his own soft fur.

To Mole's surprise, the bee crawled toward him instead of flying away or trying to see sting him.

You're up high, my friend, the bee said, pointing its antennae towards the ground.

See how small everything looks from up here?

Mole turned his head and looked down.

Far below, the woodland floor was a patchwork of flowers and leaves bright with colors, and Mole's stomach turned and he clung a little tighter to the bark, feeling Smaller than a shadow beneath the trees.

Mole's mouth felt dry, his muscles tightened and he pressed himself flat against the bark, wishing he could disappear.

The bee noticed the beads of sweat glistening on Mole's snout, his claws slipping on the bark.

Mole glanced at the bee, but the beer had already wrapped itself around him like a cold mist.

How high you are.

And you don't.

They don't even have wings.

That's really brave of you, the bee said as it fluttered its wings in front of the now terrified Mole.

Mole shook his head slightly and whined, but I must eat or I will starve.

The bee crawled closer and whispered, I know where food is abundant for you, but it's not up here.

It's down there.

The bee gestured towards the ground again, but Mole was too scared to look down.

As they spoke, a great swarm of bees poured from the hive, lining the trunk in shimmering ranks.

Hundreds upon hundreds upon thousands.

Deep.

Mole sighed, realizing he would have to face a living wall of bees to reach his prize.

And worse still, he remembered the sting of the fighter bees, stinging and burning under his thick fur.

He turned to the bee beside him and said, okay, tell me more.

If we climb down, I can show you, said the bee, slowly moving towards Mole's face, encouraging Mole to begin to climb down the tree awkwardly and backwards.

Mole began his awkward descent, slowly placing one foot on the tree's bark before securing his footing and slowly moving his other back leg, and all the time the bee keeping pace with him.

After some considerable time, Mole tumbled from the lowest branch and landed with a soft thud on the woodlands leaf covered floor with its smell of moss and leaves.

As he sat a little dazed from his fall, Mole rolled onto his back, but before he could right himself, the bee fluttered down to rest lightly upon his belly.

When you're ready, Mole, follow me, said the bee, swiftly flying over to one of the deep crevices where the giant tree roots entered the earth.

Looking down into the deep hole between the entangled tree roots, the bee waved his wing to Mole and beckoned him on.

When Mole reached the edge of the hole, he peered into the cool darkness.

At first all was in shadow, but as his eyes adjusted, he saw long pink shapes wriggling far below him.

That is a nest of worms, said the bee, buzzing with excitement.

They are delicious, and the best part is you don't have to climb or get stung to reach them.

The bee performed a joyful little wiggle dance, which you may want to do as well.

So why not jump up and let's all Do a wiggle dance together.

Thank you.

That was an incredible sight and I'm not sure I was ready for it.

Mole bravely pressed his nose into the earth, breathing in the sweet loamy scent of the earthworms.

And they smelt really good to him.

Just as the bee had promised.

His tummy rumbled loudly.

How do I reach them down there?

He asked.

The bee smiled.

Well you dig of course.

He replied, showing Mole how to scratch at the earth.

Mole tried but barely disturbed the earth's surface.

Ah, it's no use.

He sighed as his stomach rumbled louder than before.

Glancing longingly at the beehive above, he shook his head and began trying to scrape the soil once again.

After a few frantic minutes, the bee climbed onto the nearby root.

As good neighbours he said, we may be able to help you.

Mole looked up, quite intrigued and said, how?

You know your front feet are best for digging but your back ones aren't.

We can help you with that.

Well now, Mole's curiosity was piqued.

How?

The bee looked Mole straight in the eye and said, you've been stung before and you know that the pain goes away after a little while.

Yes, said Mole, not really wanting to remember that powerful stinging pain.

With a single touch we can gift you the power to dig deeper and faster than any mole before you.

The earth will open up to you like a secret and you will feast on worms without ever needing to climb a again.

Okay, how does that work?

Asked Mole, feeling a bit uncertain.

That my friend is our magic and I cannot tell you otherwise it won't work.

Replied the bee.

While Mole was thinking about what the bee said, his stomach growled loudly interrupting the conversation.

Okay, okay, lets do it.

Said Mole holding out his front paws.

OK then, said the bee.

But you must close your eyes.

I'm not sure.

No, no, I won't do it.

Said Mole, who was really quite scared by now.

But you have to for the magic to work.

Said the bee.

Reluctantly.

Mole placed his front paws flat on the rock before quickly pulling them away again.

Should I really trust the bee?

He thought.

Moles face clearly revealed his feelings and the bee said, if you want to have breakfast, you must trust us to make the magic work.

I'm not sure but I do want my breakfast so.

Okay, said Mole, placing his paws back on the rock and closing his eyes.

Right.

You will hear some buzzing but don't worry, it's just our magic at work.

Okay, now move your paws a little closer together said the bee.

And slowly Mole readjusted his position and braced himself just a Little further to the right, said the bee.

Now keep them together and flat.

Yes, that's it, said the Bee calmly.

And suddenly there was a loud bang.

A strong gust of wind hit Mole straight in the face, followed by excruciating pain in his front paws.

It was then that Mole let out a terrifying scream that startled the wise old owl who was trying to settle down to sleep for the day, and it sent the fox scurrying for cover.

Badger looked at Mole with disdain, wondering why he had to be so noisy this early in the morning.

When Mole opened his eyes, he saw a large, flat stone where his paws had been.

The dizziness washed over him as the pain surged through his body.

With his head spinning and his front paws throbbing with pain.

Ouch, ouch, ouch.

Shouted Mole, looking around to find the bee.

But the bee had vanished.

Oh, when I get my paws out from under this rock, I'll tell that bee precisely what I think of him for tricking me, Mole said, struggling to get his paws free.

But his paws were stuck.

Mole wriggled and jiggled his front paws, but the rock was too big and too heavy for him to move.

Badger wandered over to see what was happening and said, if you brace your back legs against the rock and push as hard as you can, you should be able to slip your front paws out from under the rock.

And that is just what Mole did.

He braced his strong back legs, pushed with all his might, and.

And with a grunt and a shudder, shifted the heavy stone.

At last, his front paws slipped free from their stony prison, tingling with the strange magic that lingered in the woodland air.

Mole's paws throbbed and ached, but as he turned them over, in the faint light, he saw that they had changed.

They were flattened and broad, with claws long and perfectly shaped for digging.

With wonder and a hint of sadness, Mole gazed up at the towering tree and the distant bees nest far above, knowing the world of the sky was now lost to him forever.

But the mysteries beneath the earth were now his to explore.

Hey, bee.

He called out.

Come down here now.

I want a word with you.

But the bee was nowhere to be seen as he stood at the bottom of the tree.

Mole's nose twitched at the smell of tasty worms.

I'll deal with that bee later, he thought.

Mole made its way towards the hole in the tree roots slowly as his paws were still throbbing, and began to dig at the soil.

As he dug, the earth parted beneath his new claws.

The soil scattered, roots shifted, and soon Mole was tunneling with a joy he had never Known before too long, Mole unearthed a long, pink, juicy worm and gobbled it up, only to find it gritty and crunchy on his tongue.

Oh, yuck.

He exclaimed, spitting it out with a shudder.

He looked up at the bee's nest, longing for the taste of honey, but then looked down at his new paws and sighed, knowing that his climbing days were now truly behind him.

And of course, Mole's tummy rumbled again, and his thoughts returned to worms.

Mole dug deeper, unearthing a hidden treasure trove of long, juicy, pink, wiggly worms, which Mole gobbled up as quickly as he could.

At last, Mole stopped.

His tummy was full of wriggly worms, and he curled up in the cool, earthy hollow that he had made, heart full and belly even fuller.

It was the finest feast Mole had ever known, all thanks to a touch of woodland magic.

When Mole woke up, the world above was hushed and silver with dawn.

With a deep breath of cool, earthy air, he stretched his newfound claws and began to dig deeper and deeper, winding his way through the ancient tree roots and leaving behind a tapestry of tunnels glistening with morning dew.

By the time the first sunbeam pierced the woodland canopy, Mole had crafted secret passageways lined with slight soft moss and hidden feasts.

No longer did he long for the sweetness of honey or the perilous heights of climbing trees.

Instead, his heart beat in time with the earth, and every scoop of soil became a song of belonging.

And sometimes, if you listen closely in the quiet of the wood, you might hear the faintest rustle beneath your feet.

A story being written in the dark, cool corridors where Mole digs on, guided by the memory of a golden bee and the magic of a promise kept.

And that, my friends, is why the mole lives underground, where every tunnel is a tale and every chamber holds a dream whispered through the roots of the ancient woodland night.

Thank you for gathering with us here in the dark wood tonight.

May these stories kindle your imagination as the embers glow and the shadows dance among the trees.

In the busy rhythm of our modern lives, it's easy to lose touch with the deeper rhythms that shape us all within.

But the equinox provides a rare chance to stop and recalibrate.

When we take the time to honor this seasonal shift, we're reminded that we are not merely observers of nature.

We are nature.

We are part of the same cycles of growth and rest and renewal.

As the equinox approaches, take a moment to feel the earth underfoot.

Breathe in the cool autumn air and reconnect with the world within you.

Just as the trees let go of their leaves to conserve energy, so too can we release what no longer serves us.

As the wild world settles into rest and renewal, we too can honor the this gentle turning we are always growing, always changing forever woven into the old rhythms and cycles of life.

So our night in the ancient woodland draws to a close.

I hope you will return to the fireside where old stories linger in the crackle of the flames and beneath the quiet watchfulness of the ancient trees.

And that also brings to an end series 8 of the Wildlife Matters podcast.

Wildlife Matters will return on Wednesday 21st October when we begin series nine with a two part special exploring the wildlife that is protected by law across this land.

Our story has its fair share of support prizes and we hope you enjoy discovering more with us.

And if our stories tonight have warmed your heart, please like and subscribe to join us again and thank you for sharing your time with us tonight.

As always, stay curious wild ones.

This is Wildlife Matters signing off.