My Favourite Nature Stories


How much do I want to read more? 7/10

It looks more like an autobiography than stories. It reads like a novel, but I like the author style. It's contemplative, and sensitive about nature, but not in a boring way.
He talks about his aspiration to become a writer, and he takes the risk at age 35. The risk is to leave safety with salary, to go in a cheap shared house uphill, and to live his passion.
It might be an inspiration. Taking the risk to break from security and find a more fulfilled life does speak to me. I'm trying to live it, right now.


Introduction - Ruskin’s Green-World

I have been writing stories, sketches, poems and novels for over 65 years, and the greatest pleasure has come from writing about the natural world in my vicinity.
I look forward to another great day on the planet Earth. We must cherish each day as though it is our last.
I dedicate this book to all who cherish the green world of India, its forests, fields, streams and sacred rivers. Nature sustains us. Let us not do away with our natural inheritance.


Among the Maples and Oaks

the ancient peeling bark seemed to harbour any number of tiny insects, and the woodpeckers would be tapping away all day. A steep path ran down to the cottage. During heavy rain, it would become a watercourse and the earth would be washed away to leave it very stony and uneven.

Miss Mackenzie was eighty-six. I helped her up the steps and she opened the door for me. It led into an L-shaped room. There were two large windows, and when I pushed the first of these open, the forest seemed to rush upon me. From below, from the ravine, the deep-throated song of the whistling thrush burst upon me.

It was all done on an impulse—the decision to give up my job in Delhi, find a cheap house in a hill-station, and return to freelance writing.
It was a dream I’d had for some time; lack of money had made it difficult to realize. But then, I knew that if I was going to wait for money to come, I might have to wait until I was old and grey and full of sleep. I was thirty-five—still young enough to take a few risks. If the dream was to become reality, this was the time to do something about it.

But the forest below the cottage seemed full of possibilities, and the windows opening on to it probably decided the issue.