Walk At The Beginning Of Winter

One of the RSPB's newest nature reserves lies on my doorstep. 

This reserve is becoming important for bitterns, water rails, cuckoos, owls, all kinds of duck, and various birds of prey. The top photo on the signboard shows a marsh harrier; the bottom a little ringed plover.

The morning was fine but cold. The leaves had now fallen from the trees and winter skulked around the corner. A low and intense sun turned the reed beds gold and a sharp breeze ruffled the blue water of the old gravel pit lakes.

There were not many birds about; I barely spotted twenty species. But the sun illuminated brilliantly the glossy green heads of mallard and goldeneye and the snowy-white feathers of a mute swan near the causeway.

Inside the delightful wooden 'beach hut', which serves as a tiny reception centre.

On one wall there's a display of 'natural curiosities', including the oak apples (or oak galls) you can see on the right (these would originally have been home to gall wasp larvae).

As I began the walk home, long rafts of cloud blotted out the sun, and it seemed more like early evening than early afternoon.

Electricity pylons striding across the flat plain of the Trent valley.

A Madeleine Moment

Beating the bounds.

I'm not much of a one for New Year resolutions, but I do have five modest daily goals:

(1) To read a little. 

(2) To write a little. 

(3) To walk a little. 

(4) To exercise for 20 - 30 min. (stretching, aerobic and resistance exercises). 

(5) To be mindful of what I eat and drink, to enjoy eating and drinking as a 'ritual', to be aware of the calorific content and health value of the food, to enjoy the taste in a heightened, mindful way.

Yellowhammer. (Wikimedia Commons.)

This morning after a light breakfast and 20 minutes' exercise I went for a walk — beating the bounds of my local territory. Waves of storms have been passing over the UK in recent weeks, but today dawned cold, clear and bright. The Midlands landscape round here is quite ordinary. No mountains, no spectacular views — just flattish farmland, river flood plain, gravel pit lakes, dykes and ditches, hedgerows and copses, muddy lanes. But I like it. It may be unsensational, but it's my home ground.

There were quite a few birds about: blue tits, chaffinches, dunnocks, rooks — the common species. I passed comfortingly familiar sights, natural touchstones of the season: bunches of limp ash keys hanging from branches, new sooty ash buds, skeletal oak trees, bulrushes — some with their cottony seeds still attached — tall and sentinel at the edge of the pond. Then a flock of yellowhammers flew out of a hedge and disappeared back into it further along the track. As soon as I spotted those flashes of brilliant yellow and those white outer tail feathers I experienced what can only be called a Proustian moment. 

You remember how in Proust's À la Recherche the taste of a madeleine cake soaked in lime-blossom tea suddenly and vividly conjured up lost details of the narrator's childhood, and how that little musical phrase by Vinteuil revitalised Swann's love for Odette? Well, the unexpected sight of those flitting birds gave me instantly the same feeling I'd had as a child when birdwatching in the countryside and coming across an unusual species: an intense excitement, a sense of mystery, a thrill coursing through my whole body.

So, for a few seconds today, I became a child again, experiencing an innocent wonder at the marvels of the world.

Madeleine cakes. (Wikimedia Commons.)

A Trip To The Mythological Garden Centre

We'd only popped into Reg Taylor's Garden Centre for a Rozanne geranium, a bag of compost and a cup of coffee.  Imagine our surprise when this cockerel pointed the way . . . 

. . .  to the Swan Sanctuary, which had been taken over by both savage and playful beasties . . .

The swans were frozen in graceful flight . . .

. . . and this larger-than-life spider was also in a state of perpetual immobility, thank goodness . . .

We witnessed the birth of a dragon . . .

. . . and rejoiced in the exultation of these sculpted figures . . .

. . . though we soon came down to earth with a bump, and realised that life was not always so jubilant . . .

In a dark corner of a copse we started to feel distinctly uncomfortable . . .

. . . so much so, that we hastened by this faceless green lady, though we coveted her wide-brimmed hat . . . 

This alabaster-like Ophelia, however, was not as protected against the sun's glare . . .

For one crazy moment we thought we'd time-travelled to Spain . . .

. . . but soon realised we'd simply walked into a Grimm's Fairy Tale . . .

. . . or perhaps . . .

. . . a horror movie . . .

Kind Of Spring

When we moved into our hundred-year-old house fourteen years ago, we knew the garden would eventually need some serious reconstruction. It had been neglected by the previous owners for decades. Everything was the matter with it. Trees and bushes grew in the wrong places and were too crowded together. The pond was matted with dense vegetation and strangled with interlocking roots and pine cones. Ground elder, cleavers and other vigorous and pervasive weeds had taken over the borders and the shrubberies. The lawn was a ragged carpet of moss and dandelions. We struggled over the years to keep on top of things. With both of us working, this was a difficult task.

Cut to a year ago when at long last we were able to start hacking back the wilderness. A Corsican pine which was squeezing everything else out of the garden had to be felled. (It's sad to cut down a tree, but this variety is common in the countryside round here, and they are hardly garden trees anyway.) The leaking pond at its foot was relined and re-edged. The lawn was extended and returfed. The weeds were attacked. A new patio was laid. And much else. 

We didn't do a lot in the garden over winter, and have been reluctant to do much so far during this year's so-called spring. It's just been so cold and windy. And of course there's still a huge amount to do: potatoes to plant, beds to dig and compost, perennials to establish. There's always something to do in a garden.

It's no news to anyone that spring has come much later than normal this year. In fact it barely seems to have arrived here in the English Midlands. According to photographic and other records it's about a month behind. Plants need several days of continuous warmth as a signal for them to bud and flower with abandon. But the days have been cold with north-easterly winds, late snowfalls and little sun.

I heard a cuckoo a week ago, but the willow warblers and chiffchaffs have yet to land. The blackthorn's snow-white blossom has been on show for a week, and dandelions are popping up, but I saw the first daisies only this afternoon. There's a great crop of grape hyacinths, but the cherry tree seemed to flower then fade in a jiffy. Some of our daffodils and tulips are out, but others not...

Today I managed to cut the grass, and to plant three rhododendrons and a pieris, but was glad to scurry back indoors to coffee and the computer. (Incidentally, I was pleased to see quite a few bees flying over the lawn, which I identified as mining bees, and found some of their burrowed nests in the cropped turf.)

I'm now looking through the study window at yards of empty earth waiting to be colonised, jazzed up, beautified. No doubt it will happen in nature's own good time. Meanwhile, there are always pots of gaudy primulas to lift the spirits...              

I've read that when spring finally does arrive in all its glory, it will be short but intensely vibrant and stunningly colourful. We can but hope...

Birdwatching

Hide at Langford Lowfields.

Today I returned to my local RSPB reserve, Langford Lowfields, which I last visited four weeks ago. The weather was cold and the sky overcast. I thought it would be interesting to make another list of all the birds I saw and compare it with yesterday's; the habitats of woodland, farmland, lake and river were very similar. Twenty-nine different species were recorded, slightly fewer than yesterday. These birds were on both lists:

Wood pigeon, rook, crow, jackdaw, robin, dunnock, blackbird, cormorant, mallard, pochard, tufted duck, wigeon, coot, gadwall, goldeneye, shelduck, grey heron, great tit, blue tit, chaffinch, black-headed gull.

And these were the new sightings:

Magpie, greenfinch, goldfinch, yellowhammer, reed bunting, pintail, mute swan, little egret.

Finches, robins, dunnocks, great tits, yellowhammers and reed buntings were busy at the feeders near the hide. It was great to see a little egret, though these birds are becoming much more common now in the UK. But the highlight for me was a pair of pintails — such strikingly marked ducks, especially the males with their chocolate-brown heads, gleaming white breasts and long, black tail feathers.  

Daffodils emerging through last year's leaves at Langford Lowfields.

A Walk In The Trent Valley

Perhaps the truth depends upon a walk around the lake. WALLACE STEVENS

A kink in the west-easterly-flowing Atlantic jet stream meant cold air coming in from the north, so the morning dawned cold with a frosty start. The high atmospheric pressure pointed to a fine, clear day with weak sunshine.

I decided to take a walk in the Trent valley not far from my home, and thought it would be fun to list all the different species of bird I saw along the way. I made a flask of coffee, packed some lunch, found camera and binoculars, then set off towards the river. It was chilly, so I was glad of my thermals, my fleece, my hat and my gloves. The habitat through which I walked was sparse woodland, arable farmland, meadow, river and lake. These are the birds I spotted, thirty-three in all:

Wood pigeon, collared dove, crow, rook, jackdaw, blackbird, starling, chaffinch, blue tit, great tit, robin, grey heron, cormorant, dunnock, great spotted woodpecker, pheasant, black-headed gull, green plover, Canada goose, greylag goose, coot, moorhen, little grebe, goosander, tufted duck, mallard, goldeneye, wigeon, pochard, gadwall, shoveler, shelduck, whooper swan.

The pheasant on the list I only heard not saw, but I'm counting it. However, I haven't counted two species of gull which I wasn't sure about. I'm hopeless at identifying gulls. 

At one point a huge flock of geese (probably pink-footed) several hundred strong flew high above me in a V formation. Geese and other migratory birds use the Trent as a navigational aid.

Spring was definitely in the air despite the cold weather. Birds were pairing up, and rooks and cormorants were ferrying materials to patch up their nests.  

Langford Lowfields

Wednesday was a fine but blustery day, and I set off on one of my local walks. Passing this oak tree, I followed an old stone wall... 

... until I came to a three-way junction of paths.

The familiar route took me under power lines...

...  to a small bridge crossing the river Fleet. The floods had largely receded, but a pool of water remained in this ploughed field. A flock of fieldfares rose from the field's edge...

... as I turned up this woodland path. The path is new...

... as is this other bridge over the Fleet. The area is now all part of the Langford Lowfields nature reserve owned by the RSPB.

Near the gravel pit lakes I met up by chance with Jenny Wallace, the warden of the reserve, and we had an interesting chat for twenty minutes. She told me they'd had big problems with the flooding, but the water levels were gradually dropping. She described the insect life, and the butterfly life in summer, and the birds: there are several types of owl here, also reclusive bitterns, and even, if you're lucky, marsh harriers. These summer visitors bred a couple of years ago, and she was hopeful they'd return this year. (You can read Jenny's blog here.)   

Bitterns like reed beds, and there are extensive reed beds on these old gravel workings. The reserve also attracts wildfowl and wading birds.

Before I made my way back along Westfield Lane, I paused on the bank of the river Trent which borders the western side of the reserve. As you can see, the water was still very high. 

Rufford Abbey

Rufford Abbey is only half an hour away from here by car. Today we spent the early afternoon in its grounds (and Coach House Café). There were very few other visitors. Just how I like it!

Carmen strides up Broad Ride towards the abbey.

This surviving cloister in the west wing dates from the 12th century, when the abbey was inhabited by Cistercian monks. It became a private country house in the 16th century, was extended and improved in the 18th and 19th centuries, but partly demolished in the 20th century. Now it's owned by English Heritage, and the remains of the house and its extensive grounds are open to the public.

Rufford Lake was partly frozen over.

Espaliers in the abbey garden.

A lone figure returns down Broad Ride.

Down In The Flood

New Year's Day, and a walk round the village soon revealed that the floods had not yet receded.  

Many back gardens along Low Street were still under water.

The lanes to the river had turned into rivers themselves...

... and the surrounding fields into lakes.

There are people who live down here. Were they marooned over Christmas? Quite an attractive idea, I think — as long as the larder is well stocked.

April Come She Will

O to be in England

Now that April's there,

And whoever wakes in England

Sees, some morning, unaware,

That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf

Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,

While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough

In England - now!

ROBERT BROWNING Home-Thoughts, From Abroad

As I grow older, each springtime is more splendid than the one before - or so it seems to me. This year is no exception. These past few days of mild air and blue skies have seen spring advance in leaps and bounds. Today I dawdled through the village in  temperatures which must have been over 20º C. It was certainly the warmest day of the year so far. The daffodils were fading, but new life was everywhere: pear and crab apple blossom, a hint of blue on the bluebell stalks, the heady scent of vibernum's creamy flowers. In the countryside beyond the village it was too early for daisies, but bright yellow dandelions had popped up along the grassy verges since my last walk there, and the pure-white flowers of the blackthorn - glory of the English early spring - adorned the lanes like scatterings of unseasonal snow.

It felt unreal. It was nearly all too much. My senses were giddy with the freshness, with the shocking newness, with the pristine beauty of it all - the glare of the light, the first drifting insects, the druggy scents, the glowing greens and blues. Winter had starved me of colour, and this sudden burst of it was strangely psychedelic. Its vivid assault almost had me rushing back into the familiar, dull interior of the house.

    

But not quite - for here outside, in this verdant English spring, were miracles: such as the miracles of birds and birdsong. Birds are some of my favourite living creatures. Just imagine, if you can, a world without birds. Inconceivable, I think; the countryside would be so much the poorer, even a trifle sinister, without them. Yellowhammers - there's an abundance of them in the parish - flashed from bush to bush, peewits cried plaintively over the open fields, great tits boldly sang their two-note 'teach-er' song, chiffchaffs chiffchaffed away in the trees. Chiffchaffs are some of the earliest spring migrants to fly in from the south. I'd heard them singing a couple of weeks ago, and it's always heartening when they arrive.