Tag: Nature

Local Wildlife

I’m wondering – what is the definition of a marsh? This has been a wet February. It’s now passed having left water, water everywhere. Put my Wellington boots on, and underfoot a squidgy noise comes from the waterlogged ground.

On the plus side, saturated fields are great for the local wildlife. Not so great for simply walking. It’s a season of mud and trodden down grass. Puddles and soggy pools. The water weaves its way through a boggy marsh. It spreads out in a minor flood, covering sedges and fence poles. There’s that word again – marsh. Still wetland.

That said, so many English marshes have been drained to create fertile agricultural land. Over decades fields have been “improved” by engineering drainage to turn swamps into workable farmlands. Sometimes with limited success in the winter.

I grew up on Horsington Marsh. The name that lives on. It’s farmed grassland with much of it liable to annual flooding. A clay valley of marshland formed between a winding brook and a temperamental river. Bow Brook and the River Cale. Both these eventually met up with the River Stour and head on down to the coast in Dorset.

Now, I live looking out on the lower part of the River Lambourn. In shape and form are totally different from the Cale or Stour. The Lambourn is shallow and fast flowing. It’s a chalk river that’s normally crystal clear. Locally, it does spillover into the fields. It’s a superficial flood that soaks riverbank.

The River Lambourn Special Area of Conservation (SAC) is a protected site[1]. Which means that there’s plenty of information on the wildlife habitat and the threats to the river. One of the biggest threats to the river is a water company. Thames Water storm overflows discharge into the river. It makes me wonder what it means to be a protected site.

The river has many different fish species. Most of all the Trout and some Grayling. Feasting on these we have Herons and Egrets. This week, I was surprised to see a large Cormorant[2] high up in a tree, wings spread, enjoying the morning sunshine.

So, however marshy the rising ground water and overflowing river might make it, there’s nature just outside the back door.

[1] https://www.westberks.gov.uk/article/41082/River-Lambourn-Special-Area-of-Conservation-SAC

[2] https://www.rspb.org.uk/birds-and-wildlife/cormorant

Snakes

Daily writing prompt
What’s the thing you’re most scared to do? What would it take to get you to do it?
View all responses

Scary? That’s the moment when Indiana Jones is sealed into a tomb full of snakes. A young Harrison Ford, as Indiana Jones finds himself face to face with his worst nightmare[1]. 100% that would be me. If asked to step into a room full of hissing snakes, I’d run to the furthest hills.

Now, here in the UK, Channel 4 are airing a series called The Fear Clinic[2]. It makes great watching. If you have a strong phobia, you are not alone. Rats, mice or small dogs, I can understand. For me, those don’t kick-off a fear response, but I can understand.

The approach taken by the Amsterdam clinic in the TV series is to “encourage” their clients to face their worst fears. That’s supposed to trigger a cure that lasts. For some people that does seem to be the positive result. I guess we are not shown any destructively negative results of clients confronting their worst nightmares.

If asked to enter a room filled with slithering snakes, I’d be shouting “help” very loudly indeed. Luckly, since I have no need to encounter lots of snakes, I have no need to find a cure for my fully rational fear. The last time there was a snake looking at me, he/she was sitting behind solid glass[3]. Sitting on a tree branch not the least bit concerned about me standing there feeling uncomfortable. Safely I passed by trying not to make eye contact.

Since we are now entering the Year of the Snake, I ought to be careful.

[1] INDIANA JONES: RAIDERS OF THE ARK – The Well of Souls

[2] https://www.channel4.com/programmes/the-fear-clinic-face-your-phobia

[3] https://www.tripadvisor.co.uk/Attraction_Review-g190745-d1575308-Reviews-The_Living_Rainforest-Newbury_Berkshire_England.html

Sainsbury’s Sanctuary

As I left Reigate the temperature was up at 30C. It was oppressively hot. Sticky and brewing an immense storm. Not that I minded so much, since I seem to thrive in the heat. Dark shades on. Lightest tee-shirt I could find. Primative old iPhone 4S blasting out an upbeat medially.

Sitting in my black car, on black leather seats, with an air conditioning system that cessed to work about a year ago, was a special kind of heat treatment. Windows open. It was like being blown by a powerful hairdryer from two sides. Fortunately for me London’s M25 was moving. Going west. Maybe wiser people than me had made a choice to delay their journey, or not go anywhere at all. In between the eight wheeled trucks, the shafts of sunlight rained down like a Martian death ray.

Grassy embankments that had been lush green earlier in the year were now charred brown. Motorway roadworks that had been bogged down in slimy mud now dust bowls. Colourful heavy earth moving machinery working on its limits. Roadworkers looking as if they would rather be anywhere but where they were. Lucky ones sheltering in the shade.

My journey had not been without basic planning. I knew that the heaviest of storms was slowing making its way west to east across southern England. I got almost a quarter through my trip before the immense thunder clouds loomed off in the distance. The sunlight was slowly changing. Going from perfect clear blue skies, with a little haze, to a brooding caldron of shafts of bright light and rolling off-white clouds, towering up to the stratosphere.

Onto the M3 motorway going west. Through the roadworks. The perpetual roadworks, Where the nation’s highway planners are trying to correct mistakes that they made erecting “smart” motorways. Closing the running hard shoulder to erect new emergency stopping bays.

Still the temperature was shifting up and down around 30C. Would I get to my motorway exist before the downpour that now seemed inevitable? I slowed to let a heavy truck into the nearside lane. We were both keen to get off the gradually slowing motorway.

Almost as if I’d timed the weather and pressed a button for rain, it started on the slip road. Trickles at first. Dark grey skies and indications of what was to come. My car’s dashboard thermometer started to plummet. By the time the traffic lights turned green, and we passed over the M3, visibility was disappearing. In a mishmash of road traffic on that junction there was potential for every kind of accident.

Time to slow down. It doesn’t matter that the duel carriageway signs going north said 40 mph. It would have been foolish to speed beyond that limit. At that moment the monster storm was just getting going. The timing between lightning strikes and thunder was shortening. Still, I had a good 5-miles to go to a sanctuary.

Again, almost as if I’d timed the weather, I exited right to turn into a Sainsbury’s superstore as the dark monster above our heads did its worst. Great pools of water where splattered on the ground with rain falling like millions of tennis balls. It was time to sit out the storm and take a coffee. Already the temperature had dropped ten degrees.

My cosy coffee shop sanctuary was the number one best place to watch shoppers getting soaked as they trudged across the windswept car park. I certainly wasn’t going to be in that kind of hurry. I sat it out. Glad I did.

Ragwort

My country knowledge is a mixed bag. Certain facts have embedded themselves in my brain from the days of my youth. That much I take for granted but there’s a lot of holes in my rural knowledge. Sue, my wife often ribs me for not knowing the name of some common bird or roadside flower. It’s the moment when I grab the phone and search for a quick answer.

I’d not been the least bit concerned about the tall, thick staked bright yellow flowers that spung up around here. Growing in clumps on scruffy ground they are certainly colourful. Small daisy like flowers in their thousands. That’s not an exaggeration as the cover of flowers is like a blanket.

For some obscure reason I didn’t know these invasive plants by name. Once I’d heard the proper name for them some recognition clicked in place. Maybe they were not prolific in the West Country of the 1970s. Strangely my mind drifted to “The Return of the Giant Hogweed[1]”. Probably one of the more ridiculous Genesis musical creations.

A fact that I didn’t know about these tall wildflowers is that they are named in a 1959 Act of Parliament[2]. One reason is that they can do damage to horses and farm animals. So, colourful they maybe, what’s a less attractive feature is they are poisonous under certain conditions.

Common Ragwort is the plant in question. It seems that Ragwort is almost impossible to eradicate. The best that can be done is to control it. Each yellow-flowered plant can produce up to 150,000 seeds. These seeds can stay dormant in the soil for up to 20 years. Ragwort is a biennial, it takes 2 years for the plant to flower. On the up-side they are the home of a wide variety of insects.

Today, the weather predictions are for an almost perfect English summer day. Blue skies and plenty of sun. A day to be making the most of the garden.

Once these plants have flowered it’s time to take drastic action. I may find myself pulling up these monsters by the roots. Fortunately, I only have a few to contend with on the edges of my garden. They are not for my compost bin. For the big green bin, the local council empties on a Monday morning.

Ragwort by Anne Stevenson

They won’t let railways alone, those yellow flowers.
They’re that remorseless joy of dereliction
darkest banks exhale like vivid breath
as bricks divide to let them root between.
How every falling place concocts their smile,
taking what’s left and making a song of it.

Poem Attribution © Anne Stevenson, Ragwort

Source Attribution https://poemsontheunderground.org/ragwort

[1] https://youtu.be/BSkgwCpuZwk

[2] https://www.gov.uk/guidance/stop-ragwort-and-other-harmful-weeds-from-spreading

Pheasant

It’s a wonder to me that common Pheasants[1] survive at all in the wild. I guess they are of a certain size that means there are not so many predators in the English countryside. Their greatest predator is us. Males are particularly colourful and stately in appearance. Quite unlike the Canadian Geese who inhabit the riverbank, Pheasants walk like well-dressed gentlemen on their way to the theatre. They rarely take to the air. It’s such an inconvenience. They don’t so much dive and swoop as much as hop and jump.

Here we have a bird that surveys the world from the roof of our small garden shed. He likes the garden fence as much as plodding around on the lawn. Never troubled by the other bird life, it’s as if he’s related to royalty. Male Pheasants are definite show-offs.

A lot of UK Pheasants are reared for shooting. They are “non-native” birds. That doesn’t seem so much like sport to me. It’s more like shooting fish in a barrel. Love that wonderful idiom. The lack of self-awareness exhibited by the male Pheasant that visits us suggests that shooting him would be a pointless exercise. It would just be a way of covering the ground with lead shot.

Now, that springs to mind a traditional tongue twisting rhyme, namely:

I’m not a pheasant plucker,

I’m a pheasant plucker’s son,

But I’ll keep on plucking pheasants

‘Till the pheasant plucker comes.

One thing to try is to say the rhyme slowly and then speed-up each time you repeat it. It’s bad enough for native English speakers to master that one.

That simple English rhyme has some heritage[2]. As a modern idiom the pheasant plucker can become a pleasant, well you fill in the next word. It has an “f” at the start. If we had wandering bands of minstrels in 21st Century England, then I’m sure they would make something of those more challenging words. It would probably be done on an iPad in a blackened-out bedroom and launched on social media first.

Maybe we need a cyberspace version of a cobbled stone village square where such nonsense can be attempted. One that’s not owned by a massive corporate proprietor determined to scrape advertising revenues out of it. A place for off-the-wall acts to test their metal. And not one that’s a desperate scrolling fest for bored fingers. Not so much a Tick and a Tock but a gather round experience, I’ve got something interesting to show you. A curious audience gathers and stays for more than 10 seconds. A lively cultural experience is put-on to delight and amuse.

Let’s just say our structing pheasant inspired this thought. From birdsmith to wordsmith.

[1] https://www.rspb.org.uk/birds-and-wildlife/pheasant

[2] https://www.learnarhyme.com/tongue-twisters/pheasant-plucker

Spring

References to meteorological spring are all well and fine. I accept that those with the expert knowledge and data say that the 1st March[1] marked the transition into spring. For me that’s too early. Jumping the gun a bit.

The occurrence of astronomical spring makes more sense to me. That puts the transition on 20th March. So, a couple more weeks of tapering winter to go. I never like counting on spring before my birthday. I may have said this before, I’ve watched the Cheltenham Gold Cup[2] in a snow shower. That race is on the 15th March this year.

Nature is being the wake-up phases. Those buds that can be seen everywhere there hedges and bushes are a good indicator. Bulbs are well advanced this year. The snowdrops came and went with great speed.

This morning a frosty mist hung over the river. Slowly the sun’s rays burn-off this obscuring icy fog. The vail is lifted. The flood is receding after a couple of days of nothing more than light showers. Gradually the wetland grass is adjusting to a new phase of growth.

Riverbank trees are bare. The stretch up through the mist like a charcoal painting. Shades of grey gradually give way to colour as the dawn takes hold. A cloudless sky frames the outline with a pure morning blue. Backlight as I’m looking North.

Nothing but a troop of stubborn fat geese waddle around at the edge of the slivery water. The mirror like water is their playground. Preening and feeding the empire of Canadian geese numbers more than ten. Their peaceful contentment contrasts with the commuter traffic on the Oxford Road.

All the signs are of a sunny morning further hastening the approach of natures spring.

[1] https://www.metoffice.gov.uk/weather/learn-about/weather/seasons/spring/when-does-spring-start

[2] https://www.thejockeyclub.co.uk/cheltenham/events-tickets/the-festival/gold-cup-day/

March

The North wind doth blow and we shall have snow[1]. Well, today on the first day of March and it’s more of a gusty North Westerly wind and heavy rain. The snow maybe falling on high ground in the North of England but here in the South the temperature remains mild. Although, the line on the thermometer is slowly descending.

The flood in the small field out back waxes and wanes but is far from drying up. In fact, the extent of the water is greater now than it has been in a while. A lone Swan rests close to the riverbank. Not fussed by the driving rain. That makes me curious, where is its mate? On previous occasions, we have seen a pair of Swans cruising up and down the river Lambourn.

March comes in like a Lion[2]. That’s as true as it ever was of our weather, but will the next part of the saying happen as the month rolls on? Will March leave like a lamb? Winter may still have a sting in its tale. A misty wet March is in prospect.

March is always a month of transition. It certainly is for me. Having a birthday in the middle of the month is quite a good time to clock up another year. I never count winter as being behind us until I’ve put a candle on a cake. There’s an idea for a folksy modern saying.

There one more snowy white bird prancing around at the waters edge this morning. He or she is rather elegant small bird. It’s interesting to note that this bird was first recorded as breeding in Berkshire in 2007. Our visiting Egret[3] is dipping into the grass surveying the flood water with confidence.

Fishing is not just the exclusive rights of the Egret. There’s a slim tall Heron[1] who looks very regal. My guess is that the flood water has created small pools within which some small fish have become trapped. That’s a nice easy meal for a patient Heron. With spindly legs standing in the wet grassland any small fish would not see their fate coming.

As the sun has come up both Swan and Egret have moved on. The flood has been left to the ducks and geese. I don’t mention the Crows, Magpies and Pigeons. Although I just have. The wildlife seen from my window doesn’t mind gusty, wet, and windy anything like as much as I do.

[1] https://www.rspb.org.uk/birds-and-wildlife/grey-heron

[1] https://songsofchildhood.wordpress.com/2011/10/31/the-north-wind-doth-blow/

[2] https://www.theparisreview.org/blog/2015/03/02/folk-wisdom/

[3] https://www.wildlifetrusts.org/wildlife-explorer/birds/herons-egrets-spoonbill-and-crane/little-egret

Wild

Looked out this morning and there was a couple of geese to add to my list of sightings. The flooded field out the back attracts numerous birds and wildlife. Wet grassland is just right for them to be happy. Egyptian geese[1]. A pair was plodding around. Given their different colouration, I assume they were male and female. One was slightly larger than the other. These two steered well clear of the gaggle of grazing Canadian geese. As geese go these are about twice the size of the Egyptians.

Now there are distinct advantages in having webbed feet. Soggy ground and shallow waters are just right for the duck and goose community. As the light rain returns a couple of pairs of Mallards[2] takeover the riverbank. Swimming around each other and dipping and diving as they go. There’s an abundance of food so I expect to see many more waterfowl in coming days.

It rained overnight so there’s no signs that the flood water as receded this morning. There are ripples on the surface of the flood water as the wind is quite strong and gusty. That has a dying effect. So, the waters may easily follow natures calendar and return to the riverbed in the coming weeks. The trees are still winter bare. Up close they look different with buds already to go. March will be a month of change. The colours will start to change.

I say these things, but I remember standing in the snow on my March birthday. Winter’s being mild this year. It can still have a sting in its tale if it wants to upset us all. A sudden plunge into ice can still reset the calendar. Snowdrops have almost been and gone. Daffodils are showing at their best. The local hedgerows are full of Blackthorn blooms. That’s early.  

I don’t think I’m confusing the Blackthorn[3] and Hawthorn. The Hawthorn has often been considered a symbol of rebirth. That’s associated with the month of May and Springtime. One comes out before the other and seeing so many white flowers in late-February they must be Blackthorn. Even so, flowering now is a marked indicator that the seasons are changing. Climate change?

The blossom of the two hedgerow thorns is similar in shape and size. When they get buffeted by the wind the ground can get covered by a carpet of bright white petals. The distinction is that the Blackthorn has dark round black berries in the autumn. In fact, I’d refer to the whole thorn bush by the name of the berries, namely Sloes. Birds like them but I’d not recommend tasting them given their sharp bitter nature. The Sloe is better known for what it can become. That’s as English as the hedgerows. Sloe Gin[1] has been round for hundreds of years. It’s well worth a go.

[1] https://www.plymouthgin.com/en/product/plymouth-sloe-gin/

[1] https://www.rspb.org.uk/birds-and-wildlife/egyptian-goose

[2] https://www.rspb.org.uk/birds-and-wildlife/mallard

[3] https://www.woodlandtrust.org.uk/trees-woods-and-wildlife/british-trees/a-z-of-british-trees/blackthorn/

The River

What a contrast. From plus 12 earlier in the week to minus 2. There’s a sheet of white frost covering the fields this morning. The flood water shimmers in the morning sun. Not cold enough to ice over as the water tries to escape back to the river.

I get woken-up to the sound of the 18 or so Canadian Geese who make the boggy grassland next to the River Lambourn[1] their feeding ground. I can understand how they get so big as they graze from dawn to dusk. Their take-off from the water is a long one as they flap furiously to get their great mass airborne. It’s quite a sight as they fly in formation.

These formidable geese are not alone. A few Mallards stray into their territory. For the most part they all seem to get along fine. Plenty of food for everyone. Little grass islands form where the water swirls around. I named one of them duck island.

The geology here is Valley Gravel according to the council’s local plan. I’m not sure what that means but I guess the riverbank will drain fast when the flood water abates. Standing on the ancient bridge on the Oxford Road, I can see that the river Lambourn is shallow and fast running.

I say ancient bridge given the Priory on the other side of the river. The north side. That bridge site certainly dates to the 16th Century. The road must have a long history as it leaves Newbury town and enters the village and environs of the castle of Donnington[2].

I’m imagining the role the area played in the 17th Century. The site of the English Civil War battle, the Second Battle of Newbury. The castle was held by Royalists. It was under siege from the Roundheads camped on this side of the river. The south side.

From what I’ve read so far, the siege was a long one. When it was broken, the defending forces were allowed to escape in honour of the brave fight that they had put up. For whatever reason, in 1646, Parliament voted to demolish the canon damaged castle. Today, only the grounds and gatehouse of the castle remains standing.

It’s nice to be able to look out of my kitchen window and see on the hill such a significant part of English history. The ruin sits on the horizon looking north. Often both the rising and setting sun light it up.

[1] https://www.kennetcatchment.org/catchment/lambourn/

[2] https://www.english-heritage.org.uk/visit/places/donnington-castle/

Solstice

At last. The days will start to get longer. Dark mornings and dark evenings of wintertime, little by little start to recede. This is the Northern Hemisphere, and the Sun is low in the sky. Our winter solstice[1] takes place at a point when the Sun’s sweep across the sky is at its minimum. The celebratory time we have during this festive season tries to lift our spirits during these dark days.

It’s strange that we can attribute this to a tilt. The Earth’s tilt of 23.4 degrees on its axis generates the swings from summer to winter. On its stroll around the Sun, that marks a year, the Earth transforms. I wonder how different we would be if that tilt disappeared. Certainly, the cycle of life up at our latitude would be markedly different.

What would my Hellebore[2] do? Winter rose. I have a large white one that, even in damp ground has survived from last year. Shaded, it looks healthy as it’s putting out new growth. Its green leaves are more like light card than paper. Robust and deep green. It’s a cheery sight in amongst the gloom.

Mechanics, explained by astronomers, tell of the logic of the seasons. But it’s our emotional response that is most evident in the way we live. Naturally, that wasn’t always so. If we step back to the time of Stonehenge, then the knowledge of the cycle of summer and winter was a life and death matter. Now, with industrialise agriculture and life in centrally heated homes the seasons are most linked to our mood. Our habits and temperament.

The solstice is described as astronomical and cultural. 23.4-degrees shapes our society, born of generations of inheritance. The effect of time has piled high on the shape and form of what we take for granted. Look at a Christmas card scene. A red robin stands proud on top of a red-letter box covered in snow with holly and ivy in the background.

No snow this year. Not in Southern England. In fact, the solstice got to double figures. The temperature is mild. That little red robin isn’t going to be struggling to find food this year. Plenty of wind and rain. Rivers high to the point of flood.

Now, our Sun is lowest in the sky. Our spirts must not be. A New Year is just around the corner. Wishing everyone a wonderful time during this festive season.

[1] https://www.rmg.co.uk/stories/topics/when-winter-solstice-shortest-day

[2] https://www.rhs.org.uk/plants/hellebore