I awoke this morning to find there were no lawns, no paths, no dips or hollows, the food for the fox was no more than a rounded mound and Mike’s tracks from the door across to the fox’s “table” were no more. All was a wide, white expanse. Snow covered every bush and picked out each stick untidily topping the wood pile. The branches of the fir trees were heavy white masses. On the birch tree each branch was painted white and the delicate tracery of birch twigs were snow covered.
Perhaps of all the trees in the garden, I love the birch tree the best. It is beautiful in every season: in spring with tiny, fresh green shoots, in summer blowing prettily in the wind and wearing a new coat of both green leaves and dainty catkins, in autumn alive and golden and so beautiful with the sun shining on it, and a blue expanse of sky behind, or on any dark night with a bright moon lighting it, or on a freezing cold winter morning with a bright sun and hoar frost covering.
Yes, the birch tree that gives nurture to so many insects and birds and so much joy to my grandson when he climbs it. He climbs as near to the top as the fragile upper branches allow, so he can see across the fields and rivers from our village and beyond to the houses and railway tracks of the nearby town and further even to the park.
It is December now, but in February I shall stand by the birch tree with my arms encircling its trunk and my face against its roughness and I shall almost believe I can feel the sap rising, and I come away feeling refreshed and alive, calm and peaceful, growing stronger from the mighty birch’s strength.
This morning I gazed at the birch tree with its myriad small branches hanging, and the whole a delicate filigree tracing against the backdrop of the bluest sky and all the while bathed in the brightest sunshine.
Tonight is a very bright night because of the moonlight reflected by the snow. I see the birch tree again looking splendid – a filigree tracery of snow covered branches and twigs.
Overnight, the temperature is expected to drop to minus 5C and tomorrow is forecast bright and sunny. I shall endeavour to rise early enough to catch its icy beauty with my camera, and maybe I shall be lucky enough to take a picture good enough to frame, and hang on the wall. I shall take photographs all up and down the lane.
Thursday 1 December 1994
Thursday 1 September 1994
September in the Garden
Winter approaches our part of the world. The morning air is damp and chill, autumn has suddenly arrived in all her splendour. The ripening apples are reflected in the reds, yellows and oranges of their loosening leaves. The roadsides are breathtaking and eye-catching in their beauty: the bright red of berries and leaves sit side by side with all other autumn colors and every imaginable shade of green. England is truly beautiful.
This week, in the garden, I have seen the expected garden birds, but also some less frequent visitors: a flycatcher, a jay, warblers, many wrens and robins already disputing their winter territories. The most fascinating bird has been the magpie. Some time ago I watched as one fed from the bird table and when satiated continued to collect bread in huge beakfuls and hide it in the gutters of a neighbour’s outbuilding. Recently, I watched as it collected food and hid it in the cracks of paving stones and under rocks, pushing and poking each piece until it was out of sight. Another morning, I watched as it buried bread in the lawn covering it with leaves, twigs and beakfuls of grass plucked from nearby. Magpies are such resourceful birds, a magpie will quickly clear a pile of food put out for the smaller birds, by hiding it away for his own needs later.
This week, in the garden, I have seen the expected garden birds, but also some less frequent visitors: a flycatcher, a jay, warblers, many wrens and robins already disputing their winter territories. The most fascinating bird has been the magpie. Some time ago I watched as one fed from the bird table and when satiated continued to collect bread in huge beakfuls and hide it in the gutters of a neighbour’s outbuilding. Recently, I watched as it collected food and hid it in the cracks of paving stones and under rocks, pushing and poking each piece until it was out of sight. Another morning, I watched as it buried bread in the lawn covering it with leaves, twigs and beakfuls of grass plucked from nearby. Magpies are such resourceful birds, a magpie will quickly clear a pile of food put out for the smaller birds, by hiding it away for his own needs later.
Monday 21 February 1994
February in the Garden
The past few weeks we have been delighted by a siskin that joins the other birds feeding here, he is such a pretty little fellow. In Victorian times, they were caged and kept as pets, thank goodness we are more enlightened about such things now.
The moorhen spends a great deal of each day here, perching on the woodpile or up in a tree or bush, swimming on the larger pond or just wandering around and about the lawns. He eats just about anything and tucks in with great relish. The other birds take no notice of him and he ignores them. The heavy snowfall of a few days ago, which so delighted us humans, and caused us to head for the nearest hill, sleds and toboggans in tow, was not such a delight for the poor birds. So our first duty was to fill all the bathing and drinking containers around the garden with fresh water, knock the lumps of ice out of them, sweep and clear the lawned areas, and then put out extra food for our feathered friends, who then duly came to feast. Redwings and fieldfares had returned to the malus tree to fill up on the many red fruits still hanging there. I was pleased to see the redwings joining the other birds on the back lawn and feed with them. The snow also brought many extra thrushes to the garden. I noticed that the sheltered spot by our front door, where the ducks used to sleep last year, had been used by a thrush eating snails. The thrush had been using an old metal boot remover as an anvil. Robins have started their nest in the bank at the back. Last night I spent ten minutes outside after dark listening to a tawny owl calling.
The moorhen spends a great deal of each day here, perching on the woodpile or up in a tree or bush, swimming on the larger pond or just wandering around and about the lawns. He eats just about anything and tucks in with great relish. The other birds take no notice of him and he ignores them. The heavy snowfall of a few days ago, which so delighted us humans, and caused us to head for the nearest hill, sleds and toboggans in tow, was not such a delight for the poor birds. So our first duty was to fill all the bathing and drinking containers around the garden with fresh water, knock the lumps of ice out of them, sweep and clear the lawned areas, and then put out extra food for our feathered friends, who then duly came to feast. Redwings and fieldfares had returned to the malus tree to fill up on the many red fruits still hanging there. I was pleased to see the redwings joining the other birds on the back lawn and feed with them. The snow also brought many extra thrushes to the garden. I noticed that the sheltered spot by our front door, where the ducks used to sleep last year, had been used by a thrush eating snails. The thrush had been using an old metal boot remover as an anvil. Robins have started their nest in the bank at the back. Last night I spent ten minutes outside after dark listening to a tawny owl calling.
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