Foxes and Hedgehogs

Last night I watched the foxes feed again, but despite sitting motionless in the dark, eyes glued to binoculars, the action was very slow and only one fox turned up. However, on the hedgehog front, it was most exciting as for the first time in a very long time (a few years) we had three hedgehogs here at once. Each was enormous. Two were dark chocolate brown, and the third, who is an infrequent visitor, is so light he almost appears white.

The fox who joined them was very bold. He fed with them and when he had cleared the lawn, he approached each hedgehog, one at a time, and took the food they were eating right out of their mouths. Such audacity! He did it with body low to the ground, head on one side flat against the grass, and with lips turned back. Slowly and gently he stole the food from their mouths.

Hawk Kills Dove

I walked into the kitchen and chanced to glance out of the west-facing window, not quite idly because I always look to see the ducks in the pond or the day-to-day birds feeding by the seat where I put their food. I hope to see a warbler, garden or willow variety, both sorts are here, gladly count another wren, or idly stand and watch the tits flying in and out of the nesting box, but glancing today, I had a sudden intake of breath because there, standing with strong legs far apart, was a sparrowhawk. It stood amid a sea of feathers surrounding “my” collared dove, which, caught in the hawk’s death grip, was wildly thrashing about, but the amount of loose feathers and the patch of pillar-box red on its lower back was testament to its imminent demise.

I was about to throw open the window and halt this violence when I caught myself. What if I interfere with nature? Play God? My collared dove will probably still die. The sparrowhawk will just eat a different bird. So I stayed my hand, and even when the dying dove turned its head and looked straight at me, I did nothing. I let nature take its unsentimental course. I closed my eyes and willed it to die quickly.
It was not to be. Beautiful was the bird of prey and terrible was the spectacle that followed. For a full ten minutes or more the dove struggled before it died. It took the sparrowhawk another forty minutes before he’s eaten his fill.

I wanted to bury the remains, but again thought it kinder to leave them for the fox would gratefully chew on the bones. The feathers were already being gentled across the garden by the softly blowing breeze, and being collected by smaller birds for their nests. The often savage chain of life continues.

Kestrel Captures During Flight

This morning while I was inhaling my nebulized antibiotics, I had a few heart-stopping seconds. I saw the kestrel who lives in the old oak tree in the field at the far end of the garden. He was flying over the garden when suddenly he dived into the big golden conifer, about two feet from the top, flushed a bird out – a starling, I think – and chasing it in flight up the garden. It all happened so quickly, I was not sure I had really seen it.

The poor starling didn’t have much chance. Although it tried evasive maneuvers, the kestrel was right on its tail the whole time. As the starling flew over the arch at the front of the garden the kestrel seemed to cover it with his body, flying directly above the starling. Then the kestrel dropped slightly and still in fast flight captured the starling in its talons, and made for the nearest tree where it proceeded to pluck its prey.

I have often watched the kestrel flying over the garden and seen him in apparent motion swoop and take a bird from the lawn, but to see this capture in flight was something new and remarkable.

A Spider Sheds His Skin

Today I watched one of nature’s miracles. It happened as I was hanging out the washing. I suddenly noticed a black spider drop down and hang from one of the spurs just an inch or so from the central pole of my rotary washing line. He hung there for some minutes, sometimes still, sometimes swinging to and fro, and at other times he whirled in an anticlockwise motion like a dervish spinning around and around until I thought something must be wrong with him, so I fetched a blade of grass and touched his legs, but he took no notice. I later came to regret my well intentioned interference when I understood what I was witnessing.

Hi odd behavior continued and I observed what appeared to be a scab forming on his back, and it was this that gave me my first clue. As I watched, large soft-looking new palps appeared, and I looked at the shriveled remnants of his old ones. I wondered at all this new growth contained within the old skin. I imagined how uncomfortable he must have been.

He still continued, as before, intermittently swaying and whirling. As he turned I noticed his legs were now positioned arch-like and a thin shiny wet line appeared along his thorax. His legs remained in this position, and by now my old legs were aching from standing so still for so long. The sun was hot on my back and arms, but I was unable to remove my cardigan because of a skin condition I have that makes me light sensitive. Faced with a choice between my comfort and my fascination, I have to say the latter won.

Now there was a definite change: what looked like threads were appearing where the thorax looked shiny at the sides. Still he hung and whirled around with his legs in an arch shape. Slowly but slowly, his new legs appeared from beneath the old. Being a spider, he was not metamorphosing as I have watched dragonfly larvae do at the pond many times, he was simply shedding his skin, albeit painfully slowly.

His legs were almost free now and he kept flexing his old skin, trying to break free from it. It was strange to see the old legs flexing when I knew they were all but empty. He now managed to break his legs free, but to my amazement, made no effort to leave. Instead he curled up, legs drawn into his body as much as possible and hung swaying in the sunshine and breeze. Indeed his length of silken thread allowed him quite long sway, and as I leaned in for a closer look the breeze blew him across and he hit me in the face! But no harm done.

Still transfixed, I stood there for long minutes, just watching. I think he was just tired and resting to regain his strength, and perhaps allowing his new body to dry out. I wished I had a video camera so I could film and re-watch the whole process at my leisure.

At last, he started stretching out his legs and whirling again. I realized perhaps it was his spinneret was not free yet. And so it was, he reached his back legs down his abdomen and worked on that part of himself. In a trice it was over – he was totally free of his old skin and me watching. He climbed above his old skin and hung in the sunshine, and crawled away.

I carefully collected his old skin to add to my personal natural history museum. The entire process had taken more than half an hour.

A Drive in November

Today we had to go to an RSPCA home between Weathersfield and Sible Hedingham. It was a bright, autumn afternoon and everywhere we looked we saw pheasants, pheasants in fields, ditches and road edges.

One pheasant winged its way across in front of the car not two feet from the windscreen, long tail feathers streaming out behind and absurdly small wings outstretched.

We watched another beautifully and brightly coloured male in a prettily wooded turning, by a bend in the road guarding his harem of five plain, dull-brown females.
Partridges were also prolific hopping over hedges, disappearing into hedge bottoms, hiding in ditches and running along road edges.

Passing a heron motionless on the roadside, he turned his head to watch us, I felt I could have stroked his back as we passed, so close were we – and he, totally unfazed, just stood and stared.

Leaves
Tugged and blown
Scurrying
Across the windswept road
Like little brown mice
Gold autumn hedges and gold sun-reflected cloud edges
Sun and smatterings of rain pattering against the windscreen
Once hail and briefly snow patterned our visions

We drive down puddled, pot-holed, leaf-covered one-car roads with grassy center track and trees tickling the windows on either side, suddenly the trees and hedges ended. In a field just ahead with his big, white-patched ears was a hare creeping and nibbling, we pulled into the field edge and watched him, he continued feeding heedless of our watchful nosiness.

We crossed fords and crept along flooded roads, fascinated by waterlogged fields, frequented by opportunistic ducks.

In a hollow where two fields met we saw a deep flood – more like a lake, two herons stood sentinel at the edge and a little way up the incline were a family of swans, two adults and two brown almost-grown immature, while tucked in the centre of the swan family was a lone black, beige and white canada goose.

Time was marching on, and we could now see the most wonderful skies gold edged, pink fluffy clouds opposite gold and turquoise sunsets. We watched sheep grazing on green hills rising up from even greener fields, cows watched us with their soft brown eyes, their heads often lowered huddled together for warmth under the sheltering trees.

We laughed at pheasant roadrunners rushing by, stepping high, wondered at a lone rabbit – a rare sight, where were the others?

Saw many kestrel hovering overhead, wings outstretched, hanging in the air by an invisible thread that wasn’t even there.

We drove on through the afternoon and into the fading light, before arriving home we bought produce at garden gates: cabbage, carrots, swede, sprouts and wallflower plants to remind us next spring of this memorable afternoon. All the produce was wonderfully fresh and at bargain prices – but the real joy was in the nature and beauty of the English countryside.

We passed a field black with rooks while from the ever-darkening sky hundreds more were flying in from every angle.

The sky had again changed and as the road twisted and turned we faced enormous deep pink, turning red cloud mountains, between sightings of the western horizon which was on fire.

Drove down narrow steeply-sided roads bounded by ages old oak trees.

Saw kestrels hovering overhead,
A lone rabbit,
Herons, swans, a canada goose,
Partidges,
A hare,
Floods and ducks,
Smatterings of rain,
Patterings of hail,
Patternings of snow,
Red, yellow, orange, brown and gold leaves,
This is autumn in the Colne Valley on the Essex/Suffolk border in England.

Chilly November

Today is bright and sunny although it’s cold outside, it doesn’t have yesterday’s biting wind which coupled with no sun, made yesterday weather-wise a very unpleasant day, when Mike picked up Rick at 3:20pm the temperature gauge outside Tesco showed 5 degrees.

The trees are almost bare now, but the lawn is dressed very prettily in reds, yellows, browns, oranges and golds – and the blackbirds are very busy overturning the lawn’s leafy covering looking for fat worms and insects.

There are still many beautiful flowers out in the garden: a dark black/red clematis and a beautiful pale pink one with a deep pink stripe down the center of each petal, pink white and maroon chrysanthemums, sweetly scented clusters of mid-pink viburnum bodnantense and pink white and red roses, of course there are still many bushes laden with brilliant shiny berries red orange and yellow and the malus tree branches are heavily weighted with fruit, the berries and the malus fruit will keep the birds fed for a while.

Here and there, the last leaves dance on the bare branches twirling and spinning merrily, soon a southern gust of wind will catch them unawares and they too will be part of the lawn’s rich carpet.

Yesterday, returning home from the hospital we turned our back on the motorway and instead traveled home the ‘old way’. The roads were narrower, slower, prettier, and often tree-lined. We passed many parks and commons with lakes full of wild fowl and numerous gardens some already tidied and put to bed for the winter, others like ours, rather wild and unkempt, but havens for wildlife with birds in them from morning to night.

Best of all we journeyed through High Beach, a well-known, naturally beautiful area, acres and acres of beech trees most of the leaves had fallen; the roads were narrow with no footpaths. And the crisp autumn leaves littered the roadside and swept away into an orange carpet on the forest floor. It was breathtakingly beautiful, the sun’s rays shining through the bare branches gave the leafy carpet a red glow. (High Beach is part of Epping Forest, an ancient forest where Queen Elizabeth I (154x-1603) used to hunt for boar and venison, a cruel and outmoded sport now thankfully becoming more and more frowned upon. Queen Elizabeth I’s hunting lodge is still standing in Epping Forest.)

Haiku

Conkers
Autumn fruits round brown
From horse chestnut tree dropped down
Child collectibles

Goats
Goats sure-footed, furred
Produce much earth-tasting milk
Eat most anything

Morning
Frost, crisp underfoot
Crunchy, crackling autumn leaves
Trees sparkling in sun

Polluters
Cars noisy, rushing
Polluting and destroying
Ferrying people

Spring in England

Spring in England is wonderful; lush, green and sweet smelling, the sweetness varies according to where you are: countryside, riverbank or an English country garden. In springtime each has its own particular charm. No one is better than another, just different and all most enjoyable.

Our garden is no exception. Come out of our front door and the heady sweet scent of hyacinth fills the air and surrounds the senses. Come in the gate and sweet delicate fragrance of violets tickles one’s “nosebuds” and causes one to sniff appreciatively, while turning this way and that, bending and stretching until the source is discovered. How could such a beautiful, delicate, lingering perfume come from such a tiny flower as the violet? But is does.

There are hundreds of bright, golden yellow daffodils and tens of narcissi of varying shapes, colours and sizes. Spanish and English bluebells are beginning to carpet large areas in blue, and the evergreen viburnum has forsaken its pink buds and burst into bloom, overcoating its dark green leaves with white and making a beautiful show along half the boundary of the garden. The deciduous viburnum Carlesci is even more showy and smells wonderful as does the deep pink viburnum Bodnatense, which produces small clusters of powerfully scented flowers from October to April.

The forsythia is 10 feet tall and 7 feet wide – a bright yellow spectacle, no leaves, just bare stems, but with flowers so dense no wood can be seen.

The magic snowdrops are finished, also the aconites, but there is so much else taking their place that it isn’t sad.

The magnolia stellata is in full bloom now and is breathtakingly beautiful – my favorite part of the day to enjoy it is dusk, because as the light fades and everything else is lost to the darkness and shadows so the magnolia stellata shines out with a pure, white luminosity.

The long-tailed tits, which all winter have visited the garden in flocks, are now reduced to a single pair. They are, as always, nesting in the front hedge, fairly high up and hopefully out of the reach of passing hands. One sad year, no sooner had they finished building their nest than some thoughtless passerby attempted to steal their beautiful ball of softness interwoven with countless cobwebs. This person destroyed the nest and succeeded only in taking three-quarters of it. I felt so upset for the tits. They had worked so hard and I was looking forward to the young taking their first flight. Where, or if, they built a replacement I don’t know, but it certainly wasn’t in my hedge. It is amusing to note that apart from the cobwebs and other delicate, natural fripperies, they also use man-made articles. Each spring I make sure there is a tennis ball in the centre of the lawn, the long-tailed tits make repeated trips, with one on a nearby branch to keep watch, while the other delicately balanced on the tennis ball, slowly and painstakingly collecting the fluffy coating. When they have laid bare the smooth underneath, I turn the ball and they continue until it is a smooth sphere.

The greenfinches have been working very hard collecting fur I combed from our dog and hung on the honeysuckle to help them with their nest building.

Both the crows and the magpies have been breaking twigs from high up in the birch tree. The crows drive the magpies away, but as soon as the crows turn their backs the magpies return. The starlings have been collecting beakfuls of dried plant material, while the blackbirds have been carrying all manner of things, even small pieces of paper, silver foil, and pieces of polythene, and not least of all, beakfuls of mud from the pond.

March Mornings

Precious wonderful mornings – mornings filled to overflowing with the birds’ joyful, exultant song of life. Mornings when one wonders how the air can be so filled, with so much music it seems to overflow from every tree branch and bush twig – wonderful, wonderful March mornings overflowing with birdsong.