The first month of the year. A month of hope and new beginnings, a time to reflect, a time to watch for pretty nodding snowdrops. A cold month with biting winds and unhurried snowfalls, hitting the relatively warm earth and melting almost immediately.
Cold windless days, sun-filled, when the warmth through the window betrays the cold air that will quickly chill you, should you venture out to enjoy the sunshine.
Mornings of white frost rhyming the branches. Moorhen swimming in the pond – when it isn’t frozen – then scurrying across the lawn to take shelter under the magnolia, bright white under tails flashing as they hurry along. This year we have seven moorhens; the most we have ever had. The squirrel is a regular visitor, coming daily – they definitely do not hibernate as some people think. He is here even on very cold days, wet or dry. Sadly, we are now down to one; the other we found outside on the road, run over. I picked it up and was surprised at how heavy this tiny creature was. I could have buried it, perhaps I should have. I’m sure some people would think so. Instead I put it out for the fox, the same as we have for other road kills like rabbits or pheasants. Funny how one changes with the years. There was a time when I would have buried it to nourish the plants, but somehow, now it seems better to nourish fauna than flora.
The fox gladly seizes anything we leave on the lawn for him from cheese sandwiches and road killed animals to chicken carcasses after 3 days of boiling to make chicken soup.
One afternoon last week, Rick spotted a very small hedgehog making his way across the lawn from under a bush, we fed him snippets of cheese until his tiny tummy could take no more, and turning he made his way quickly back across the lawn and disappeared under the very same bush he had emerged from half an hour before.
Robins have been very plentiful this winter. We have had as many as eight at a time outside the kitchen window and never less than three at any time outside the living room window. Now suddenly blackbirds and thrushes are singing new songs and birds are pairing off. Where before we had seen so many in a group, now they are in pairs, always feeding together or perched near each other.
We continue to feed the foxes at night. Watching them is pure joy. This morning, however, we were in the lounge when we noticed one of them walking along the grassy border on the other side of the garden. Then he appeared from behind the greenhouse and sat at the corner of the lawn. We watched transfixed until this beautiful creature stood up and slowly made his way down to the end of the garden, retracing his steps. All day we were haunted by the fox’s unusual behavior – it was obviously aware of us watching through the window with our dogs. Why did he come?
Last night we put food out as usual, but it was still there at 5:20am untouched. At 6:30am the postman has arrived, but the fox has not. Now 7:15am: still no fox, but the first bird of the morning is here: turdus musicus, the song thrush. 7:23am now and a robin and a blackbird are eating the fox food. Even as I watch this sight I can hear the alarm calls of birds all around and these two flee. The fox is here, but he seems to have more on his mind than food. He stops briefly by the food and sniffs it, much to the noisy indignation of the dogs, who make up for their silent tolerance of last evening with insistent barking , so incensed are they by the fox’s broad daylight intrusion.
The pond is ice-covered and the bird baths solid. There are vestiges of snow still laying in places on the back lawn, and a robin pipes its cheery song to delight me. As soon as I am dressed I must fill up the bird baths with fresh water and break the ice on the pond. It is a cold grey-looking morning and the robin is the only bird to have cheerfully sung to welcome the day. A beautiful melody. A dunnock pecks at the edges of the fox food while a blackbird and a pair of robins stand sentinel. Around 7:45am the first great tit arrived, followed a couple of minutes later by the first blue tit.
I watched the blackbirds, thrushes and robins squabbling over the food and kept my eye on what appeared to be a thrush in the shrubs at the end of the garden. The light was not yet good enough to see it clearly, but I guessed it was a thrush from its size and shape. How nonplussed I was a minute later to observe white on its upper tail and lower back area as its wings parted to take flight. Perhaps if I had been using binoculars I would have been able to identify it.
Imagine my joy less than a minute later when on glancing across at the far back lawn I saw fieldfares and watched while they flew up into the malus tree, now almost bereft of fruit. Many gulls, terns and three cormorants flying over. It’s now 8:05am and a pair of magpies and a female chaffinch have joined the other birds feeding on the lawn. A pair of herons have just lazily circled over the garden, one of them noisily quarking as it landed by the river in the meadow beyond the paddock. The poor song thrush is still trying to eat, and it is little wonder they are still on the decline with sparrowhawks after them and bullying blackbirds preventing them from feeding. The magpie pair are now sat high in a tree unceasingly chattering. They are a strikingly handsome bird, but for all their size and seeming swagger, a lot of which is bravado, they are exceedingly timid of man. 8:15am and a song thrush has just “dive-bombed” the food and made off with a piece without stopping, and now is chased by a magpie. I have never before witnessed this “dive-bombing” approach to feeding by a song thrush. It is a foreign behavior to me; they usually creep up to their food, hanging about on the outer edges nervously while being harried by blackbirds, but this one was different. He must have been very hungry to adopt such unusual tactics.
It is now 8:23am and the squirrel has arrived. He checks out the fox food and moves on to hang upside down on the peanut holder in the big old apple tree, and takes his fill.
Monday, 1 January 1996
Monday, 23 January 1995
Winter Floods and Signs of Spring
A damp grey day. The rain is gentling down in a fine mist with the result that from the edge of the bird table, bird bath, and each leaf and twig hangs suspended in glistening brightness a raindrop making today’s grey world shyly pretty.
Spring really does feel just around the corner; bright yellow aconites are clustered around the old upright apple tree and under other trees and bushes are snowdrops, brightly white and delicately dancing in the slightest breeze. The hellebores are also opening in so many colours and shades: one the darkest green with a maroon edge through to green with cream and white to every shade of pink imaginable. Daffodils are in bud, bluebells are pushing their rich green leaves up through the leaf-littered earth and the clematis are covered in soft fresh green shoots.
I am watching the ponds carefully now for the first sign of frogs gathering in the early evening dusk and listening for the urgent croaking of the males. Will we be especially lucky this year, I wonder, and for the first time ever have baby newts?
The blue tits and robins are already nesting, and the other birds will soon follow suit.
The fox comes nightly on his rounds and I try to leave him a special tidbit to encourage him to keep calling – perhaps an egg or a cheese sandwich or some such treat. Not just to help him on hungry nights, but because I love to watch him, if I’m lucky enough to look outside at the right time. Also foxes like to eat rats and as we live near a river he is welcome to any that may stray this way when the river floods! Although truth be told, he normally dines on our feathered friends who live on the river and lake opposite.
Our lane has been flooded for most of the last week and so as I look out of the back window I imagine we live by the sea. The fields are flooded and the wind whipping across the water causes a wave action which is very pleasing to watch. The fields at the back have always been a perfect delight, but never more so than this year – most nights the sunset over them is breathtakingly beautiful even when it is in quiet golds, silvers and turquoises. Although the fields are flooded now and attracting all manner of birds, including a flock of Canada geese and five beautiful swans, the fields were special before the flood came for another reason: the farmer put sheep there to graze every morning and I could look out on an idyllic flock of sheep. The sheep are gone now, just as well considering the flood, but they are not forgotten, and hopefully will be back again one day.
The blackbirds, and there are many of them about today, are singing a new song in the past few days. It is their springtime and the song is so joyful and happy, it makes one glad to be alive.
Spring really does feel just around the corner; bright yellow aconites are clustered around the old upright apple tree and under other trees and bushes are snowdrops, brightly white and delicately dancing in the slightest breeze. The hellebores are also opening in so many colours and shades: one the darkest green with a maroon edge through to green with cream and white to every shade of pink imaginable. Daffodils are in bud, bluebells are pushing their rich green leaves up through the leaf-littered earth and the clematis are covered in soft fresh green shoots.
I am watching the ponds carefully now for the first sign of frogs gathering in the early evening dusk and listening for the urgent croaking of the males. Will we be especially lucky this year, I wonder, and for the first time ever have baby newts?
The blue tits and robins are already nesting, and the other birds will soon follow suit.
The fox comes nightly on his rounds and I try to leave him a special tidbit to encourage him to keep calling – perhaps an egg or a cheese sandwich or some such treat. Not just to help him on hungry nights, but because I love to watch him, if I’m lucky enough to look outside at the right time. Also foxes like to eat rats and as we live near a river he is welcome to any that may stray this way when the river floods! Although truth be told, he normally dines on our feathered friends who live on the river and lake opposite.
Our lane has been flooded for most of the last week and so as I look out of the back window I imagine we live by the sea. The fields are flooded and the wind whipping across the water causes a wave action which is very pleasing to watch. The fields at the back have always been a perfect delight, but never more so than this year – most nights the sunset over them is breathtakingly beautiful even when it is in quiet golds, silvers and turquoises. Although the fields are flooded now and attracting all manner of birds, including a flock of Canada geese and five beautiful swans, the fields were special before the flood came for another reason: the farmer put sheep there to graze every morning and I could look out on an idyllic flock of sheep. The sheep are gone now, just as well considering the flood, but they are not forgotten, and hopefully will be back again one day.
The blackbirds, and there are many of them about today, are singing a new song in the past few days. It is their springtime and the song is so joyful and happy, it makes one glad to be alive.
Thursday, 1 December 1994
The Birch Tree
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.
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 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.
Tuesday, 1 June 1993
Honeysuckle
During early summer when the nights are still or the wind is in the right direction, our senses are assailed by the wonderful perfume from the honeysuckle that clambers over the long since dead pear tree. Today I pruned the honeysuckle back hard and with a modicum of care, because although there are very few honeysuckle blooms left, the tree is now covered by long hanging chains of passion flowers, and although they don’t have the glorious perfume of the honeysuckle they are so startling to look at and another bonus is that the bees and other insects love them.
Friday, 1 January 1993
New Year’s Day
The start of another year, a chance to start another diary, it is a long time since I kept one, but since this is also to hold my nature notes I expect it to be both an easy and delightful task.
The garden here grows ever more like a nature reserve and continues to please me – I shall be sad if the time ever comes to leave here and we don’t find, firstly someone to enjoy it as much as we do, for it is a very special place, and secondly if we don’t find a garden that I can turn into another nature reserve.
This morning, the first of the year, I have seen redwings, fieldfares, robins, mistle thrushes and song thrushes, collared doves, blackbirds, nuthatches, chaffinches, starlings, blue tits, magpies, and crows all with in a few minutes of me rising, by the end of the day this list will have grown considerably.
The squirrels have been busy feeding from the bird tables, we have three regulars, but this morning I saw another one, such a tiny little thing and obviously hungry – too timid to climb on to the bird table. He did, however, find the malus tree, and there amid the blackbirds, song thrushes and mistle thrushes, the fieldfares and redwings, he crouched and had a feast, before scampering off. I hope he returns and plucks up courage to use the bird table.
The garden here grows ever more like a nature reserve and continues to please me – I shall be sad if the time ever comes to leave here and we don’t find, firstly someone to enjoy it as much as we do, for it is a very special place, and secondly if we don’t find a garden that I can turn into another nature reserve.
This morning, the first of the year, I have seen redwings, fieldfares, robins, mistle thrushes and song thrushes, collared doves, blackbirds, nuthatches, chaffinches, starlings, blue tits, magpies, and crows all with in a few minutes of me rising, by the end of the day this list will have grown considerably.
The squirrels have been busy feeding from the bird tables, we have three regulars, but this morning I saw another one, such a tiny little thing and obviously hungry – too timid to climb on to the bird table. He did, however, find the malus tree, and there amid the blackbirds, song thrushes and mistle thrushes, the fieldfares and redwings, he crouched and had a feast, before scampering off. I hope he returns and plucks up courage to use the bird table.
Saturday, 18 April 1992
Easter Gift
Easter Saturday brought with it a very special Easter gift, three girls passing by showed us a tiny, fluffy mallard duckling, they had found it in the road about half a mile away and carried it with them, sure they had saved its life. Knowing its future was as uncertain as when they rescued it!
They passed it to us and we took it in, I rang different villagers who al told me the same story – no, no ducks living in the village – not at any house, pub or farm, no-one even keeps chickens now, I was informed.
So we were unable to return the soft, tiny living ball of fluff. It spent a great deal of time running around and peeping (obviously an “I’m lost, where are you, mum?” call).
Within a very short time it had decided our sheltie Beau was its mother, and dutifully followed him everywhere, peeping loudly if it temporarily lost sight of him.
Beau was not at all sure about this, and felt it to be a very dubious honour, at best, that had been conferred on him. He watched it warily and had no rest, as each time he sat or lay down so the brown and yellow bundle crept as close to him as possible. Beau would quickly get up and hurry to another spot, only for the same to happen. He must have been exhausted by bedtime, the only respite came when he jumped into an armchair and Sophie, as my grandson Rick named the duckling, could not follow.
Yes, we named her and hoped in time she would come when called, I think though the sound of the food being put out will be enough to bring her, as it certainly brings her wild mallard cousins who have adopted us.
She was called Sophie after my sister’s young daughter who also follows Beau everywhere.
We had a little duckling,
Its coat was brown and yellow,
And everywhere that Beau went
The duck was sure to follow.
(with apologies to whomever)
Sophie, or perhaps Jack, as we’ll find out when her adult coat grows, didn’t eat much the first day, and when we put her in the pond she ran straight to the edge and scrambled out. The other ducks disliked her instantly and shooed her away when I introduced her to them, so we’ll wait and see what happens naturally.
By bedtime her note was quiet and musical, and she only did her high-pitched distressed peeping if Beau was not to be seen. We shut her in the conservatory over night and hoped. I felt she must be exhausted and if her new circumstances didn’t kill, her she’d probably sleep well and have a good chance of living.
She didn’t like being shut alone in the conservatory, but within seconds of all the lights being turned out she had settled. Would she be alive in the morning or not, only time would tell, and so to bed perchance to dream!
They passed it to us and we took it in, I rang different villagers who al told me the same story – no, no ducks living in the village – not at any house, pub or farm, no-one even keeps chickens now, I was informed.
So we were unable to return the soft, tiny living ball of fluff. It spent a great deal of time running around and peeping (obviously an “I’m lost, where are you, mum?” call).
Within a very short time it had decided our sheltie Beau was its mother, and dutifully followed him everywhere, peeping loudly if it temporarily lost sight of him.
Beau was not at all sure about this, and felt it to be a very dubious honour, at best, that had been conferred on him. He watched it warily and had no rest, as each time he sat or lay down so the brown and yellow bundle crept as close to him as possible. Beau would quickly get up and hurry to another spot, only for the same to happen. He must have been exhausted by bedtime, the only respite came when he jumped into an armchair and Sophie, as my grandson Rick named the duckling, could not follow.
Yes, we named her and hoped in time she would come when called, I think though the sound of the food being put out will be enough to bring her, as it certainly brings her wild mallard cousins who have adopted us.
She was called Sophie after my sister’s young daughter who also follows Beau everywhere.
We had a little duckling,
Its coat was brown and yellow,
And everywhere that Beau went
The duck was sure to follow.
(with apologies to whomever)
Sophie, or perhaps Jack, as we’ll find out when her adult coat grows, didn’t eat much the first day, and when we put her in the pond she ran straight to the edge and scrambled out. The other ducks disliked her instantly and shooed her away when I introduced her to them, so we’ll wait and see what happens naturally.
By bedtime her note was quiet and musical, and she only did her high-pitched distressed peeping if Beau was not to be seen. We shut her in the conservatory over night and hoped. I felt she must be exhausted and if her new circumstances didn’t kill, her she’d probably sleep well and have a good chance of living.
She didn’t like being shut alone in the conservatory, but within seconds of all the lights being turned out she had settled. Would she be alive in the morning or not, only time would tell, and so to bed perchance to dream!
Monday, 6 April 1992
New Mallard Mother
Mike has cut the grass and I love the contrast between the newly cut, neat lawns, and the borders of wild untrammeled beds, filled to overflowing with masses of bright spring flowers.
The mallards seem to have adopted us and have settled down well, he is standing one-legged this side of the pond with his bright yellow bill resting on his fat chest. The mother mallard rests folded up and egg-shaped, camouflaged amongst the rocks at the far edge of the pond, indeed if you didn’t know her habits you would be hard pressed to find her.
I fear they have eaten the tadpoles, their gain is my loss, and I shall try again next year, keeping some aside to be carefully nurtured indoors.
I had hoped for the delights of seven fluffy, golden ducklings, crocodiling around the garden, plopping into and scrambling out of the pond, but this might not happen as I have a feeling this mallard mother is a first year duck herself, her eggs are very small and her egg-laying quite sporadic.
Indeed her eggs seem an inconsequential part of her life, she drops them in passing, does not brood them, in fact she walks on with never a backwards glance – still it is early in the season and who knows, many things change with time, not having been, as they seemed to us, while we were caught up in the throes of present happenings.
The mallards seem to have adopted us and have settled down well, he is standing one-legged this side of the pond with his bright yellow bill resting on his fat chest. The mother mallard rests folded up and egg-shaped, camouflaged amongst the rocks at the far edge of the pond, indeed if you didn’t know her habits you would be hard pressed to find her. I fear they have eaten the tadpoles, their gain is my loss, and I shall try again next year, keeping some aside to be carefully nurtured indoors.
I had hoped for the delights of seven fluffy, golden ducklings, crocodiling around the garden, plopping into and scrambling out of the pond, but this might not happen as I have a feeling this mallard mother is a first year duck herself, her eggs are very small and her egg-laying quite sporadic.
Indeed her eggs seem an inconsequential part of her life, she drops them in passing, does not brood them, in fact she walks on with never a backwards glance – still it is early in the season and who knows, many things change with time, not having been, as they seemed to us, while we were caught up in the throes of present happenings.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)