The passing of the cherry buds

On my morning yomp around my neighbourhood, I’ve noted the trees which have been blown down by storms Dudley and Eunice.

There are two separate places where cherry trees have been uprooted.  What struck me most was the fact that they were packed with multitudes of rosy buds.  Until the storm, they had been preparing to burst forth in their full glory in the spring.  Even as the trunks lay beyond salvage, half across the pavement, the buds were still undamaged and ready to blossom.  Those cherry trees had not known that they were about to be felled by the wind.

A couple of days ago, we heard that Nigel’s much-loved uncle had died very suddenly.  He was still active in life in so many wonderful ways.  He had shown no signs of approaching his end.

I guess the people who will be missed most are those who had more blooms to offer.  So we all must put out our buds in hope each year and if we are spared to see them flower and fruit, we should give thanks.

 

Photo by Arno Smit on Unsplash

Green Roof

 

At February half term, we have often visited Pascoe in Edinburgh. 

Equally often, we have been assailed by snow, sleet, icy winds, hail, freezing rain… you get the picture.

However, forgetful of these drawbacks and Nigel, Carenza and I went to meet Pascoe half way, in York.

Not only did Pascoe turn up, but also our old friends, heavy rain and icy winds.

We found ourselves very interested in any attraction which could boast a roof.

And then, unexpectedly, roofs became the focus of our visit.

At York Minster, we went on a spell-binding tour inside the massive conical roof of the chapter house, all built eight hundred years ago from green oak and pine, the beams braced against one another in an ingenious design so that as they shrank and twisted with time they would pull together into a stronger structure.  At the joints, symbols were carved, showing where the end of each timber should fit, like a gigantic flat-pack assembly project.  The pegs which held it all together were wooden too.  Outside this forest in the sky, there was even the lair of a peregrine falcon.

At the Merchant Adventurers’ Hall, more medieval wooden beams impressed us, and a labelled model of the roof timbers appealed to the nurd in me.

At the end of the weekend, I discovered I had taken more photos of the inside of wooden roofs than of my own children.

But then, it really was not photograph weather UNLESS we were under a roof.

Seismic blasts

 

On Friday, Nigel and I went on our first outing since Covid.

It certainly wasn’t a 'date night'.

We demonstrated as part of Coastal Rebellion where over thirty actions were taking place simultaneously in over twenty countries including Peru, South Africa and Argentina.

Oil spills are devastating coastal wildlife, and so is seismic exploration.  Shockwaves fired from an airgun, 100,000 more intense than a jet engine, are blasted towards the seabed, revealing fossil fuel deposits. The noise emitted can travel 1000’s of kilometres. They are blasted every 10 seconds 24 hours a day for up to 4 months.  Totally disorientating for sea life that rely on sound and vibration: it interferes with breeding, hunting, escaping predators, and navigating.  

We carried a model humpback whale and several large banners over (a very windy) Westminster Bridge towards the headquarters of Shell.

But although, as I say, this outing was not a date night, I did learn a lesson in husband management.

In order to mimic the frequency and intensity of the seismic blasts, it was decided to blow a vuvuzela.

But who would do the blowing?

A woman who is a teacher in everyday life assigned Nigel the task: ‘Here’s a vuvuzela.  Blow it every ten seconds.’

This job kept Nigel busy and happily occupied all afternoon.

I am in the process of ordering a vuvuzela.  Whenever Nigel seems at a loose end or low in spirits, I shall utter the magic formula:

‘Here’s a vuvuzela.  Blow it every ten seconds.’

And I’m sure he will perk up.

Although I’m not sure what the neighbours will say.

For the full impact of an unleashed vuvuzela, watch this short video.

When Birds Watch You Back

Last weekend, it was the RSPB’s Big Garden Bird Watch – the biggest citizen science project.

In previous years we have struggled to fit it in amid the bustle of a January weekend.  This year, however, we were still in isolation following Covid, and it seemed like the epitome of excitement.

We picked an hour towards the end of the day when we knew the little chaps would be mobbing our birdfeeders trying to consume enough calories to see them through a long winter night. 

We spotted most of our regulars – blue tits, great tits, long-tailed tits, coal tits, dunnocks, robins, goldfinches, woodpigeons and blackbirds.

None of our more unusual visitors surfaced – the nuthatches, woodpeckers and goldcrests must have appeared on somebody else’s entry.

However, the species we saw most was our own doves.  And we also were not prepared for their reaction.  When they saw us sitting in front of the French windows, they came and watched us right back.

We could only guess at their conversation,

‘The two regulars are there – the old ones.’

‘Yes, wonder if we’ll see any of the brightly-plumaged young ones today.’

‘Doesn’t look like it – they must be in a different house today.’

‘That’s always the way – we never see anything out of the ordinary when we do the Big House Human Watch.’