To sing with a nightingale

Lately Nigel and I have been campaigning to stop the St Albans chainsaw massacre of mature trees. It makes us very sad to see the council cutting down trees containing birds' nests and chicks and it is fatiguing not to succeed.
However, a deep love for nature provides its own consolations. This weekend we attended a singing with nightingales session near Lewes with folksinger Sam Lee of the Nest Collective.
We made ourselves at home in the simple campsite, then at a given time moved to a clearing where firepits glowed. Even before the event got underway, we saw a mistle thrush chasing a sparrowhawk away from its nest.  Then Sam Lee and guest singer Eska entertained us with stories and song and told us more about nightingales - it is the male who sings, hoping to attract a female.
After dark, we set off through the wood in silence, single file, in the pitch dark. We were so quiet we could hear caterpillars munching the leaves. In the distance we began to detect the sweet liquid notes of the nightingale.  Somewhere along a field boundary, with the nightingale casting his song down on us, we stopped and lay on the grass, gazing up at a million stars. The bird dueted first with some very noisy frogs nearby, and then with Sam and Eska.
The perfect moments stretched out and overhead, a shooting star flashed past.

Too soon it was over and we filed back to the campsite.

Yet there was one last grand finale. In the morning we were woken  by a very splendid dawn chorus.
We are revived and refreshed.

Stop the Chop

One of the best things about our garden is the view of two ancient oaks in the vicarage garden next door. There are now few people who can remember the time  when our street was still farmland.  But these great trees bear witness.
They creak irritably and toss down twigs, but they are home to innumerable birds, insects, lichens and fungi.

Yet if they were out on the street, they would certainly have been chopped down as it is cheaper for the council to do that than to keep them pruned and in good order.

St Albans Council has decided to fell 300 trees (reduced to 250 after a complaint).
They claim some are diseased. Others merely 'in decline'. At sixty, what am I then?  In decline? Perhaps I too should be culled to cut costs to the NHS.

Even more shocking is the fact that these trees are being felled during the nesting season.
On Saturday we visited the condemned trees closest to us in order to make a peaceful protest and in each was at least one active nest. When the tree falls, the chicks will die.

Interestingly, when we stood round the stumps of two cherry trees which had been sawn down while in full blossom (one scheduled, the other taken down on a whim), nearby householders came out, angry at us 'tree huggers'. The trees had apparently been ruining their lives by shedding leaves and petals which blew onto their tidy drives. They were glad they were gone.

As they yelled at us, merely for taking photos of the stumps, they used the f word a lot, even though we had young children with us. It is no exaggeration to say their reaction was violent.  But it was odd since the trees were already felled and no protest on our part could possibly reinstate them.

Perhaps then, their fury might even have been a cause for hope - maybe deep down they were experiencing unease, realising that the unruly branches of a tree are more beautiful than the sterile tidiness they longed for.

What I wish for is that others can realise this BEFORE any more trees are chopped down.

Frogs and Fountains

At the centre of the Arabic architecture in the palaces of Andalusia is the fountain. Each house arranged itself around a tranquil courtyard and in each case the serenity was enhanced by one or more fountains connected by rills, and often a central pool. 

The fountains ran quietly to give just a gentle bubbling sound. The pool would remain calm enough to reflect the arcades around and the heavens above.

If you see an array of splashy jets, they were invariably introduced more recently.

At the Palacio Viana, Cordoba, we visited each of the twelve garden courtyards, and in each of them, I found myself scrutinising the ponds for something which wasn't there.

Eventually, a fellow tourist - an English woman - appeared at my elbow and said,

'I expect you're looking for frogs. I don't think there are any here, but there are some at the Real Alcazar.'

She turned out to be quite right - see pic below.

But how did she know I was looking for frogs?  

Perhaps it is a natural assumption that all British tourists pass their holidays in a state of yearning, homesick for the frogs in their ponds at home. In my case at least, quite true.