Hadrian's Wall - Day 2 - Easton to Carlisle

You would have thought that walking ten miles would be the tough part of the day, but no, the difficult bit was when we reached Carlisle and lost one another. For two hours. 

At breakfast in the B&B, a woman who had nearly finished her walk highly recommended Hadrian's Haul as a way to get our bags from A to B. Nigel was keen to keep on heaving his massive rucksack but my weak back meant that even a modest daysack was weighing heavy. 

Finally Nigel conceded, so when we reached Carlisle, I scampered off to buy such luxuries as shampoo, conditioner and body lotion, which we had been unable to carry previously.  I told Nigel which shops I was headed for and he went to get a new phone cable. 

As I darted between M&S and Boots, I thought to share my location with him via WhatsApp.  And that's when my phone ran out of juice.

To complicate matters, Nigel didn't figure it out.  He appears to have thought that I was dazzled by the bright lights of Carlisle and had gone on some wild girlie spending spree.

Anyway, we kept missing each other. Nigel reckons that CCTV footage of the town centre would show a farcical series of comings and goings as our paths criss-crossed one another. 

Only when I borrowed a stranger's phone and rang him did the drama turn back into a comedy. 

I was so exhausted that I did not have enough strength to use my new toiletries. 

But I did manage to gloat over them. 

Hadrian's Wall, Day 1- Bowness on Solway

Nigel at Euston with another famous explorer - Matthew Flinders

For a long time, Nigel and I had talked of walking the route of Hadrian's Wall.  

2022 is the 1900th year since the building of the wall, and the 60th year of our lives.

If not now, when?

We had thought the main problems with walking Hadrian's wall might be the weather, or our knees. But it turned out to be a train strike. 

We had to take a taxi to Euston.  The journey of a thousand miles may start with the first step, but this was quite an expensive first step.

In Carlisle, the transport theme developed.  We were to catch a local bus for local people which ran from Carlisle to Bowness only twice a day.  It was teetering on the brink of being axed.  

We had to run for the bus stands, only to discover they were not marked with the numbers of the services which stopped there.

A kindly woman called Fenella appraised our walking gear, correctly guessed our destination and took us under her wing.

Which was just as well, because when the bus finally arrived, it had no number on the front - luckily for us, Fenella recognised the driver, otherwise we might still be standing in Carlisle!

The right earrings for Hadrian's Wall

We are setting off today to walk the length of Hadrian's Wall. There will be hills and rough territory, sun and rain. 

We had to select the right hats, socks, coats. 

However, at the back of my mind buzzed a very important question.  Which earrings?

I could not ignore this crucial issue.  

Modest studs would have been the most practical. 

But ten whole days without any bling?

I settled on a pair of abalone pendants. They were handed to me by a stranger in a bag of scrap jewellery. The occasion was a Repair Fair where I was mending people's costume jewellery.

'I don't want this lot any more. Feel free to canibalise it.'

The abalone earrings reminded me of my very first pair, when I was eighteen, so are perfect for an adventure. 

They have probably spent years in some dusty drawer before being cast into a plastic bag and given away.

 I do hope they are as excited at the prospect of an expedition as I am.

Two people, ten days, one rucksack

For years it has been my dream to walk the length of Hadrian’s Wall until various musculo-skeletal issues made me think it was off the agenda for ever. 

However, foot surgery, Pilates lessons and my excellent osteopath Claire have made me think I could do it.

Nigel is a hero for agreeing to carry most of our crap.  But I don’t want to break his back, so we have been giving a lot of thought to how to minimise the load. 

For the first time, we went to an outdoors store and bought lightweight clothing which would dry easily.

Our toilet bag contains only toothbrushes, toothpaste and anti-perspirant.  Instead of sunglasses, we have filters that clip onto our specs. We have downloaded our reading books to our phones.

My only luxury is a tiny watercolour pad and paintbox.

Pascoe, who undertakes v. challenging expeditions felt we still were not taking it all seriously enough – we should saw the handles off our toothbrushes to shed a gram or two.

I had a flashback to a long walk in the Lake District when Pascoe was just a little boy.  He was weeping with tiredness, which was not like him.  To help, I took his rucksack from him.  It was unexpectedly heavy.  On investigation, it appeared that at some point he had put a full-size brick in there, and had forgotten to take it out again.

Oh how times have changed!

Cuckoos and Nightjars

Every couple of years we camp with a dozen or so old university friends. I can’t tell you how much I enjoy it.  This year we had found Woodfire Camping a very green and lovely site in the South Downs national park. 

However, after many bureaucratic hitches, we heard our Ukrainian guests were finally about to arrive.

With a heavy heart, I warned our chums that we were unlikely to come camping.  But then we discovered that our guests’ flight was scheduled for the day after our trip – we could go after all.

Being woken by a chorus of cuckoos, going for walks in the verdant woods, cooking and eating together round the campfire at night, hearing the chirr of nightjars as we stumbled to the composting toilet in the dark, all of these things refreshed and calmed us.

So if there was ever a moment when we were ready to have an upheaval in our lives, then this was it!

Photo courtesy of Richard Allen

Sh*t and Twigs

When we first introduced doves to the dovecote on the end of our house, they amused us with their amateurish nest-building.

Doves are poor at estimating the width of an opening.  Again and again, the twigs they picked up failed to fit through the little doorways.  A mound of twigs gathered on the ground beneath.

And then, when they did get the twigs into the nest holes, our doves failed to display any artistry.

Nigel was having one of his period clean-outs of the dovecote when I saw what he was doing and berated him –

‘You’ve just pulled a whole nest out!’

He brandished what was in his hand: ‘But it’s nothing but sh*t and twigs!’

‘That’s exactly it!  Doves make a loose nest of twigs.’  And then sh*t on it, apparently.

 

Earlier this year, the dove situation was looking a bleak.

Each night, fewer doves were roosting in the dovecote. 

A well-fed sparrowhawk had been picking them off, leaving only a swirl of white downy feathers.

Those who remained preferred to roost further down the street, under the solar panels of our friends, Claire and Bruce.

 

However, to our surprise, new doves have found their way to us this spring – including one with a ring that shows it is from elsewhere and another which looks as if it has a fantail parent.

 

We look at the ground beneath our dovecote and vow we have never been so pleased to see a heap of sh*t and twigs.

Frog chorus

 

We have just enjoyed a weekend of what I can only call audio tourism.  

Work took Nigel to the old university city of Leuven, and I joined him there. After the regular hum of several hours of train travel, arriving was a treat for the ears.  

 

In little leafy parks we heard spring birdsong. I noted how familiar favourites like blackbirds and robins had a slightly different call, like a different accent. 

 

Leuven was also hosting a festival of sound installations called Hear Here. The most memorable was in a glasshouse in the botanic gardens -  a set of 250 tiny speakers suspended from the ceiling emitted the sound of bees coming and going and one could immerse oneself in the buzz of the hive. On listeners’ faces were looks of wonder. 

 

But the best sounds of all were at the Abbey Park on the outskirts of the city. Standing by a reed bed on the edge of a lake we were startled by the bright sudden burst of notes which heralded the Cetti's warbler.  A bird which I had never seen before, and, as it remained hidden, still haven't! 

Also in the reeds were a bunch of very enthusiastic frogs. Unlike the chaps in my pond at home who sound merely as if they are suffering from dyspepsia, these frogs were loud and ebullient, like the party one hears in the distance and longs to be invited to.

 Coming home now, my ears feel as if they have had a work-out – they are all nice and ready to pick up the calls of the swifts, newly arrived in St Albans. 

NB The frog in the top photo is not the one making all that noise, but i couldn't get a pic of the noisy ones! 

Photo by Erzsébet Vehofsics on Unsplash

Litter-picking Lout

 

A week or so ago, I joined a small litter-picking team from our church.

Litter-picking is such a simple and rewarding way to do good in the community – or so we thought.

Near the busy local shops, we began to collect up discarded food wrappers and cigarette butts.

On a bench sat a tall woman, restraining two dogs on leashes while talking loudly into her phone.  Beside her was her can of beer.  As we scooped up crisp packets, her conversation continued at full volume, until finally it seemed that the other person was approaching and the woman stood to go and meet them.

She left her beer can on the bench.

I tutted and went to put it in Gavin’s collecting bag. 

‘Wait.  Hasn’t that still got beer in it?  She might come back.’

But I was impatient.  ‘She’s gone.  I’ll just empty it into the flower bed.’

There was actually rather a lot of beer in there.  Perhaps Gavin had a point.  Too late now.

It was only seconds after I had put the can in Gavin’s bag that we heard the now-familiar loud voice. ‘Hey – who’s had my beer?’

We looked guiltily at the collection bag, only to note that it was, in fact, transparent.  If the woman with the dogs wanted to take umbrage, it was very clear who had stolen her beer.

Rapidly, we shifted our litter picking activities round the corner.

So as a direct result of our do-gooding, it’s possible that members of our church are now known in the community as a bunch of thieves who would do anything for a can of beer.

Photo by Rasa Kasparaviciene on Unsplash

 

Green Church

Covid hit our church hard. Several much loved older people died, afflicted by the isolation and delayed medical treatment of Lockdown rather than the Covid virus itself. Some of the members who had been most creative and most generous with their time moved away. One or two developed long-term illnesses. And then our vicar retired.

So coming out of Covid has felt like the aftermath of a nasty fall. Gingerly we have picked ourselves up and tested each limb for strains and bruises.

However, there is now a very tangible sign of new life – the creation of a green space in front of our church. A team, led with great energy by Celia, has packed the modest plot with flowers to attract bees and a wet area for amphibians. Above, there are swift boxes and a swift call playing to attract the birds to nest, (my own contribution). On either side are benches for people to sit and appreciate it all.

The fact that we have accomplished this long-awaited project now in the spring, and that it will blossom and flourish through the summer must be a good sign.

So by the time winter chill creeps in once more, the plants will have become established and our new vicar will have taken up his post.

For more about our environmentally-aware church http://www.saint-lukes.co.uk/

 

Sharing our nest

 

Nigel and I work from home in different rooms.  He is at the back of the house, I the front.  Both of us have been suffering from persistent tapping at the window.  Tiny, hormonally crazed blue tits have been defending their territories against their own reflections.  They have been showing an interest in the nesting boxes fastened in the sheltered nooks of our walls.

On the gable end of our house, in the dove cote, one dove had been sitting on an egg for what seemed like forever and a day.  We had assumed the egg was addled and would never hatch, but she had faith and continued to brood the egg.  Recently, her patience was rewarded by a magnificent young squab.

I would call her ‘plucky’ if ‘plucky’ did not seem rather an insensitive word to apply to a bird.

The only nest we don’t like to see is the magpie nest in a tree which borders our property – the parents rob the nests of songbirds to feed their young.  However, this year, a crow with a single white feather in its tail has been bullying the magpies and they appear to have abandoned their nest. 

Amid all the home-building around us, we have thought about sharing our own nest.  Several weeks ago, we signed up to the Homes for Ukraine scheme and are waiting now to see if our guests are granted visas.  The process seems to be taking forever and a day, but we must keep hoping, just like our plucky dove.

Fit for foraging

Growing up in Cornwall, my parents didn’t like my foraging habits. 

Entranced by Richard Mabey’s ‘Food for free’ I would gather wild hazelnuts, chestnuts and blackberries.

However, Mum and Dad drew the line at leaves.  When I plucked sorrel from the hedgerow they would grow concerned I might make a mistake and poison myself.

This Easter Nigel and I rented a house in Falmouth and stayed there with Pascoe, Perran and Carenza and friends Jamie and Hannah.  We visited my parents, but they no longer have a say in what I pick and eat.

There is no more fragrant time in the Cornish hedgerows than April, and all of it was available to us to gather.  Each day, we came back with packets of greenery in our rucksacks.  Three-cornered leeks flavoured stews, wild garlic pesto (made by my old friend Jennie) made pasta delicious.  Blossoming alexanders provided flowers which we fried in tempura batter and leaves which I steamed for greens.  Wild sorrel and fennel added savour to salads.

And at the end of all this foraging and green eating, I was suffering from the runs… and completely unable to pinpoint exactly which herbs had given me them. 

So perhaps Mum and Dad were right after all.

An opportunity to stop suffering

 

If someone offered you the chance to do something now to stop the war in Ukraine, would you say yes? If by your actions you could help stop the suffering of millions, would you?

Unfortunately, the war in Ukraine has already started, so you are not being offered that chance. However it is still possible to curb climate catastrophe.  This month's IPCC report has announced that through drought, rising sea levels, wildfires and massive storms, many millions of people across the world will suffer famine and homelessness. Widespread wars will ensue as countries compete for resources.  You are being offered the chance to do what you can to limit climate catastrophe.

Gutteres, secretary general of the UN has said in the last week, “Climate activists are sometimes depicted as dangerous radicals. But the truly dangerous radicals are the countries increasing the production of fossil fuels. Investing in new fossil fuel infrastructure is moral and economic madness.”

Have a chat with your conscience and join Extinction Rebellion this week in London as they show the Government how very much this issue matters to us.

XR - rebel now - details

Can it be right to disrupt people going about their everyday work?

The oil companies and the banks who finance them are keen for us to go on burning fossil fuels so they can continue to screw the last few billion dollars out of a dying planet. The last thing they want is for people to look up from their daily routine.

However, the argument of Extinction rebellion is that the small amounts of disruption they are causing now are nothing compared to what is very soon to hit us as a result of climate catastrophe.  Their purpose is to waken people to the threat of much greater disruption in the future.

Photo CFH - shows Claire and Rich with Claire's amazing banner

Lost time, Spring time, Mother’s Time

On Mother’s Day, we don’t go to church.  Instead, I have decreed that my children spend the whole day worshipping me, their mother.

Sissinghurst is somewhere I have had in my sights for a long time.  I remember my friend Kathryn coming back from there, beaming and full of praise for the delightful gardens, designed by Vita Sackville-West.  I too wanted to glow with pleasure after a perfect day out.

But it is quite a long drive so we have never been.

However, as Mummyzilla, I put my foot down.

Perran and Carenza obeyed the three-line whip and arrived the night before so that we could make an early start.

We had reckoned without the clocks jumping forward.

And without that wrong turn we took when the conversation in the car got interesting.

I was beginning to fear that when/if we finally got to Sissinghurst, there would not be enough left of the day for me to achieve my full glow.

However, when we arrived, the misty lawns were swathed in daffodils, snakeshead fritillaries, scylla, grape hyacinth and primrose in all their pastel varieties.  Each border put forth its own cornucopia of spring blossoms and birds sang in the trees. Water features bubbled quietly.

The effort had been worthwhile.  We may have lost time, but somehow, in the end we had arrived at the very heart of spring time.

Power Cut

Due to the climate crisis, we’ve been told to expect the break down of systems so I’ve given a lot of thought to what this might mean and how to prepare.

When the St Albans area suffered a power cut the other evening we looked out our window and wondered what was going on.

But I was ready with camping cookers, candles, hot water bottles and even water purification tablets, in case the pumping stations were affected and we needed to resort to our water butts.

The other essential thing you need in order to survive in a crisis is a sense of community, so I grabbed a torch and knocked on the doors of older neighbours.  Having lived through harder times, they already had emergency stocks of candles.

Before I had even knocked on the last door, the lights stuttered back on, however, and the emergency was over.  I snatched back my camping cooker and went home.

We are still not sure what caused the power outage.  But I think it was just a little reminder that things will not always run smoothly as the world changes around us.  So maybe we should keep our camping supplies at the ready and be prepared to share them.

 photo - nicola-fioravanti-UrAKbpKnak8-unsplash

Peaky Blinders Walk

Every weekday morning since March 2020 and First Lockdown, I have strode out of my house for a brisk two mile walk round the neighbourhood.  I don’t wear earphones and I don’t do errands, I  say hello to dogwalkers and joggers.   It’s good for my health, both physical and mental.

I am amazed how much wildlife I see in the ‘burbs, but even so, after two years, the ritual is a little weary.

I’m a big fan of Peaky Blinders and the new series inspired me to enliven my tired routine by using the Tommy Shelby walk - head down as if marching vigorously into a strong wind. 

Okay, I was wearing a cagoule so it wasn’t quite as visually striking as Shelby’s billowing great-coat…  And I had a bobble hat instead of a flat cap.

Unexpectedly, however, I spotted some things I wouldn’t normally – with my head lowered to face the coming storm, I saw the places where people had guerilla-gardened verges near their home.  I appreciated the optimistic tete-a-tete daffodils and the purple crocuses.

In reacting to the daffodils, I felt I should stay in character as Tommy Shelby but was unsure whether he would fully have appreciated the blooms.  

After long consideration, I adopted his gravelly voice and muttered ‘Look Arthur – effing flowers.’

 

Birdsong - and how we killed poetry

Around a dozen of us who have been friends since our youth, and sometimes camp together, share a Whatsapp group.

It doesn’t have a name, but I call it the Annabel channel as she is the founder.

Sometimes it’s very serious – articles about the history of the Ukraine: sometimes we are taking our mind off life with trivia.  Or, in this case, the beauty of the world around us:-

Annabel:

I stand on the station platform and search for the birds overhead belting out their messages every morning. Yesterday I stood right underneath the loudest Great Tit I'd ever heard, hopping about in the tree above me. So active while making so much noise!

Me:

I reckon there are 2 to 3 haiku there. Get cracking.

 

Mike took up the challenge:

Dazzled by birdsong:

I wait for the morning train.

Nearby, some Great Tits.

 

Me:

I really liked the first two lines, but the third sounded weird.

 

Annabel has a go:

'Trainwaiting, workbound,

Soulsoothed by birdsong.

Treehigh, some Great Tits'

 

Annabel tests positive with covid but gamely has another go at a haiku (priorities!)

'Train-waiting, work-bound,

Soulsoothed by birdsong, I seek

Tree-high, a Great Tit'

 

Mike has meanwhile returned to the drawing board and comes up with his master work:

Waiting for the train:

stupid birds, what a racket.

Trod in a dog-turd.

 

Having succeeded in killing the poetry I retire smugly.

If there is any moral to be drawn from this ill-starred literary venture, I think it is this:

Don’t try to include great tits in a haiku.

 

 

 

 

Gone Hog

 

In November, we took in a young hedgehog (blogged previously).  When we found her in our garden, she was not weighty enough to survive hibernation, so the objective was to help her put some weight on and release her again.

We had done this successfully once before a number of years ago.

It was more complicated than we remembered.

For a start, should we have taken her in at all? – with warmer winters, there was a chance she would have survived without our help.

Plus, when you put a hedgehog in a pet cage, it stresses them and their parasites grow in number.

I had brilliant hedgehog mentors in Esther who runs LondonColney Hedgehog Rescue and Jill who helps hedgehogs in St Albans.

We handled the hog as little as possible and did not make a pet of her.

But when Esther gave her some anti-parasite injections, a name was required for the records – Hermione.

That was the tipping point – we began to regard her as ‘our’ hedgehog.

We acclimatised her to winter temperatures in the garage, then released her early last month.   We put her out in a snug straw-lined house with a tunnel entrance to block cats and foxes.

We left food in a similarly protected hedgehog feeding station.

We had been warned that although some hedgehogs come back every night, others are never seen again.

Hermione turned out to be of the latter type. 

It is quite possible she fell foul of one of the local foxes.  I guess we’ll never know.

However, in our imagination, she is trundling along the hedges of the nearby school field, snaffling beetles and generally leading the life of a hog in clover.

 

Please support the amazing work of London Colney Hedgehog Rescue:- 

http://londoncolneyhedgehogrescue.weebly.com/

 

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.’

A Good Time For Covid?

Nigel and I have been laid low by Covid, presumably the Omicron variant.

Since I have been working in secondary schools and he has attended the odd meeting in central London, this highly contagious variant did seem unavoidable.

Long country walks are something we consider essential to happiness, but at the moment we are confined indoors.

So I have been consoling myself that if there was one good time of year to be trapped at home, then this is it – ten dry, cold, overcast January days, with daylight fleeting early.

The very countryside has appeared dormant.

Yet as I have begun to feel better, I can see how wrong I have been.

Whenever the sun shows its face, I hear birdsong, led by our robins, but including a swelling number of other species.  Blue tits are showing a great deal of interest in our nest boxes.

Our doves have begun to vie for the best nest sites in our dove cote.

Each night, foxes rend the air with their barks.

Even the hedgehog which we have been fostering this winter seems to have no interest in hibernating.

So when I finally get the all-clear to leave the house, the first intimations of spring will be awaiting me with open arms.

Video of Nigel feeding robin by Carenza

Blue tit photo by david Griffiths on Unsplash

Swift Response

If there’s one bird for me, then it is the swift.

If I am reincarnated, that's what I would opt to be.

They barrel around our summer skies in small flocks, shrieking with delight as if our rooftops are their own personal Alton Towers.  Life through the eyes of a swift must look like one long arcade game.

But maybe being a swift is not such an idyll – every May when they arrive back from Africa, they find it more difficult to nest. 

Hundreds of years ago, they nested in vast ancient trees which furnished plenty of nooks and crannies.  However, as mankind has dominated the landscape, they have used our buildings instead, colonising holes, cracks and fissures.

But as our building techniques become better at sealing every chink and gap, swifts find it harder to find a home.  Numbers have greatly decreased and the swift is now endangered in the UK.  However, it is not hard to offer help. 

Newbuilds or extensions can have hollow swift-bricks built in.  Existing buildings can have nest-boxes fitted under the eaves.

The church I attend, St Luke’s, doesn’t have much land, but is currently planning a small wildlife garden.  When we talked to Heidi from Herts and Middlesex Wildlife Trust , we discovered we had valuable vertical real estate in the shape of a North-East facing wall, ideal for swift nest-boxes.

So we’ve ordered them now, in time to put up before May.  

Let’s just hope the swifts make those lovely excited shrieks when they see them.

For more about helping swifts:

https://www.rspb.org.uk/birds-and-wildlife/wildlife-guides/bird-a-z/swift/

http://actionforswifts.blogspot.com/

https://www.swift-conservation.org/

photo by Vika Strawberrica, Unsplash

 

 

Getting on with it

Christmastide has always had the quality of being a magical island, rising above the drab grey seas of midwinter, twinkling with fairy lights and warmed by mulled wine.  Even more so since the children grew up and left home - now it is a time when they return and we re-form the nuclear family we once were.  We do the Christmas baking, read the Night Before Christmas together, watch old films, play daft games and go for endless muddy walks guided home by the glow of early sunsets.

Nowadays, as soon as the last child has left, without waiting for the 5^th or 6^th of January, I take the decorations down.  I guess it draws a clear boundary between the fresh start of the New Year and the precious island of Christmastide, a country which has sunken below the horizon for now. 

But next December, we shall set sail again, navigating towards Christmas, guided by its winking lights and the hope that our children will journey to be there with us once more.