I think I have mentioned before that I have learned much about myself whilst compiling this blog each day over the past year (well, nearly a year). It’s mostly down to the fact that at the end of each day, I do exactly what I am doing right now. Taking time to stop and recall things that have occurred during the day and how they have impacted me.
I am very much not a morning person. It takes me two cups of coffee and a sunrise to get even a smile out of me. So, that’s pretty challenging at this time of the year. This morning was no different..to begin with.
Several layers here. The song thrush was perched at the top of the cherry tree. The blackbird got involved hopping about in the shed roof. Whilst, in the background, a chorus of sparrows and goodness knows what else. A sound to put a smile on my face in the morning.
This morning, just before leaving for work, I captured the sound of a Song Thrush giving it some in the back garden. Perched at the top of the cherry tree, proclaiming that there might be a pandemic induced national lockdown, but he is well and truly open for business. Hell, yeah!
However, I am still longing for the time to come round again of daily walks, even during the week, and not needing to wear wellies.
I wonder what the story was behind the death of this tree? Perhaps a shoot out against the one next door. They both lost.
Days when I start refocusing my attention on the natural world that I know is stirring even now, getting ready to wake and stretch. I really feel like it’s starting to rub it’s eyes and contemplate the idea of swinging it’s legs round and planting both feet on the floor.
I am either in a bad place right now or just a bad person. Or maybe I’m just not in tune with the rest of the nation. The emotional outpouring attached to the very sad death of Captain Tom Moore today has left me emotionally unaffected.
It’s obviously desperately sad for his family and those close to him, a loss of a family member would be. I hope they get time, private time, to reflect on their personal loss. But I find the nationwide hunger for a sense of bereavement rather hollow. An appetite fed by the media of course. But I guess, in situations like this, there can’t be one without the other; the media dishes out the news, and the people demand it. But why?
What, in the national psyche, needs this? I am sure he was a really nice man (I didn’t know him personally) and he raised a lot of money for the NHS (I have principled issues with that too – is the NHS a charity?). But there are loads of really nice people around, who were kind and generous, and haven’t had news headlines written about them when Covid19 took them too soon. I’m sure they probably wouldn’t have wanted it either?
I felt more energised today, despite my journey to work through the mist and low cloud.
Then, as I left for home (well after 5pm) the sky was not totally dark and the birds were starting to put a chorus together. It’s not spring yet but I do feel we are heading there. By the end of the month, the sun won’t set until 5. 40pm, keeping the sky light(ish) beyond 6pm.
I have noticed something new today. There is a special time in the morning, before day break, when the sky begins to lighten. Actually, lighten is not the right word, it is more accurate to say that it becomes less dark.
It feels like everywhere is an inky blue-grey. There is not enough light to draw the colours out from other things. Leaves, grass, buildings are all painted that thick, dark blue shade. Just moments before, everything was black. Or was it that they had no colour?
It’s conundrums like this that knots up my thinking. How can something not have colour? Or do things only have colour when light is reflected off them? Some things are too difficult for me to get my head round, they’re usually scientific things. But actually, do you know what? I don’t want to know. Instead, I will enjoy my discovery and get on with my day. Some things are best left unanswered.
The woods where no bird sings. Well, one does.
Last week I read the E F Benson short story ‘And No Bird Sings’. It’s a creepy tale of a wooded copse stalked by a shadowy figure and devoid of any other life or sounds. The description reminded me of this wood that we walked through last weekend. It had a footpath running alongside it on the edge of the field and a gate providing entry.
This was the same woods that we found the strange fungal ‘snake’ growing along a branch. It was all a bit odd, as I read the story I was able to picture it. This weekend’s walk took us inadvertently to this same spot. I went in with some trepidation, listening. It wasn’t until we were twenty or so paces in that I heard the distant sound of a blackbird. It was a way off to my right and it must have been in the woods. Must have.
I always love seeing faces in trees. Most are really simple and obvious to spot, some make me think a bit more, make me look a little closer. And sometimes I come across multiple faces such as here.
We went off the path a little way along crouching and weeving, under and between, branches and trunks. To a clearing. We sat and drank coffee from our flask mugs, and I was secretly pleased that the coffee had cooled considerably. It meant we were able to drink up and get moving again pretty swiftly. No hanging about in the woods and, before long, we were back out on open fields.
So, as last week suggested and yesterday proved, the birds are on their way back. Whilst walking locally yesterday afternoon, in one tree a robin proclaimed his territorial status, and in another (almost ‘next door’) a chiffchaff patiently repeated his two-note call.
Mabel has been a constant companion on our walks, and indeed the reason why we have done them.
Today, at the start of our walk, a Buzzard drew broad circles overhead, sweeping the fields for prey. At the end, a pair of dunnocks played out an acoustic joust in a hedgerow. What was noticeable was the amount of birdsong all over. The sun was out for part of our route and, although it was still cold in the wind, everything felt just that little bit lighter and brighter.
February is a thoroughly frustrating month. It’s still very much winter, weather wise. But it also presents the open door to spring at the end of a twenty-eight day, all too long and dark, corridor. I am sure that’s why there are so few days in it. Who would be so cruel as to put additional days in February when they can be tagged on to March, May and July instead?
Snowdrops (Galanthus). These tiny little bells of white put such a spring in our step as we came to the end of our walk.
But then, thats why we have been so thankful of our walks. And for the option to go a different way or extend our walk. Today, we had a bit more time, so we went a slightly longer route and came across the nicest part of the walk. If we hadn’t done so, we also wouldn’t have come across the clumps of snowdrops on the banks of the footpath. I can’t remember the last time I mentioned a plant or flower in this blog. That is a really good feeling and another sign that the seasons are changing.
And with the optimism that our walk gave me, I ‘met up’ with my pals in the Gents Film and Leisure Club online to discuss our next walking adventure. We have decided to test ourselves, and have signed up for the 100km non-stop sponsored trail-walk along the South downs next September. This includes walking overnight. It will be the weekend after we have taken Stanley to university.
Although we are still trudging through a pandemic right now, we are looking beyond it too, and making plans for life after lockdown.
What a grim day. Non-stop rain, not particularly heavy stuff, but persistent. Fortunately, it was never heavy enough to keep the birds away from then back garden. And this was my day to take part in the annual Big Garden Birdwatch which is organised by the RSPB. They didn’t let me down; a robin, tits (great, long tailed and blue), starlings, blackbirds, a collared dove. Our garden staples. Plus, a great spotted woodpecker, and I am determined to get a close up picture of it soon.
A welcome visitor to our bird feeder this morning.
I have finally finished the book I started at the turn of the year, and I wasn’t expecting where it went. Part memoir, part anthology, Ghostland by Edward Parnell shares his fascination in Britain’s folkloric ghost stories. At the same time, he shares his own sad family story that explores what ‘ghosts’ really are. Ghosts, for many, are more complex than white-sheeted apparitions that put the ‘live’ in derelict buildings or grave yards.
For me, like Mr Parnell, they are deeply-rooted emotional manifestations of our lives. These experiences can be ‘real’ or dreamed up in stories. But for me, my personal ghosts are emotions that that come from specific events from my past. These ghosts appear to me at different times.
When I return to places I have previously been or similar places, the beach, woodland or moorland – never towns or cities, they’re soulless. When I hear a song, hear a theme tune or watch a film or TV programme which has been rerun. Those are the obvious moments.
Objects conjour the most upsetting spirits from the past for me. Garage doors, the metal up and over type, scare me. My brother would take me home from infant school when he was at big school. On the way home we would stop at his mate’s house and they would run a stick down the heavy springs of the mechanism, creating the eeriest of metallic ‘screams’. The worst of ghosts appear when I see a bakerlite, round-dial phone. A gut-twisting spectre that makes me question so much.
The other ghosts appear when I least expect them too. Those triggered by a subtle smell or insignificant sight or sound.
Fifty more days of this daily blog to go. That has really brought home to me how long this pandemic has been going. It really is feeling disturbingly normal and I can’t completely remember how it feels to shake hands or hug someone. Even standing within a couple of meters of someone else who’s not in my immediate family. I know this will recover but I think it will take time for people to return to the way things were.
I stopped half way down our lane on my way to work in the twilight of this morning. The moon was bright and my car headlights beaming on the bottom of the poplars. Despite the rain overnight, it was a beautifully refreshing morning under the clear sky.
Another two vaccines have been approved for use in the UK and the rollout programme is moving at a pace. The EU is angry as it has not been getting the same supply levels that the UK have. The post-Brexit relationship has not started well.
By the time I arrived at school the sun had crept above the skyline and the effects of the downpour overnight was clear.
What we have lacked in snow we have had in rain. Buckets of it. The ground has been wet for weeks now. Really wet. But, I keep telling myself that in six months time we will be grateful of the current saturation, raising the water table and keeping the stores full.
I fed the birds at work this morning. Again, the subtle satisfaction of putting food out for creatures that will show no gratitude or dedication. It’s a simple act of kindness, I guess, although it does provide a reward of sorts.
And this weekend, I will be spending some quality time watching the birds in the back garden. It’s the RSPB’s Big Garden Birdwatch and I suspect, with the UK in the grips of a national lockdown, there will be quite a high return of data.
This morning, Alexa glowed out of her slumber and announced that we are expecting a couple of days ahead of rain. This was after reminding us of the seemingly endless list of negativity spewing from the news sources.
However, despite another night when I put the light off around midnight, I had a satisfying sleep. I don’t always remember my dreams but I have had a few unpleasant ones of late. Really quite scary and upsetting, and although I cannot recall any detail from last night’s nocturnal thoughts, they must have been kinder as I felt positive and rested. Despite the best efforts Alexa to rattle me.
When exploring what the fungal growth was that we saw on the underside of a branch the other day I came across this picture. It is a mycelial growth, which is basically the ‘roots’ of fungus.
I remember reading, back in the spring or summer, about the research uncovering how trees growing communally might be able to ‘comunicate’ with each other. There roots cross enable small electrical pulses to pass from one tree to another, or chemicals are released and travel through the air to trigger a response in neighbouring trees. Usually this is as a warning when one is being threatened, perhaps by an insect or parasite.
So, whilst asking a Twitter group what an unidentified fungal growth we found might be, I read about scientist researching whether a similar thing was occuring between mushrooms and toadstools. Blooming amazing. And the mycial networks formed between these fungi look so beautiful.
Every night this week, I have made up a fire and we have sat in the cosy front room watching TV, or reading a book. Or just sitting watching the fire, listening to the clock ticking and trying to think of very little.
Yesterday, my Dad got his first dose of the Covid19 vaccination. In twelve weeks time he will receive the second dose. Still no word from the home of Mum’s vaccination, but whilst they have all residents testing positive it’s probably no surprise. The good news is that Mum is still asymptomatic. Fingers remain crossed.
Yesterday, I went for a morning run with Stan. It was 7.30am, freezing cold but clear and dry. Today was mild and foggy – but this from yesterday is a much more inspiring picture. And the birdsong was noticeable.
In other Coronavirus news, yesterday evening it was announced by the prime minister that the country has recorded one-hundred thousand deaths since the pandemic struck. On the radio a doctor was asked how we can possibly make the figures mean more and she replied that we should talk of them being ‘people dying’ rather than simply ‘deaths’. That behind every single one, there was a person who is connected to many more people.
It is looking highly unlikely that we will be reopening schools after half term. BJ has announced this afternoon that the 8th March is the earliest.
It is also looking highly unlikely that we will be able to go to Italy at Easter. Yet another rescheduling of the flights will be needed, meaning more money spent, and more disappointment.
And today, as the nation awakes, there is a noticeably sobering atmosphere across the country. The questions are starting to be asked about why the UK, and England in particular, has recorded such a devastating mortality rate per capita compared to other countries. We are top of a table that you don’t want to be top of.
And yet, outside my windows at home and at work, despite the fog and perpetually wet ground, the birdsong is getting louder. And the birds are more visible, why? Possibly because it is getting lighter and we can see them more? Possibly because it’s entering the season for setting out their territory for mating? Or possibly, because they know we need cheering up? Or maybe all three?
Last night, a spider lowered itself down, casually without making a sound or a fuss, and stopped. It rotated softly in a gentle spin, hanging from its silken thread. It stopped at eye-level, above the sink, between me and the wall-mounted bathroom mirror. And as I looked up from brushing my teeth, I first saw two of them. The skull spider, as it is also known, is common in homes this time of year. It has a dislike of the cold and the damp and is a fan of centrally heated homes.
The common daddy-long-legs (Pholcus phalangioides). Often found in warm homes, especially in the winter, a lover of more humid, darker spaces. This one slinked down from the bathroom ceiling like some creepy nursery rhyme.
And I wondered, why choose me? What were you trying to do? I could have lashed out at you in a fit of fear. Of course, I never would, but the point is, how can something so small, so normally avoidant of human contact, and so fragile, instill fear in so many of us?
It put me in a spooky mood, and so, today’s blog post is sharing some spooky images from last weekend’s walks. And with it, some unerving thoughts (for me at least), that I had as my imagination took over. And I make no apology for the use of black and white images – everything looks more frightening in monochrome.
The house on the hill. What terrifying acts took place here, many years ago? And why should the current residents sleep with a light on downstairs? I must change my reading material.
Rural houses seen from a distance, especially lone ones, can appear strangely unwelcoming. Not so much a haven of safety, as a place where secrets or bad memories are contained. Walking through a room of an old house, I wondered who would have walked there in the past, what they wore, what they did? Now, from a distance, I wonder who stood where I do and what they wondered?
Why the long face? And what hellish, twin-hoofed entity hides behind the trees? Or is it a shadowy figure? I look, then look away, then struggle to gather the courage to look back again to check.
When I was a kid, around the age that I would have needed to be taken to school by my parents, I used to be scared of trees. Especially in woods, but also lone ones. Firstly there was the obvious size of them, and the roughness of their bark, and their age. But then there was also my imagination.
I think I believed that every tree had a companion, a shadow in human form. Without recognisable features and lacking fingers or toes. I carried this thought through to adulthood. Walks home from the pub or bus stop would revive it. Perhaps fuelled by a beer or two. There were many of these tree shadows in woods and copses, but the tree shadows looked after several trees each. I couldn’t work out if those looking after single trees were lonely or not.
A lichen and moss day today, and more images from our walk yesterday. Every so often, like the birds (but a little less often), I come across something that that underlines just what a diverse world we live in. If we notice it.
I love coming across these old, decaying barns and farm outbuildings. They are often left as they have asbestos roofs but then there are others that simply out live their usefulness. Something newer and And then, close up Common Pincushion Moss (Dicranoweisia cirrata)
We started our walk yesterday, planning to do the same route we have often done many times before. It’s very satisfying; a gushing weir, a gentle river, open fields, woodland and roads flanked on both sides by ancient trees. Which present some mouthwatering views across Dedham vale and across Langham. But this time we decided to tag a bit more on to the loop, a few paths that we had not been along before.
Ok, so it’s hardly striking out into albeit undiscovered parts of the Amazon rainforest, but it can be fascinating all the same. Your eyes take in different views, a mini (or micro if you prefer) adventure.
This was weird. Lisa spotted it as we walked under it, through a small copse. It was rock hard to the touch. I wonder if it’s an odd growth of Chicken-of-the Woods (Laetiporus sulphureus)? I will send the picture to some Mycological mates for an ID.
And since starting this blog, I walk with eyes (and ears) peeled, constantly looking and listening for new and familiar things. Then we came across the most remarkable growth on the underside of a tree branch of a small wooded copse. I walked under it not noticing, but Lisa brought me back to take a look. It was quite unearthly, which made me take a metaphorical step back.
As mentioned towards the end of last week, I was struggling. It was definitely the hardest period I have to personally faced since the virus struck. And, just before it got too bad, I shook myself by the shoulders and recalled how good I felt when I spent time noticing and enjoying nature with more desire to actually see it and hear it.
And there it was, this bizarre growth from another world. I tried to identify it in books and online, but no luck, so I have tweeted it to the British Mycological Society. To see if they can help. I also find that fantastic, that there are groups of people who join together around a common interest. In this case, fungi.
Like minded mycologists, mycologising. (Not my image)
The Bald Birder 