Another new approach for me. Trying a fixed micro video camera to the feeders. Blue Tits and Long-Tailed Tits. I love the sound of their tiny claws on the metal perches and the faint tap-tapping of their beaks on the food. As the feeders swing they sound like spinnakers of boats moored up on a breezy day.
Despite the cloudy, dull grey skies and the cold and damp weather, the weekend has been wonderful. A much needed time to rest my head and my soul.
I promised myself that I would refocus on the things that make me happy. Walking and spending time with the family – check; two lovely long walks. Back with the birds – check; feeding them and watching them.
The walk today took us on a frosty route that circled Langham. The sluice gates at Stratfor St Mary were opened up more than usual allowing water to escape from the flooded fields further up stream. The force of the water powering through was scary, especially as we had to cross it using a precariously slippery concrete bridge. The steel railings were cold to the touch but were the only thing keeping us from falling in.
The fields crunched as we walked along and the well-trodden, muddy pathways across fields or around kissing gates were solid under foot. The edges of the Stour were frozen, as were most puddles and pools we passed. Childlike, we couldn’t resist the temptation of toeing the frozen sheet of ice on top each one with our wellies.
The puddles left by wellie boots were frozen solid. Up close they resembled an aerial view of the flooded area we were walking.
As we looped around and headed back, much of the frost was thawing and the legs were getting tired. We went home, after collecting Stan from his walk with his girlfriend, to some lunch and to wash Mabel’s legs.
These past two days, I have a sense of satisfaction, of a job well done. I wanted to reset where my head was at. Mission accomplished.
07:45 Every so often, when time allows, I take a trip back through this blog to a randomly selected day. I place my thumb on the screen, on top of the past three-hundred or so days, and swiftly swish through the list. The list blurs like a roulette wheel. Occasionally one swish is enough but more often than not, I will swish a couple more times. Whichever day is nearest the top gets picked. I read it and reminded myself about just how amazing this past year has already proved to be.
This morning, I didn’t stray so far, choosing only to review the past week. It has had some of the hardest times I can recall having to emotionally handle. But here we are, still standing, still sane.
A flock of seagulls on our walk this afternoon.
And this morning, like a few others over the past week, the birdsong is back. Yesterday, when I returned from my bonus late-afternoon walk with Lisa and Mabel, I set about refilling the bird feeders. Already, these faithfull visitors to the garden have returned. It has been weeks, months even, since I put food out for them. The feeders have been weather beaten, empty and without purpose, just swinging in the winds and being battered by rain, snow, hail and frosts. But now they are full, and are filling the bellies of robins, tits, sparrows and blackbirds. I am going to spend some quality time, at the top and tail of the day, just sitting and watching them do their thing.
What can be a more simple pleasure, than pooring some seed and nuts into a tube, and waiting for these beautiful creatures to take advantage. My only regret is that I had neglected my duties for so long. They need this food now more than ever.
09:00 I subscribe to Nick Cave’s Red Hand Files email. Basically, people can send a question or comment to NC and he will publicly reply. This week he was sent the simple statement “This world is shitty”. To which he replied;
“The Bible opens with the story of the creation —
‘In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth.’
The story tells us that God thought His creation to be ‘very good’. I have to say, I very much agree — the world is not only very good, it is perfect — so wholly perfect that it has the capacity to hold within it profoundly imperfect things. It is a masterpiece folded around an essential and energising flaw — our humanity.”
Amen to that, Mr Cave. I am not religous, well not in the popular sense of the word. But I do have faith, mostly in nature and the world we live in. As a species, we can do amazing things on this even more amazing planet, but we have tended to fuck it all up in the past hundred or so years. Still, after reading this, my internal spirit level has been raised just that little bit higher.
14:20 And so, I have come to a (re) awareness that I need to bring myself back to a clear sense of what got me through the first lockdown and every day since. I am happiest when I observe a fleeting flash of a bird overhead or in the corner of my eye. What was it, why was it there, where was it going?
Peeling skin from a silver birch on our walk. It’s exciting to think that in just a couple of months these trees, hedgerows and fields will look and sound so different.
Or when the sky paints the most vivid and then the most subtle of pictures, time after time. Or when I hear that fox or owl in the dark, or the cackle of a magpie that I can’t see. Or the cocophony of crows or fieldfare over the orchard or in tree canopies. And spring is coming.
It’s about having an awareness and love for the natural things in front of me and the space in between them.
17:05 It’s been a day of bringing myself back down to earth. Taking time to properly appreciate the simple pleasures. Saturday mornings are notoriously good for that, I find.
Our walk, all five of us, enjoying a couple of hours of open air, wide open spaces. A slow, deep cup of coffee in bed with Lisa. No need to be anywhere soon. Football on the telly this afternoon whilst watching the mass of birds feasting on the seeds and nuts outside. Queuing up for their turn at the buffet. I will need to replenish it all before the snow arrives from the west later.
I will also take some time later to light the wood burner in the front room, sit and get some healthy head space. Read a little. A glass of red. Simple pleasures, yet again.
This evening, we got home early enough to take Mabel out. The moon just a pin prick in the sky.
Good day, bad day, good, bad…and today was a good day. I have been wondering if this up and down feeling is normal, whether others feel like this or if it’s for a more exclusive group. I suspect the former. I am hoping (probably not the right word) that most people fluctuate in their mood, and I am thinking that this is probably a good state. There will be many, I am sure, that are currently in a constant low state. I don’t imagine many are enjoying life much at the moment.
So, I have really latched on to the high that I have had this week when I have left work that little bit earlier than usual. Today, it was a beautiful clear sky, and Lisa and I both got home just after 4.15pm. Work shoes off, wellies on. Lead on the dog and we got a walk around the orchard in before dark. Big, deep, cold breaths of fresh air and a walk before the sun sloped off.
Eight years ago today, the ground was covered in a thick blanket of snow. There is a chance that we could have some of the white stuff this weekend too. But today was beautiful and tomorrow should be fine too.
So, really had that ‘Friday feeling’ this evening. And looking forward to the weekend of walks and weather. It’s hard not to feel that we are in our own version of Groundhog Day, perpetually repeating the same routines, week in week out. Shaking the bottle and surviving what the week throws at me, then unscrewing the cap to release the pressure every weekend.
With the news of so much despair and dread, I just need to reflect on what I have, and be grateful. Mum has Covid19 but is seemingly asymptomatic. Dad’s cancer is being managed, by him, and he is eating well. The kids are still holding it together remarkably well, despite signs of frustration showing. And Lisa is a brick, keeping positive and sensing when I am struggling, whilst leading her own school. And Mabel? Well, I don’t know how much harder this would have been without her.
Mabel, waiting for us to get home from work.
It’s not a time to wallow in the persistence of the bad news. Be angry, frustrated, exhausted, yes, but always move on each time. This is a phase, and it will pass. And I have so much to be happy about.
Adora made another amazing cake this week. The kids are finding lockdown#3 much trickier. I feel for them, they should be socialising and being at college. But they find distractions as best they can.
I woke to a fuggish feeling this morning, definitely felt worn out after the day and night before.
I cannot believe the ups and downs of everything at the moment. January and February have always been my most disliked months, this year I am finding them harder to deal with than normal.
So, this morning I tried to be a little kinder to myself and went a little slower. I even managed a glass of cold orange juice with my coffee and toast. And by the time I left home, around 7.30am, the inky blue-grey sky was noticeably lighter than when I normally leave. That made me feel a little lighter too.
On the way in, the numbers of rooks and crows perched in trees was stark, especially against a brighter sky. And as I drove by, the sun winked at me as it it danced between the trees branches and along the amber rooftops.
When I arrived at school, I opened the blinds in the office and was drawn to the empty bird feeders. That needed sorting. And whilst outside, cleaning the feeders out and refilling them, the sky was even brighter.
Later in the day, it was decided we would all make a conscious effort to leave a little earlier than the normal 6pm or so. A wise move. So, at 4pm I headed home calling in to buy some bird food on the way, and in the daylight. I sit on the sofa now with Mabel’s head resting on my lap and looking forward to filling the feeders in the morning. They have been empty for weeks now.
But the roller coaster continues. The rates of infection of Coronavirus are still to high, despite overall numbers reducing. Dad has finally received a letter to inform him that he is to have his first vaccination next week. Then the washing machine broke tonight! FFS.
Tomorrow, I will try to do some similar times to get that boost of more daylight hours. Then, it’s the weekend.
So I prepared a little of today’s post yesterday in anticipation of another day of abnormal normality. But I will shift it to another day.
Because today has been a day worth writing about. I have noticed that most days are manageable if somewhat challenging, but others are a real struggle. Saying that, it’s probably not fair to say that the whole day has been tough. The truth is I am knackered. And it shows.
It’s been a day when everything has piled up, again. A record 1,820 Coronavirus deaths in the past twenty-four hours. The government expecting more and more from us in schools. And the staff in schools expecting more again from the leaders. Everyday feels like being neck deep in a swamp of demand and never-ending surprise.
The underside of my eyes are heavy with tiredness, I haven’t been sleeping well. I’m waiting for my new glasses because a cataract has adjusted my sight. American politics, flooding in parts of the UK, exams cancelled, the kids not able to get outside to socialise with friends. It just feels relentless at the moment.
Storm Christoph is blowing intensely outside and I would usually look and see the majesty of that. The power of nature that shrinks all of my daily toil into just ‘stuff’. But even that is proving difficult.
Probably best that I finish writing this post, give Mabel one more hug, and head up to bed. I know I need more sleep, and head-space downtime.
I have to confess that my interest in ghost stories has a danger of becoming an obsession. Not the tacky, predictable, toffee-apple stories of white sheeted apparitions of the last day of October. I have become gripped, as generations have before me, of the supernatural stories that were popular at the turn of the nineteenth century and the two or three decades that followed.
This past week or so, with the continued dark evening’s and time sat in front of the fire of an evening, I have been reading the stories of E F Benson. And have become a bit of an addict. In a similar style to his friend, M R James, he made his stories rich in their connections to nature and the countryside; the people who lived there, past and present and the folklore that passed through generations.
From our walk, on the lane where we live.
I have just finished the short story ‘The Man who went too Far’. And as the title would suggest it, the main character ‘plays’ with more than he should until forces outside of his reckoning steal him of his life.
But throughout the story, he appears to have everything in perfect perspective. He shuns the modern world (of 1912) and it’s Christian ways for a more pagan appreciation of nature and, in particular, the large woodland that borders his house.
It made me draw parallels with how we (I) have turned our gaze to the beauty of the natural world around us over the past year specifically. The draw of the trees, the sky and the animals that orchestrate the sounds that have become so important to our daily tonic.
Pan, half man, half goat. The Greek god of the wild, of mountains and woods, who legend says, died when Christ was born. A good bloke really, just bad PR?
In the story, Frank rejects Christ and embraces a simpler devotion of Pan, and he would seem to benefit from it. He gains energy and youth, belying his years, but at the same time concedes that there must be a price to pay for this revelation. A price which he is prepared to pay as he has become closer than anyone to the spirit of nature and his life, soon to be cut short, is better for it.
I find it fascinating how, at our core, we have always bent the knee to the natural world. Understandable really, as we owe literally everything to it. And yet, we seem unaware of the impact we are having on it, or even the apathy we show to understanding it better. Even the smallest patches of green space right outside our doors. Although I don’t necessarily want to dance to Pan’s pipes, I know that my life has been enriched by taking more care of, and interest in, the life and landacape that I am a part of.
Today started with a mini-positive moment that sort of set me up for a fairly good day. I have never been a Monday person. If truth be told, I’m not a fan of mornings either. So, logic suggests that Monday mornings, when they come round, as they invariably do each week, are not well received.
But to day, whilst eating my slice of toast and drinking my coffee in the kitchen, I noticed my overly functional watch informing me that the sun would rise at 07:54. It was 08: something last week! And as I sit in the front room writing this at 20:15, my watch tells me that tomorrow the sun will like it’s nose out at 07:53. Even better. That means that next Monday, it should be coming over the Eastern horizon at around just after quarter to eight. I am now looking forward to next Monday morning, and I never thought I would be saying that.
Nature has been very obliging, fitting the increase of daylight time to coincide with our scales of time. One minute more, morning and evening, each day-ish. Joking aside, it is filling my cup knowing that the days are getting longer. I noticed it this evening too. Then, when I got home, my iPad shared a photo album with me from years back. From one of our many summer trips to north Norfolk. And pictures of the kids, and the beautiful countryside, drenched in sunshine, making the colours almost florescent. And the picture above of the deer at Holkham Hall. How green are those greens? They seem almost unreal and my eyes cannot wait to see greens like that again.
I smile so much at that picture. A connection with another living thing, it looked at me and me at it. Similarly to the blue-tit last week. I ache inside, looking forward to trips to other places, not far away, when the day is as long as the night. And warmth radiates from the vegitation and the sand and the sky.
In the meantime, I will cope with the cold, Monday mornings and the darkness. Because they won’t last forever.
11.40am. It is so beautifully sunny this morning. Twenty-four hours ago it was a dense grey sky delivering sleet, snow and rain. And with the sparkling sunshine has come a whole load of things that I want to write about, but I need to be patient and space them out. I must try an keep to my five paragraphs only per day.
Adora knocked on our bedroom door first thing to ask if I was joining her on a run. I had just finished a coffee and was wallowing in that drug-like high of a second state of sleep. That hazy, light headedness made me immediately decline her offer. But then parenthood guilt kicked in, yanking me out of my dozy slumber and I quickly changed into my running stuff.
Now the snow has cleared and the sun is out, the green of new growth in the fields is beginning to show.
The morning air was chilled but smelled somehow different, dare I say, almost spring like? The smaller song birds were singing and skitting from tree to tree, the larger gulls, crows and rooks sloping along above the fields. Being out that early was refreshing and I thanked Adora for urging me to join her.
Midday. After dropping Stan off in the middle of nowhere to start a walk with his girlfriend, I headed home to go on our daily walk with Lisa and Mabel. Again, blessed with bright sun in our eyes and on our faces. We stopped part way round to stand, eyes closed, just letting the light soak into our skin.
Our walk today gave us a sun-filled boost. There was even a feeling that spring is not too far away.
We talked about how being outside in the open air provides clarity, opportunityto think things through. Obviously the reason why so many people have been grateful of the ability to still get outside during the lockdowns. The sunshine, walk and run today have certainly boosted our spirits. The endorphins and good ‘brain chemicals’ have given us a really positive edge and I feel ‘topped up’ ready to start the new week. I received an email today that another teacher has tested positive.
Yesterday, a blue tit took centre stage. Today, whilst walking locally, it was the great tits’ turn. I have only really heard flocks of birds making noise over the past couple of months. Individual bird song is noticeably absent around us, apart from the odd robin or distant magpie. But the toot-toots of the great tits in the hawthorn was an unexpected treat.
It snowed this morning. The snow turned to sleet and the sleet to rain and, by midday, it had all stopped. By the time we stepped outside for our walk the rain had done much to melt the snow. Just blotches remained on the fields or clung stubbornly to the sheltered sides of tree trunks and branches.
We stayed local today, partly because of the weather and partly because of the current lockdown restrictions. But these oh-so familiar lanes and footpaths also provided some comfort. It’s nice to know exactly how long it is and how much time it takes.
On the way back, past the tooting of the great tits and clacking of the magpies, we came across the carcass of a decaying fox. It was lying half-in and half out of the ditch by the side of the lane. Possibly a car hit it, or it simply died of more natural causes. But the way it was presented was as if, whilst lifeless and decomposing, it had somehow dragged itself out of the ditch. I imagined it doing this under cover of the night, where the unlit lanes are seldom visited.
“It’s flesh had rotted away, bit it’s skull and skeleton maintained a recognisable shape.”
The landscape was cold, lacking signs of life. The skies were thick with dull grey, the trees and hedgerows were bear already but seemed dead today. Just as freshly caught fish is packed up with a liberal scattering of ice, so the fields and everything in and around them, looked similarly deep frozen today.
But, just the sound of those few birds for those few minutes, has stayed with me today.
How did my day go today? What difference did I make to the world? I would like to say that I’m a reflective person, but I’m not. Not to the extent that I would like to be anyway. That’s not to say I am not conscientious or driven.
At the moment mental and physical fatigue (with a sprinkling of “I’ve survived another day”) prevents me looking back on my day and asking what went well? What would have been even better if?
There have been a few of these moments over the past year. Do I find them or do they find me?
I achieved some good things and fell somewhat short at others. I suppose that’s being reflective? But the best thing that happened to me today was an accident which I witnessed, simply by being at the right place, just at the right time. A potentially disastrous misfortune of another living thing. A stroke of luck.
It was late morning as I walked down the corridor at work towards the back door. I happened to be on duty at that time. The solid blue door leads out to the playing field and car park. It has an oblong half-length window running vertically, just off centre, from top to handle. Just as I reached for the push-button switch to unlock it, there was a dull thud, and a small, dark shape struck the narrow pane of glass. I thought something had been thrown.
Tentatively, peering through the window, I could see the disheveled and twisted shape of a small bird. It was frantically struggling to find it’s true form, all wings and tail feathers. Clearly disoriented, fluttering and slipping between the metal strips of the shoe scraper. If the heavy door was opened by anyone, not realising the bird was there, it would have been fatally mangled.
Fortunately, I had heard its little body hit the door. A few seconds earlier and I wouldn’t have. I would have opened the door not knowing it was on the ground in trouble. A few seconds later, I would have left the porch and walked out and around to the front door, leaving the concust little creature vulnerable to who knows what?
Carefully, opening the door just enough to slip out sideways, I gathered the anxious blue tit up in my cupped hands. Arching my thumbs around its nape I used my elbows to nudge my door entry badge against the reader, unlocking it. Moments like this don’t happen often. An opportunity to see something so flitting and distant, so close up. It’s head lopped slightly to one side, and I feared that it would not recover.
I waited a couple of minutes and watched its beak repeatedly open and close and felt it’s heart pounding against my fingers. It was moving it’s head a little better and I went to share the wonder with others. Then within a few minutes we were outside, a little rescue party, hoping to see the fragile little thing fly off. I urged it on to a small branch of the hawthorn hedgerow. Then that magic moment.
It sat there for about thirty seconds just looking towards me, a couple of breast feathers still a little misplaced. It chirped it’s unmistakable blue tit chirp. At me. Then hopped a little deeper into the hedge, still visible through the leafless, twiggy network. And in less than a minute it flew off in the direction of many more blue tit chirps.
On reflection, what an amazingly brilliant, fantastic day. For me and the bird.
The Bald Birder 