Clipsham Yew Tree Avenue

I’ve visited the yew trees at Clipsham a few times now, in sun, snow and today in early autumn’s sunshine and showers. The avenue contains around 150 topiaried yew trees, apparently dating back about 200 years. The avenue and surrounding woodland is managed by the Forestry Commission, but Clipsham Hall, now separated from its former drive is visible from the end of the avenue. It’s now the HQ of a local quarrying company, but I like to look at the mature tree parkland, with its grazing sheep and the hall behind. When there aren’t many people around I can imagine that I live here, enjoying a simple, privileged life, in a less complicated world, maybe a hedonistic Bertie Wooster character. I love this type of English stately home parkland, with the glimpse into history it gives, an opportunity to relax into escapism.

As I stood at the end of the avenue the rain set it, shelter found under the broad leaved trees at that stand behind the yews on either side. The sheep also headed for cover, but in a half hearted way, many of them not reaching the trees before the sudden shower stopped, and they carried on grazing, instantly forgetting the purpose that had caused them to move.

Walking back along the avenue I came across a footpath I hadn’t noticed before. Having walked past several fairy rings, I wondered briefly if I had stumbled through some portal to an alternative world, but then dimly recalled that I had seen the path before, but ignored it as it had a ‘no entry’ sign barring the way, presumably due to forestry works. Anyway, the path was now open. On either side woods, pine and deciduous but held at a distance by a broad margin of brambles, shrubs, various low vegetation. This afforded a good view of the clearing sky. The combination of conditions and pine woods reminded me of warm Autumn visits to Scotland. I knew this place was much smaller, but it’s a nice feeling on a Sunday afternoon to be transported momentarily to walking in a vast Scottish landscape. The verges either side of the path seemed to be stuffed full of unseen twittering wrens. Six fallow deer ran across the path 50 yards ahead, the last one with a flourish of a springed four-footed jump over a small ditch, and the the short procession disappeared, the movement of wild animals such a marked contrast to the aimless wanderings of sheep.

Being close to home I resolve that this is a good place for regular visits, seeming to hold a good store of woodland life, somewhere to watch the seasons change.

Sherwood Pines Forest Park

Crowded car park, bikes hurtling and bouncing past, families and stag parties attached to zip wires, half way up trees. Welcome to Sherwood Pines Forest Park. We do have to accept, in England, that much of what we know as the countryside bears the strong imprint of human hands, and this is very much the case in this Forestry Commission managed area of Sherwood Forest. But while it’s possible to debate how natural this forest is, there is no doubting that the Park is a large chunk of wooded area and so worth surely worth a look.

Actually I don’t mind all of the noise of the visitors’ centre/café hub of park. Firstly it demonstrates that contrary to endless news reports, we’re not totally a nation of obese console gamers. It’s good to see people enjoying being outdoors, and while many of them are going too fast to see much of it, I can understand the thrill of careering downhill over ruts and roots, only being able to guess at the sharpness of the bend ahead. Secondly, the aforementioned bustle, with its clicking of wheels and gears and children’s excited screams, serve to accentuate the calm when you find a less populated footpath, slightly further into the forest.
And when your ears have retuned to the quieter surroundings, you realise that the wood is far from silent as birdsong and call filters through the branches. There’s the rasping and croaking of various corvids, the laughter of green woodpeckers and plenty of other industrious seeping of tits and finches, twittering of wrens. A glance up to the top of the tall pines reveals frequent passages of small mixed flocks of foraging birds. For all the management and cropping that goes on in Forestry Commission land, the wildlife is there, making the most of this resource.
Among the sound-absorbing pines there are also stands of native broad leaved trees, patches of rich smelling bracken and even a few small areas of heath land, complete with purple heather. I found these areas particularly pleasing. Like Hertford Heath in Hertfordshire, discovering a patch of local(ish) heath is a small and unexpected treasure.
It’s early September, some parts of the forest are starting to carry the fungal smell of decay, reminding you of the cycles of life within the wood. There are still splashes of wild flower colour, the odd red campion flower holding on, a few blooms of foxgloves now outnumbered by their brown, dead siblings. The sunlight that filters through the trees is hazy and diluted, there’s some still warmth, the season’s are in transition, the deciduous trees preparing for their show of autumn colours.
Going to a busy forest park doesn’t feel like going to the true countryside. Following, or trying to follow the white way markers isn’t the same as looking at the OS map and choosing your route.  But the wildlife here isn’t concerned with how manmade their habitat might be, and this park is large enough to afford pockets of tranquillity, expanses of beauty and plenty of room to breathe.

It’s Important To Make Time For Hobbies

I know that there are several planes that have been named after birds or other airborne creatures. It stands to reason really, having flight in common. Harriers for example or the Tiger Moth. Actually I couldn’t think of any others, but I’ve always imagined there are lots. A bit of research turned up The Sopwith Snipe, a not very fierce sounding WWI biplane. But watching a hobby in flight it seemed some nimble jet fighter should have been named after this highly-skilled bird of prey.
I watched it above Rutland Water on a brief sortie, it flew across my field of vision, left to right, with purposeful, strong wing beats, and gradually gained height, on a determined mission. It was some distance away by the time it had reached its desired altitude and I had to follow it carefully with my binoculars, a black silhouette against white and pale grey clouds. It was out on its own and then, I saw it among smaller dots, hirundines, in this case, sand martins. It seemed to select one perhaps at random, but once it set its sights it darted with an impressive turn of speed, somewhere between a fighter plane and a guided missile. The brief aerial encounter resembled a dog fight with both birds deftly performing aerobatics, the hobby in pursuit, the martin desperate for escape. The duel was brief, there must have been something in the martin’s agility that told the hobby it was not going to be successful this time, maybe it had been spotted too early and the element of surprise was lost. The raptor recognised that there was no point in wasting energy and turned and glided with hunched shoulders and outstretched wings, on an even descending trajectory as if approaching a landing strip, and drifted out of sight amongst a stand of trees.
The whole episode lasted probably a minute, maybe 30 seconds more, but put me in awe of these spectacular birds that choose some of the most challenging prey, a battle for survival that continues through the winter as both hunter and quarry migrate from Europe to Africa. More commonly I have seen the hobby sweeping across bodies of water, catching dragonflies in its talons and lifting them to its beak, to be eaten mid-flight. The purpose and the execution of the hunt was almost militaristic and even if on this occasion it was unsuccessful, a bird with such aerial confidence is a formidable threat to the insects and birds it seeks out.

Autumn

It was a few years ago when I first noticed that mid-August change in the air. Walking out into the sun of a new day, sensing something different, a cooling, a loss of intensity; the air that envelops strokes your skin and tells you that autumn is on its way. The first time I felt it, I was upset, I felt cheated out of my summer, shocked, that this feeling I’d recognised in September or October had intruded into August. I’ve since learnt that this first prick of season’s change isn’t always final. Summer can rally and return, but you know it’s only a temporary interlude by then.


For a couple of years I resented that change, failing to note exactly when it took place but recognising it as always premature. That’s because I’d always assumed that summer was my favourite season. Everyone loves sunshine and warmth after all. But what is summer? Does it not always bring disappointment? We have such high expectations of the season, and when skies darken and rain falls, we curse the weather, asking when the summer will come back, failing to understand that this is it. Autumn can bring warmth without summer’s ferocity and crystal skies that are freshened by the cool air. But when it rains and it’s cold, it’s what we expect of the season, we aren’t disappointed and the glorious, rust coloured leaves on blue skied days bringing on fruit and bonfires are prizes to be cherished when they occur. Dark, misty evenings drip with atmosphere shrouding lives in mystery. Far better to welcome the over achieving autumn than constantly lament the failure of summer.

Now it seems it has happened again, an unremarkable and at times dismal August has given way to a relaxed, inviting September. Welcome, then, to autumn.