April

I don’t suppose that information is kept on something as subjective as the most glorious April on record, but if it was, this year’s would have to be a contender. Some days have had the freshness of spring with bright blue skies, gentle warmth and light breezes. Others have been like summer, with a stillness and heat that chase people and wildlife into the shade of trees, many of which are now in full leaf.
On one such day I walked over the land belonging to the Woodland Trust to the south of Oakham. Ball’s Meadow, Harris Grove and Brooke Hill Wood. Three names for a small area of land, a gentle slope leading to a view over Oakham and Rutland Water. The sheep had all been pushed to the margins, sheltering under bushes, huddled together, not for warmth but for protection from the sun’s heat. Birds were difficult to spot, they were briefly visible, dashing from tree to bush. The spring’s breeding necessities forced them to keep active, but they did not pause in the unseasonal midday warmth. Among the foliage it was possible to gain the briefest of glimpses of finches, robins  and blackbirds. But it was the song of the warblers; the chiff chaffs and blackcaps, that gave the consistent indication of avian activity. The gorse coming into flower released its soft coconut scent, and among these brown and yellow bushes a good number of bluebells reminded me that this was spring and not summer. As I walked back down towards the town I spotted a buzzard circling on the thermals. This raptor was joined by two kestrels doing the same, climbing higher and higher. A crow flew into view and seemed to think about interfering, but gave up after a couple of passes as the birds of prey gained altitude and disappeared into the blue.

Gorse Flowers

View from the Woodland Trust land on the edge of  Oakham.

Looking north from Rockingham Castle

Knossington Bird Survey

The morning promised sunshine, pale golden light was glowing through a cloud draped sky. By the time I was on my way at 7:30 there were more signs that the cloud was going to win. By 7:48 I was in my allotted tetrad beginning my late winter count. Counting was made harder by the deep, soft mud, trying to pull my feet from under me. I tried to look up to the trees and bushes around me, but my eyes kept being dragged down to my feet, all of my concentration focussed on remaining upright.

But today, this late February morning, spring was with me, although a wind was rising. Robins that have kept up their song all through the winter are now being joined by the chaffinch, tits and dunnocks. Walking past Windmill Lodge, I see what look like thrushes on a farm building. Fieldfare I suspect, but against the light, skulking in shadows I can’t be sure. I am sure of the small cloud of around fifteen yellow hammers that rise from the thick bare-twigged hedges. Joining the spring song, the males now with their canary yellow heads seemed to be dripping from the trees and bushes today.

I hear so many people disbelieving research into bird numbers and trends, basing their beliefs on their own experience and anecdotal evidence. If I were to follow suit, and I’m not, I would be satisfied from today’s walk that the yellow hammer is flourishing. I know this is not the case.

On a timed visit, trying to cover as much of the map square as possible in one hour, trying to record as many of the birds as possible, an identification of a call has to suffice. A green woodpecker continues to taunt me, calling, close by, I look up each time, but I haven’t time to stop and search for the bird I know is there.

A flock of around seventy fieldfare fly from tree to tree, at this early hour the countryside seems thronged with birds. Corvids, tits, finches – including a pair of bull finches. I’m delayed by an identification crisis. After about 5 minutes of listening to song and looking form minute differences I am satisfied that the bird is a willow, not a marsh, tit.

With just around a minute of my hour left the welcome song of the skylark reaches my ears and, unusually, my eyes find it easily as it climbs into the sky.

The small rolling fields, wooded coverts, brooks and streams of the Leicestershire countryside are becoming familiar to me now. A pure joy to be in, if only for an hour.

Mist

Today a low lying mist sits in the valleys. In pockets among trees. Not the dense fog of the past few days. In Fineshade Wood all around the word ‘dank’ comes to mind. Not that this is a bad thing. Drops of moisture hang on twigs and branches, wood is turned black and dark brown from weeks of soaking. Shades of green moss creep up trees, almost fluorescent at the tips. Matted leaf litter covers the ground, sodden, at various stages of decay. Mist hangs in the cold air. Weeks of freezing temperatures have left thick ice in ditches. I’m reminded of Andrei Tarkovsky’s film ‘Stalker’, the dripping mid-winter stillness suggests the no-man’s land of ‘the zone’ in Martin Cruz-Smith’s ‘Wolves Eat Dogs’. I like that feeling, imagining vast tracts of lonely land, rather than a small part of Rockingham Forest in Northamptonshire.
Not that this forest is devoid of life. There are plenty of blue and great tits and more coal tits than I have ever seen together, the odd marsh tit too. In places mixed flocks of some these along with long tailed tits bring the seemingly dead trees to life as they sweep their way through on the perpetual winter search for food. Sections of hedgerow seem to be dripping with redwings, that flee in small groups as I make my way along the path.
After Fineshade, a brief trip skirting the edge of Blatherwycke Lake. Most of this is still frozen, despite it being some days since the thaw set in, with all but the biggest drifts of snow now gone. On the water swans and tufted ducks mill around, the plaintive whistling of wigeon drift through the mist that hides them. Light fades, another midwinter day ending, time to be inside with coffee and shortbread.

Ice and mist on Blatherwycke Lake