Crom.

Portrait of J.R.R. Tolkien and 'The Hill' in the Shire.

                                          Oh those rainy days!

Vincent van Gogh. Copy of Self Portrait with Pipe and Bandaged Ear.

                An early attempt. (Even more rainy days)

The Devil Bird.

The dark plumage and the high pitched shriek of the swift has earned it such names as devil bird or devil screecher in different parts of the country. Many people believed them to be lost souls still searching for redemption. Personally I love swifts and find then a fascinating bird. They are actually sooty-brown in colour and are one of the last migrants to arrive and one of the first to leave. Close up they do appear very reptilian, so before the realisation of migration of some bird species it is perhaps not too difficult to understand that folklore dictated that swifts, along with swallows and Martins, spent the winter months hibernating in the mud of ponds and lakes until spring arrived.

Swifts have had a bad time this year: the cold and extremely wet conditions of late spring and early summer have interfered drastically with breeding and nesting. Insects to be caught on the wing have been scarce and many swifts it is thought have given up and abandoned Britain altogether. This is bad news indeed as swifts are already in decline, on the amber alert list in fact, mainly because of diminishing nesting sites: modern housing and buildings gives little scope to such birds to nest successfully.

As I sit in my garden today a group of about eight young swifts ‘scream’ over-head, sometimes so low I can hear the ‘whoosh’ of their scythe-like wings as they cut through the still, warm air. These are the lucky ones and I wish them Godspeed on their hazardous journey back to South Africa. Strangely the adults depart first leaving the young to find their own way to their new home in the sun (how do they do it?) -many people are now beginning to lose the ability to read a road map!

Swifts need our help! – A winter project! Find out ways of helping them. Ok the weather is beyond our control, but perhaps creating nesting sites is not?

Weasels, Owls and a Day without Rain.

My goodness it’s actually stopped raining - for the moment! A quick rush to grab boots, jacket and binoculars. Time for a walk around the Goyt. Watching birds from the windows of the house can be great fun, I even scored a garden tick yesterday with a beautiful stock dove, although its behaviour proved less attractive as it pulled out plants from a seed tray left on the garden table with what resembled wonton vandalism and total disregard for any aesthetic beauty – but that’s birds for you; we may admire beauty in all its artistic forms, but birds, there’re just in it for the food and lodging. It could be a building site or a refuge tip, a railway siding or a piece of derelict land, as long as it fits the birds’ criteria that’s ok. The weather is ‘sticky’, humid and unpredictable, so nothing new there then.
Within minutes I’m plodding up the ‘Old Road’. A few house Martins are sweeping low over the rough pasture where young cows are grazing otherwise all is quiet. This is of course the time of year some birders refer to as the ‘still months’. Most birds have finished rearing young and are now taking a well earned rest; some begin to start their summer moult.

The moor is a good place to walk when you wish to clear your head and already its therapeutic value has begins to take hold. Up here in the wilderness you can breathe and let your mind wander over its vastness. Soon a familiar ‘clicking’ sound is heard among the bracken and male stonechat is quickly located. You are now more likely to encounter a stonechat on the moor than a whinchat. The stonechat, in the past a bird of the coastal regions seems very at home on our moorland. Soon I am in the valley proper and walking down the road towards Errwood. Within seconds a small creature ‘dances’ towards me. It is a weasel and appears to be on the hunt, leaping into the undergrowth of the road verge then leaping back out again and dashing over to the other side. Closer and closer to me it came as if waltzing on hot coals, its eyes seeming beady and alive; yet its poor eyesight did not make my humble self visible for some time as I watched transfixed, overjoyed at gaining such a superb sighting. But very soon it leaped into the undergrowth never to reappear.

The valley was very quiet, just a few tits and finches chirping among the oaks. A pair of kestrels came into view over the moor, at first circling, then periodically hovering in the still air. A lone cormorant sat on blue buoy in the middle of the reservoir and a pair of common sandpipers ‘piped’ their way across the water. Canada geese trooped through the tall grass and grey wagtail launched itself after insects from the gravel bank where the river entered the reservoir.

The humidity soon began to take its toll and as I plodded up the incline the sweat began to run down my face. On reaching the old railway line I was glad for some level walking and even happier when I found a wooden bench to sit on and have a breather. As I sat a short-eared owl came into view quartering the heather in familiar fashion, its almost white form drifting ghostlike over the walls and cloughs. Within seconds it was joined by another owl and harsh cries were heard from both birds: rivals or family I do not know, but I watched them for almost ten minutes, entranced by every passing second before making my way home, rather weary but clear-headed.

Making jubilee crowns outside the Gamekeeper's House cottage, near Dunkeld, Scotland

Fading Away

There are no long goodbyes
Just a strange fading sensation
As if that part of your life
Never really existed.
You begin to feel like a ghost
In some Hollywood film –
You’re talking to people
Attempting to grab their attention
But nobody is responding;
You are just thin air
Swept away by the innovative breeze:
Slowly the babble of conversation
Slips away into the stratosphere
And is lost in a swelling mist
Of confused thoughts and memories.

Then you realise that you still exist
And smile
And move on; forgotten by many
Remembered by a few,
A discarded password
That flickers like a dying star
On a computer screen.
This is life – a series of goodbyes
And greetings,
Out of light into darkness
And back into light;
Flitting like a butterfly
Back into a sunlit world
Full of birdsong,
Quartering the silence
Of fond recollections.