Visitation 3

It is 6.30am. The pigeons are making their siren-like sound from the rooftops. There's a tumbling within the house, followed by a loud crash. I get up to investigate. I have a hunch I know what it is. In the living room, sat atop the leather armchair, I find a Jackdaw. It must have fallen down the chimney and passed out the open hearth and into the room. Attracted by the largest area of light, the patio doors, it is attempting to fly, only to thud forlornly against the glass each time. When it sees me in the doorway on the opposite side of the room it leaves a dropping there on the red leather and panics, flopping to the floor and knocking rapidly on the glass with its beak.

It is a surreal moment, indeed dreamlike at this time of the morning; to find something so wild and uncomprehending of the domesticity it has suddenly fallen into. It doesn't make sense visually, yet it is absolutely fascinating. It seems to absorb light into its dark plumage and emit it through beautiful pearlescent eyes; the hard stare reminds me of some Dickensian character, a wily old man or curate.

Then there is the sound. The wings erupt in crazy flurries to fly and yet find the urge confounded by this temporary cage. And with it the sudden papery fluttering, the immediacy of air caught and given lift, even in this room with its DVDs and picture frames. Bizarre and beautiful.

I like Jackdaws. They are hugely sociable birds and they have hung on to their territories and improved their breeding numbers where other birds in the crow family have suffered losses. Also, they seem to have a lot of fun in the air, even though they aren't aerial geniuses like Swifts or Swallows; they tumble and carouse readily when airborne, particularly in pairs. Place this against the more 'serious' behaviour of Rooks and Crows and they seem to be little mischievous imps, juveniles abroad.

This bird, however, is increasingly panicked and the knocking and flapping against the glass becomes more frenetic. It is all I can do to try to calm it with a gentle 'hush' as if I am talking to a child that has woken from a bad dream.

I have to get within a foot of the bird in order to undo the bolts and locks on the door and for a moment the creature freezes and stares at me unsure of my actions, tilting its head to one side and, with its hefty brow, appearing to frown. It backs away slightly but it does appear to allow me to come so close; it stops its hectic movement. It is poised for protection, but it now waits without flurry. Then, when I get the locks undone and push open the door it dips those short legs, tilts its head back to ascertain the information it needs and flies straight over the garden wall.

I feel as if I have been visited by an old friend. A familiar some might say.

Aldeburgh 29/5/06

Birdlife

Robin - 2 Meadow Pipit - 4
Song Thrush - 1 Skylark - 1
Collared Dove - 2 Marsh Harrier (m) - 1
House Martin - 1 Oystercatcher - 2
Pied Wagtail - 2 Redshank - 1
Swallow - 1 Mute Swan - 2 (m & f)

Aldeburgh Marshes
27/5/06

All Sweets Explore

When the high wind drops to a soft breeze, there are few sounds out on the marsh at dusk. The ebb tide of the river moving swiftly out at Westrow Reach is a constant ripple in the background and rigging gently tap-taps against the masts of moored yachts mid-stream. Oystercatchers call plaintive as they pass overhead and in the scrubland the Pipits gently burble away, ducking and diving for grubs.

In the spaces between I move as quietly as possible, trying to find the same delicacy as natures' pitch, to remain undisturbed and never to disturb. That is the greatest pleasure of walking in the wild. The attempt to become one with it, perhaps the first step in beginning to understand it, an emulation of rhythm. And with it come the joys and gifts of patience.

Out where no-one goes, even though there is a footpath, along the overgrown estuary bank, where the great sluice gate with its large metal operating wheel is pitched between rampant gorse and sea defences. Where Magpies roost princely at the head of low trees silhouetted against the fading daylight; where lone Redshank cruise in and dab in the shallows; and where Starlings charge themselves up on telegraph poles ready for their sundown flocking.

But before that, a male Marsh Harrier glides close overhead, his great grey wings and tail exposed toward me. Each time I see one it is as if it suddenly appears out of nowhere or else had been there all the time and I simply had not noticed. That low, V-shaped flight with the wings pulled up to glide before a few beats to maintain altitude, then gliding again head pushed forward and down, scanning the earth. He drops just out of sight, beyond a dense line of gorse into a small, secluded reed bed and there is a rising cacophony of thin calls. Probably the female with a brood. Marsh Harriers rear 3 - 5 young, with eggs laid April to May and hatched over a 30 - 38 day period, so presumably the first born is now being reared over there or soon will be.

Then the male is up again and ranging westward, inland. Behind him the sun makes one last glory of colour across the flat; shards of red and orange range upward like a giant inferno, a cumulus cloud the only endeavour to break the pattern tipped in yellow and blue-black shadow come close to paradise.

As if I wasn't spoilt enough, as I look, the Starlings rise as one and begin their airborne dusk dance. A hundred or more birds become one ethereal body, moving with the ease and grace of water over rock. They twist and turn together, a bulbous cloud of black wings and bodies; at times they appear to wink out of existence as they turn dramatically in unison only to re-appear a split second later, back on this plane. It is never failing in its magic, and the sheer joy and ebullience of it is inevitably tear-jerking. Then, suddenly, they stop and plummet back to roost as if some calculation has ended and they have done what they must.

In the old drainage dykes and pools nearby Mute Swans churn the close muddy bottom with their large webbed feet for cygnets to feed before resting up for the night, protected there on the backs of the females where they sleep; and a lone Grey Heron waits, slow motion steps and craning of the neck, to see beyond the pale surface of water to its prey beneath, statuesque.

Back in town, the Bank Holiday begun, I realise how quiet things had been out there on the marsh, how low-level and gratifying what noise there was had been, for here on the streets sound is an immediate assault - the pubs are filling with the weekenders, the tourists from London have come to briefly re-possess their holiday homes; a disco in a tent, party lights spinning back and forth across the white material, pretty in its own way, is just getting going to Madonna.

Aldeburgh Marshes

27/5/06

Birdlife

Robin - 2 Meadow Pipit - 4
Song Thrush - 1 Skylark - 1
Collared Dove - 2 Marsh Harrier (m) - 1
House Martin - 1 Oystercatcher - 2
Pied Wagtail - 2 Redshank - 1
Swallow - 1 Mute Swan - 2 (m & f)

Aldeburgh Marshes
27/5/06

Open Bestiary

A question mark over what I witness. The creature may be a dog or a fox, can't tell at first, it is too far away.

Closer, and nothing else moves for that split second of 'visitation'; when what I am seeing is unexpected, so close to the wild. A hare exposed on the beach, dabbing around between breakwaters.

Then the quicksilver scatter of grit when it spots me and charges away, up onto the beach-head track; the autumnal red of its flanks powered up and moving fast to find cover in the grass and shallow dykes of the bordering scrubland. Even on the grey/purple stones, against which it is not best camouflaged, it seems almost to wink out of existence, a liminal thing in the early dusk - hard to look at straight. When it reaches cover, it stops momentarily on a low crest to check my position and I see then its full ancient glory, almost mythical, in profile - the wild eye, the feral ears and nose, the magnificence of poise and power.

A Herring Gull passes close and the hare moves on, disappearing behind the sandy ridge into a shallow ditch. I hope it will re-appear on the land-line close by the river's edge beyond and raise itself in silhouette there, but it is gone as surely as it came.

This small wilderness at Slaughden, the no-man's-land between Aldeburgh and the Ness, where once a village existed and was taken by the sea is proving a magical zone; a little natural gift that most people, apart from the occasional dog-walker and Sunday morning tourist, seem to ignore. I think it is a place to learn from, to revisit and re-read as often as possible. I suspect, by its very 'border' identity, it's (literally) 'in-between-ness', it will always throw up the unusual and rare.

Slaughden

23/5/06

Birdlife

Marsh Harrier - 1 Whitethroat - 1
Blackcap - 2 Goldfinch -2
Shelduck - 7+ Avocet - 2
Oystercatcher - 6 Reed Bunting - 1
Swift - 11+ Swallow - 6+
Sand Martin - 4 Kestrel - 1
Little Egret - 3 Heron - 1
Wheatear - 1 Rock Pipit - 3
Snipe - 1 Coal Tit - 2

Aldeburgh
21/5/06

Strangers in a Strange Land

I'm at at the huge rocks marking the boundary between the public right of way and National Trust protected land at Orford Ness. I lean over on my elbows; bright orange lichen there stains my jacket. A strong wind hounds the coast and rain is never far away. I scan the spit of land ahead. A couple of fishermen have set up a beach tent, sea-rods resting to one side and faces staring straight ahead waiting for a bite. A small party of walkers takes a break and splits, some to the water's edge, others resting up on the path.

Through the grey glower lies Orford Ness with its eleven radio masts and sound-reflective control block, and those strange mushroom-like nuclear testing silos further along. An air of mystery and of desolation. A nether world; still slightly evil despite its long-term military redundancy. I think of rust, rubber tubing, porcelain tiles, huge Bakelite dials and tweed suits, and deadly experiments. Here they prepared for 'total warfare' 1950's style.

Between the masts, over an inland pool caught by the sea defences, a vast crowd of gulls swarm. They move incessantly in a treadmill motion, slowly, out of time. I think at first that they must be waiting to pick and feed at something caught in the pool, some shoal of fish perhaps, but then I realise that none of them are dropping to the surface and that the water is possibly too stagnant to support anything they might be interested in eating. So what are they doing there? Maybe they are attracted to something the aerial masts are transmitting or receiveing; some magnetism or signal they are picking up and returning to over and over?

In the riverside wetland close by, beneath the Martello Tower, a pair of Little Egrets explore the pools and shallows, disappearing behind grasses or where the water becomes deep and the land caps them; then the snow white heads appear momentarily, bobbing up as they stalk and watch the shallows. Then they fly in unison; caught in the wind they barely make any effort, turn back into it and use it to land very gently and gracefully. Last time I saw Egrets was in Italy, a far cry from this cold, wet place.

A pair of Rock Pipits continually chatter to each other as they forage low to the scrub, almost invisible until they rise and reveal the pale stripe of their tail feathers, beaks full of grubs. The male rests up and calls, the female twitters in reply and this keeps on going however distant they are from each other.

A flash of white and russet out the corner of my eye. Maybe a Bullfinch? But the activity and habitat aren't right. The bird saunters back behind the boundary line rocks then appears on the tip of one. I get a good look at it: a male Wheatear. Stunning little bird. He bobs there for a moment; black eye stripe, pale citrus breast and smoke grey back. Excellent sight. My first for many years. Excitement takes over and I start talking in a low whisper - it happens often when I'm out in the land alone, so to who I'm speaking I'm never sure, but it spills out of me. Maybe it is simply to the universe?

As I'm walking homeward, through the new build estate at the north end of the town, taking in diversions and future paths, up alongside the caravan park there, I happen to look skyward and straight at a passing male Marsh Harrier. I can't believe it; he's low, just above the tree line and he passes right overhead. I bound after him, taking a cut at the back of the houses that leads me into a meadow. But the Harrier has gone. A tantalising and awesome glimpse. At which point, as I'm coming down from this, a Whitethroat starts to sing right by me and hops onto a prominent branch in full view; closely followed by a pair of Blackcap. The three birds sit there shuffling easily around each other then take wing and are gone. Birder's paradise.

Aldeburgh
21/5/06

Ikenography

Walking to Iken church; two miles from Snape along the river, through the marshes and up toward a point called The Anchorage and where the Alde is renamed Long Reach. The tide is out and the silver mud exposed in soft folds where it buffs up into the main channel. At the edge of one bank a couple of Avocets dabble, hard to distinguish at first from the surrounding Shelduck population. A storm chasing up from the south holds blue-black cloud a few miles away beyond Snape itself; the sunlight ahead reflected back in the falling rain, and through a break in distant trees, it can be seen like a moving veil. Everything behind and beneath it suddenly becomes translucent. When it catches up with me, it soaks me in a matter of seconds and throws up the smell of the earth; a mixture of sandy soil and elderflower. The caustic cut of wind and rain then gives way to a break in the front and the sun comes through again in time to dry my legs and back.

At the back of my mind is the prospect of spotting the Marsh Harriers, but despite constant reports of sightings they have eluded me and this weather will keep them well hidden. But I have the pleasure of spying on a male Reed Warbler who shows himself, calling from a high post.

The church holds the remnants of a 9th century Saxon cross and a font covered with strange hybrids, part human, part beast - they have fish like faces and wings and clutch sheaths of corn to their breasts, or else they are large women with mad hair and staring eyes - presumably they are hellish aspects kept down by the sacred water above. Or else the water without as it starts to rain once more. I sit this downpour out in the dark, dry porch -

Iken, Suffolk
20/5/06

Visitation 2

After the rains of the past few days the river at Portinscale is racing, fuller now and with a different identity than a few days before - white water more apparent mid-stream; and the Sand Martins are less active around the nest site, preferring their higher altitude feeding on the wing and not coming down to earth until much later in the evening -

Out in the field the lambs are getting boisterous, in particular one group who play at head-butting each other and then chasing each other to the river's edge where they bump and leap and challenge - its cute to watch, but also slightly agonising when their heads crack together, skulls thudding -

Portinscale
17/5/06

Visitations

With the Sand Martin colony close to Portinscale - twenty plus birds cruising the warm damp air, plummeting and closing in on their nest holes in the river bank - these chattering, high-speed migrants have only arrived in the last twenty four hours or so (certainly they were not here the day before yesterday when we passed through on our walk toward How) - they are great little birds, I adore them; managing that trek all the way from Africa to here where many of them have nested before - they rove about us as we sit on the opposite bank following them in and out of the nests, some in pairs, some singly - stuttering wing-beats and almost bat-like appearance in flight - that close to them, a mere stretch of running water between us, can only make us feel we are 'with' them, watching every move - almost a soap opera of relocation and burgeoning family survival - we want them to succeed, all of them, hoping nothing bad will befall them -

Portinscale
11/5/06

Inner Space, Outer Space

I am in the valley by Uzzicar - named like some magicians' spell - where I find patterns emerging in the self - this desire to explore the new rather than revisit the familiar - makes me wonder if I am become a consumer of the land instead of a genuine explorer. This relates to my writing as well.

What do I mean?

Well, every day this week I have opened out the OS Map and figured a new route to try - one that will not cross any path I have taken in the days beforehand; that is my prime criteria, no repetition - either on foot or on my trusty Velocity bike. I like to believe I am learning about my surroundings, this new and enticing landscape, thereby locating myself ecologically, geographically and psychogeographically.

All well and good - in theory.

But I start to wonder about the necessity of going deeper, to better understand a tract of land (or, similarly, a piece of writing) in such a way that one finds more than just the immediate, the surface, the obvious - getting to grips with what Richard Mabey calls 'the naming of parts' on his journeys into the East Anglian landscape - identifying, coming to terms with detail, the exact ecology of place, the exact name - it is a parallel to writing, the hunt for the exact word - the wild language, Gary Snyder once said, sought daily -

So am I simply consuming space out here as I readily produce words, gaining ground in both ways? Or am I finding a method of understanding the land, the self, and therefore my work? If this is so I know I don't want the easy option - the packaged landscape that the consumers come for; I want to get beneath, inside, to get dirty. That is wholly important to my understanding of land and, thereby, self and if I understand self a little more then maybe my writing will be better? I can only get beneath by persevering with the familiar. Revisiting, having patience (the same as any birdwatcher for example, the patience to wait and maintain observation), never allowing myself to become spoilt by what I see.

This is good news. If this is the case, then I am learning and the land is helping me. It is a balance, a way forward that I had forgotten was necessary.

Two buzzards are circling on thermals over Barrow. A ram's bleeting echoes across the valley and back. A drift of wood smoke crosses eastward on the breeze.
I believe I am once again taking time to see, to feel. To understand imagery and emotions linked.

I'll stay seated here for a while and tomorrow I'll return.

Uzzicar, Cumbria
10/5/06

This Bridge

It is a wicked (as in excellent) event - in the wicked (as in candle wick) hours - the dusk rhythm we have got into - each evening trekking as the light fades close to 9pm - out on a track into the land, discovering:

up-ended oaks come down in recent gales, oddly amputated mid-way down the trunk;
gobs of black sheep's wool caught on wire and branch ends;
hidden 'becks and gills' (local words for streams and brooks) coming down off Skiddaw and Blencathra, quietly tipping the night's edge just before dark;
bee-hives in the lee;
a cutting from yesterday's Guardian, an obituary of a local priest - the article placed inside a plastic sleeve and nailed to a barn door;
the eye-bright glow of gorse beyond, fluorescent, seemingly lit from within on the hillside -

All accompanied by the humble 'tramp-tramp-skip' of boots in the grass and on slate.

We find our way back in the purple dark with vaguely familiar landmarks appearing and hawthorn scent or marigold close by the 'X' shaped stiles pointing the way out of the sheep's marsh -

And my heavy, writing-leaden mood lifts at the tuck between the gill and the road where it is crossed by a small stone bridge (if you can even call it that being a platform of slate given lift by some salty boulders) and a tyre swing has been left by kids at the Applethwaite turn - it is at this moment that I know I must carry on through the this struggle, face the page again tomorrow, keep writing -

We are at the fulcrum where all the hills and fells on the west side of the lake can be seen clearly and each is a little tease at my belly wondering what the prospect of climbing each will be like - that still lies ahead in June -

Drawing back to the local: the black-faced lambs have come to stare in groups at the field edge, curious, watching our approach then leaping away when we get close, looking back at us, careening loose-footed up field to their elders.

Applethwaite, Cumbria
9/5/06

Birdlife

Chiffchaff - 1 Grey Wagtail - 2
Jay - 1 Heron - 1
Swallow - 8+ Mallard - 4
Chaffinch - 8+ Robin - 1
Goldfinch - 1 Song Thrush - 3
Great Tit - 3

Dinner to Go

Two swifts came pell-mell along the street, fearless, in a huge arc from above and just missing my head - for the briefest moment I took a look into the face of one of them, the open smiling beak, and the quick alert eye like a black pearl. I heard the air rushing over them and then they were gone, screaming their way upward, feasting on bugs riding the warm spring air. I was left reeling, breathlessly laughing at the event.

In the evening, we took the route along the River Derwent, heading North West out through the hamlet of How. Where the road ended we stopped and watched a gathering of Swallows race over the pasture. They flew no more than six inches from the ground, following every curve and tussock easily. Something mesmeric about them: their pace, their electric energy and that metallic blueness in their plumage, vivid and sure. Every so often they would wheel out from the meadow and head directly over our heads, coming close and whistling as they went as if they were laughing with absolute glee; flashing their pale bellies, then returning once again to cover ground and feed. The sheep and cows in the meadow chewed on, inching their way to the southern end, gently watching with those sad gold eyes, the lambs oddly silent as they tagged along.

Close to the waters edge we passed through a glade of bluebells, knotted oaks, and the odd pale daffodil, the perfect fairy-tale glade, then took the furthest stile into the next field of recently calved heifers with their young. The river here ran fast and threw itself about over boulders and shale; here and there banks of sand and rock broke the surface and on one a Grey Wagtail jumped for midges and bugs on the wing. The bird almost somersaulting, catching its prey, then landing back on the ground and bobbing its tail to some hidden rhythm of expectation and achievement. Then it repeated and repeated until its beak was a knot of lacewings and grubby bodies. We wondered how it might get any more in, there didn't seem to be room left in its beak. But it rose again, somersaulted, caught what it was after and landed, checked itself then flew behind us toward the narrow tree line at the edge of the field. Moments later it returned and was joined by the female. They spent the next twenty minutes or so engaged in this acrobatic catching of prey; flurries of yellow, grey and white as they span and twisted just above the water, even on odd occasions dipping the beak in the stream if necessary.

Keswick, Cumbria
7/5/06

This Is Where I Live

Muscle memory in the hills at Swinside - Tree Pipits are flirting on the slopes, almost kissing in mid-air dances as they erupt from the undergrowth and the gorse to then rapidly descend and touch the earth - then they part to separate perches - where the scrub has been burnt back to bare, bone-like branches they wait in the upper reaches singing before they disappear - Chaffinches 'chink-chink' at the roadside as a huge Harley Davidson cruises by with fat, bearded Angel -

Birdlife

Stonechat - 4 Tree Pipit - 1
Whitethroat - 3 Swallow - 8+
Cormorant - 6+ Herring Gull - 12+
Black Backed-Gull - 8+

St. Bee's Head, Cumbria

Atomic

We are in the shadow of Sellafield nuclear power station, which lies a little over a mile south on the hazy edges of the Solway Firth; concrete chimneys and painted pipes rise over the headland there, and below them the reactor in its silvery globe reflecting the mid-afternoon sun like a lost UFO. A few miles out to sea the distant peaks of the Isle of Man appear from the sea-mist, a floating mirage; north of us the lowlands of Scotland are just visible, vague and enticing.

Below on the sands the weekenders are out in force playing in the shallows, exploring the rock pools, skidding about on jet-skis.

Pol asks how happy I think I am on a scale of 1-10. I reply that on average I would say I was about 7 but that I can get to 11 if that's allowed in the rules; and that I have been as low as minus 3 before, which shocks her. I tell her that I am pleased I went there and that I came through it. In this way I feel like I have lived a complete spectrum of human experience and rather that than not. Even though it was tough at the time. I'm lucky I've come through it. Not sure how exactly but it is the case. She tells me of an experiment she heard about whereby they asked a selection of adults the same question and then asked each to place their hands in a glass of ice-filled water. Those that believed they were 7 and above could hold their hands in the water indefinitely, whilst those below had to remove their hands within a minute or two. It seemed that happiness had the added bonus of making one more impervious to pain. I thought that maybe we should try it. She said we should have a go in the shallows of the sea as it was bound to be ice-cold despite today's sunshine.

We walk up over the headland on to St. Bee's Head; the air scented with the coconut-like smell of gorse growing thick and richly at the cliff edges and lining the path. A pair of Stonechat tinker with their perches, bounding from one to the other then making out onto the wire fences penning the inland meadows, catching at flies and bugs so they flick in mid-flight, changing direction with instant rapidity before returning to another perch. The female rests herself on a tuft of grass and bounces her lengthy tail impatiently, constantly on the lookout for food and for her mate who is never too far away, keeping himself close, upright and alert wherever he lands. His black and white head and shoulders crisp against the landscape, easy to spot as he shows it off. It is a treat to be in the presence of these two. There is something gaily playful about them flitting from station to station; for me they epitomise the full energy of spring. The possibilities of plenty. The joy of the burgeoning lengthy days ahead of us. The prospect of learning about a new landscape, how it lives, grows, comes then departs; allowing it to become part of our joint history, to shape us how it will, in response, in time, in experience.

Energy. It's a good word to contemplate here, looking back at the power station. A hard debate. We discuss how atoms are split and why? And which atoms for that matter, she asks? Atoms that make up everything, you, me, us, them, that. We wonder at the alternatives; Pol has a vision of the coastline laced with wind-turbines, maybe even actually in the sea itself, rising out of the water.

At the top of the Head, the Coastal Path is visible following the rise and fall of the cliffs and, from here at least, ending at a squat white lighthouse beneath which an RNLI dinghy makes its way into the Firth. There's a journey there and we make a note that one day we will walk its length as far as we can see, which would take us over the border and tantalisingly close to Hadrian's Wall, which in itself would be another walk.

Gulls and cormorants share the air space about the red cliffs; the cormorants low to the water surface, slaking in gently to the rocks and broad platforms at the cliff-base, whilst the mixed genus gulls (Herring, Black-Backed, Common etc.) wheel out from their craggy nests, effortlessly soaring in the up-draughts seemingly just for the hell of it. From our situation above them, sat on the cliff edge, looking down to the breakers beneath, we get that magic view which Pol has christened 'on the backs of birds' whereby we are higher than they are in flight. And something always happens to me then - a sharing of perspective with the bird, almost a birds-eye view; the feeling that I might be able to reach out and touch them or, even better, jump aboard as they pass and be taken for a ride out over the sea with that soft eider warmth there between my legs; effortless, gentle, broad. It is a dreamlike quality made real. I don't think I will ever tire of witnessing it and of allowing myself the notion 'what if?' That vain hope of knowing what it is like to fly under one's own effort. Leonardo da Vinci's great challenge and learned impossibility.

Behind us three Whitethroats twitter and leap; a Tree Pipit tumbles from her post and disappears into the ground scrub.

I scan the cliffs in the hope that I might catch sight of the one bird I had wanted to see today, a peregrine. They are known to nest here alongside the usual coastal birds. Every dark shape I see sidling upward or careening windward I am following with my binoculars, but each time I am conned by a crow or jackdaw making haste or play or otherwise. No falcons forthcoming today. Still I can't be disappointed, the Stonechats and Whitethroats make up my birders incessant desire to 'add to the list'.

Later, at home, I get to thinking about the nature of happiness and realise that my scale is becoming so finely attuned to what I experience on these little expeditions, whether alone or with Pol - in fact it is held in that phrase 'nature of happiness.' Increasingly, I am watching myself put back together by the landscape, the retreat from the hunting for the next job, the small orbit of fame. I get to wondering about the ice-filled glass, and the atoms there in that must add to the tickle in the soul, the lucky soul, of someone who can say they are at 7 or above.

Like the Stonechats and those Whitethroats playing for spring.

St. Bee's Head, Cumbria

Solvitur Ambulado

Watching Ospreys at Bassenthwaite Lake – this time there is huge excitement. Not only does the nesting male leave his nest to set off across the lake, but he is apparently joined by a ‘rogue’ male – which potentially means a second breeding pair could join the first and nest elsewhwere on the lake. Bearing in mind that ospreys have been extinct in the lakes for over 150 years this would mark a serious achievement for the Lakes Osprey Project team who encouraged the initial pair to nest only a few years before.

The two male birds sound each other out in flight over the lake; circling, then parting, coming together again. It is an awesome sight. These wondrous, elegant birds of prey engaged in mild aerial combat. Turning and turning; a flash of their white wing-bars and under parts. A lone buzzard then decides to mob the two smaller birds and the three switch back, pass over each other, dropping rapidly, feinting left, right then parting dramatically in separate directions. All the time the nesting female remains across the lake with her 2-3 eggs. Confirmation that there definitely is a second male on the lake sends ripples of activity and excitement through the birders watching and the project volunteers who call up the observation site at Whinlater and relay the information.

The moment is a shared one – 15-20 birders all watching through binoculars and telescopes and rattling off running commentaries of what is occurring to those who have not yet tracked the birds against the mottled landscape beyond; or even just for the simple fact that we want to communicate the beauty and excitement of this moment to each other; seeking out the flashes of white when the birds turn, the hovering, the dips, the path south towards the usual hunting ground.

I am overcome by the majesty of what I am witnessing and my view is obscured by joyful tears.

Later, early evening, on the western side of the lake, beneath the nesting place, we spot one of the pair again. This time we suspect it is the female given a break from her vigil on the nest. She sets to roost on a solitary wooden pole breaking the waters’ surface at the south end of the lake, where she waits before taking a loose flight to the shallows nearby. Here she bathes for about ten minutes, dipping her head into the water, splashing about with her wings then remaining motionless for a minute or two before repeating it all again. It is a most delicate, playful activity and surprises me in a bird of prey – but then why not? She returns to her roost and preens; she shakes and flourishes her wings, pulls at her feathers, cleaning and drying in the fading sun. After about twenty minutes and done, she flies out across the lake, heading slowly north in a low trajectory, wheels briefly with a mobbing crow, circles higher, hovers, descends about six feet above the surface, hover once more, then suddenly crashes the surface in a spray of whitewater and is away with a fish back to the post where, with a great display of wings and an arching of her neck, she begins to eat, pulling quickly at the warm, wet flesh.

Dodd, Cumbria
1/5/06