Day met night, coming the other way. Thoroughly overcast, still cooled by the Easterly, we went to see the boat, but from the shore. She is moored amongst friends again; five masts together.
We turned home. Revisiting the brave godwit on the way. Further on, a very pale swimming bird. It reached mud and rose steadily onto legs that could only belong to an avocet. We could just discern the light shining on the upturned, black beak. Of course, decent cameras and binoculars had been left at home.
After we watched a while (and borrowed some binoculars, thankyou), we climbed up onto the sea-wall and turned for a last look towards the boat. Sunshine had finally broken through over Portsmouth and the Spinnaker tower did what it was designed to do and glowed orange, pointing at the sky, marking this historic landmark on the shore of the Solent.
Driving home, the dark cloud receded to the West, finally allowing the setting sun to light its edge with a fire. The three quarter moon was revealed.
Sunday 20 March 2016
Friday 18 March 2016
Wednesday 16 March 2016
eekology
Ground hugging cloud and night frosts not-with-standing, spring is coming. I hesitate to describe its progress in detail lest my account be used to fuel the global warming debate, on either side. Suffice to mention that we have primroses, celandines, grape-hyacinth all joining in with the daffodils. Black-birds are nesting, doves are flirting and I watched, this morning, a starling have a particularly good wash in one of our lilly ponds, hoping I felt, to get lucky soon.
It was during the process of fetching tools to contrive a prosthetic foot for one of our over-bath drying racks, that I had a close encounter with a remarkably bold brown mouse who was engaged in stealing the content of my bird food bag to line a nest built somewhere under the summer junk in the conservatory. With all of the windows closed, mice can only gain entrance (as far as I know) when the back door is left ajar by garden visitors, or more likely my youngest extracting his bicycle from the garage.
I set my home-made trap, with little expectation that it might operate correctly and I was unsurprised to find that, on Monday evening, the peanut-butter bait was gone, the door to the trap was closed but not locked and the mouse, was absent. As I've mentioned on another occasion, I had lost the humane mouse-trap that was purchased for another mouse in another home many years before; strangely and unbidden I conjured a vision of where this trap was stored and it took only a couple of minutes to find it, set it and bait it.
No mouse was foolish before I went to bed around midnight, but at 7am there was a rather subdued rodent fretting in the bought box. He was glad to find the shrubbery when I opened the lid, poor thing, evicted to fend with the rest of is kind.
It was during the process of fetching tools to contrive a prosthetic foot for one of our over-bath drying racks, that I had a close encounter with a remarkably bold brown mouse who was engaged in stealing the content of my bird food bag to line a nest built somewhere under the summer junk in the conservatory. With all of the windows closed, mice can only gain entrance (as far as I know) when the back door is left ajar by garden visitors, or more likely my youngest extracting his bicycle from the garage.
I set my home-made trap, with little expectation that it might operate correctly and I was unsurprised to find that, on Monday evening, the peanut-butter bait was gone, the door to the trap was closed but not locked and the mouse, was absent. As I've mentioned on another occasion, I had lost the humane mouse-trap that was purchased for another mouse in another home many years before; strangely and unbidden I conjured a vision of where this trap was stored and it took only a couple of minutes to find it, set it and bait it.
No mouse was foolish before I went to bed around midnight, but at 7am there was a rather subdued rodent fretting in the bought box. He was glad to find the shrubbery when I opened the lid, poor thing, evicted to fend with the rest of is kind.
The unfamiliar sighted in the midst
Early fog, Saturday, restricted our view of the estuary to around a hundred yards at the start of a short walk round the ancient salt-pan ponds. Only a couple of sleeping boats were in sight when we parked against the sea-wall.
The Needles lighthouse fog horn called regularly, with an occasional chorus sung by some vessel around Yarmouth, although all this was just part of a soundscape that augmented our restricted visual senses to remind us that the world was larger than we could see.
On the landward side of the marshes the straight path took us East, at an elevation low enough that most of the marsh life was hidden by bramble and overgrown thorn hedges festooned in lichens. Scanning with light binoculars I found a red doe; sitting very calmly, aware of us but untroubled.
At half way, we walked towards the beach again and the fog began to clear in patches. Lymington and its ferry emerged. A couple of small boats including a kayaker who appeared to be paddling the sky, just above a finger of marsh that jutted North at the river entrance.
The water was immensely still, only moving sluggishly and only washing at all with boat wakes. The tide was climbing, but so slowly that the dust on the water's surface mapped out the last hour of gentle gyres and currents. Spiral pools of dust, decorated by smudged lines.
Mostly the usual bird-life, always welcome, but familiar. A good view of skylark and reed bunting. The Hurst lighthouse poked through the shroud, followed shortly by the castle. The tops of the Isle's hills began to define themselves against a brightening sky. (Though the ferry vanished slowly as it crossed, meeting the bridge of its twin before leaving entirely)
The quiet mood seemed to infect those we met; we talked in hushed tones. Runners and cyclists were taking their time. A surprise splash from a dog, belly-flopping in after a stick.
On the largest of the ponds, behind the sea-wall path we followed, was a sleepy spoon-bill. Only obviously not an egret when it untucked its feeding machine from between its wings to preen.
The Needles lighthouse fog horn called regularly, with an occasional chorus sung by some vessel around Yarmouth, although all this was just part of a soundscape that augmented our restricted visual senses to remind us that the world was larger than we could see.
On the landward side of the marshes the straight path took us East, at an elevation low enough that most of the marsh life was hidden by bramble and overgrown thorn hedges festooned in lichens. Scanning with light binoculars I found a red doe; sitting very calmly, aware of us but untroubled.
At half way, we walked towards the beach again and the fog began to clear in patches. Lymington and its ferry emerged. A couple of small boats including a kayaker who appeared to be paddling the sky, just above a finger of marsh that jutted North at the river entrance.
The water was immensely still, only moving sluggishly and only washing at all with boat wakes. The tide was climbing, but so slowly that the dust on the water's surface mapped out the last hour of gentle gyres and currents. Spiral pools of dust, decorated by smudged lines.
Mostly the usual bird-life, always welcome, but familiar. A good view of skylark and reed bunting. The Hurst lighthouse poked through the shroud, followed shortly by the castle. The tops of the Isle's hills began to define themselves against a brightening sky. (Though the ferry vanished slowly as it crossed, meeting the bridge of its twin before leaving entirely)
The quiet mood seemed to infect those we met; we talked in hushed tones. Runners and cyclists were taking their time. A surprise splash from a dog, belly-flopping in after a stick.
On the largest of the ponds, behind the sea-wall path we followed, was a sleepy spoon-bill. Only obviously not an egret when it untucked its feeding machine from between its wings to preen.
Wednesday 9 March 2016
Hair today
Sheep have been let out and left snags of winter coat on the lowest brambles of the hedges. Wisely, the ponies are holding on to their long manes, at least until the agisters.
Almost still life
Sunday, though close to the fallow deer of last week, we saw no more. Unexpectedly little birdsong in the woods too, leaving me thinking that the colder air might have surpressed some of the earlier enthusiasm. We walked well-made paths; initially downwards on fine gravel, sorted by the passage of waters that had left streaks of sorted stones from chips to sand grains. On the valley floor, undulated only by the necessity to keep most of the moving water in a single channel, the paths were more serious aggregate, stones and clay mud, to support forestry vehicles and the trickle of cycles.
The corners of the paths greeted us either with new draughts or with beams of sunlight to bask in briefly and restore circulations. I watched a disturbed wood-ants' nest for long enough to see a few ants move; laborious.
These paths have echoes of our young children. Here they stood to listen to woodpeckers, on this bridge stood for pooh-sticks; we saw a wide bodied darter or a pond skater. Alone, the walk is more rhythmic, but less endowed with memory or laughter. Some trees they knew are now fallen; the fallen they clambered are now dust. The cool, still pools are the same, but the molecules they paddled are now scattered to the four corners
The corners of the paths greeted us either with new draughts or with beams of sunlight to bask in briefly and restore circulations. I watched a disturbed wood-ants' nest for long enough to see a few ants move; laborious.
These paths have echoes of our young children. Here they stood to listen to woodpeckers, on this bridge stood for pooh-sticks; we saw a wide bodied darter or a pond skater. Alone, the walk is more rhythmic, but less endowed with memory or laughter. Some trees they knew are now fallen; the fallen they clambered are now dust. The cool, still pools are the same, but the molecules they paddled are now scattered to the four corners
Run in
Ditches were running fast and the lawns presenting as water meadows this morning. Verges held a continuous ribbon of water in the gutters, sometimes flowing or pooling, ready to be thrown by a tyre.
I admired the waters, mentally measuring the spates large enough to accommodate a kayak. Mostly though my attention was on the budding of deciduous woods. The copper beeches have joined the brushed-by-purple club, whose early membership, the silver birches now top the apparent alien charts.
The greening of other varieties is still concealed by the camouflage of the persistent lichen that clothes them in the Forest. Occasional ornamentals already show blossom. Camellias have put out a first desultory flush, keeping back the main show for more reliable warmth; tulip magnolias are half open in sheltered spots. Hedgerow fruits are promised too, if the insects get out in time.
All, of course, waving this morning in the breeze that is denying the frost.
I admired the waters, mentally measuring the spates large enough to accommodate a kayak. Mostly though my attention was on the budding of deciduous woods. The copper beeches have joined the brushed-by-purple club, whose early membership, the silver birches now top the apparent alien charts.
The greening of other varieties is still concealed by the camouflage of the persistent lichen that clothes them in the Forest. Occasional ornamentals already show blossom. Camellias have put out a first desultory flush, keeping back the main show for more reliable warmth; tulip magnolias are half open in sheltered spots. Hedgerow fruits are promised too, if the insects get out in time.
All, of course, waving this morning in the breeze that is denying the frost.
Monday 7 March 2016
Little boat trip
On Saturday afternoon the North Easterly wind opposed the sun and the clouds decided who was running the weather. We sat outside on the boat, returned to its summer mooring, and watched the wind push rainstorms East of us, out over the coast, across the Solent and onto the Isle of Wight, where, once the sun returned, the Isle glistened enticingly.
Lines and bilges checked and a quick run of the engine, we ate our buns, waved au revoir to the oyster catchers and took the tender home. Our winter spot was still empty yet. At 4pm I declared the wind the winner, but kept my cold hands pocketed rather than shake a fist at it.
Lines and bilges checked and a quick run of the engine, we ate our buns, waved au revoir to the oyster catchers and took the tender home. Our winter spot was still empty yet. At 4pm I declared the wind the winner, but kept my cold hands pocketed rather than shake a fist at it.
Friday 4 March 2016
Tuesday 1 March 2016
Imposters alike
Changes. Under the usual arrangement, warm moist air is drawn off the Gulf Stream and deposited around us. The Forest is like living in the Atlantic, but shallower, and muddier and with more ponies. The weekend's Northerly blast, though only a couple of degrees cooler felt like a harbinger of change, like the "sly North wind" from "Chocolat".
The clouds are back to their common habits; the trees wave in their proper orientations. We smell the sea (we feel the rain).
The clouds are back to their common habits; the trees wave in their proper orientations. We smell the sea (we feel the rain).
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