Gatekeeper moment

I walked out last Thursday, down to watch a few yards of trout stream pass peacefully by in the sunshine. I was grabbing a little lunchtime exercise to relieve the stiffness from Wednesday badminton, but walking largely for my soul.

Insects and birds flew around as I descended the hill and crossed the meadow. First (ignoring for now the crows and jackdaws) a ringlet. As the trees drew back from the path a little and quaking grass and bramble were joined by thorn and fern, the meadow brown zone began.

The track turned, wooded to the right and fields to the left, with mature deciduous trees on boundaries. Here there was some excitement over a juvenile buzzard, mobbed by lazy crows that didn't appear threatened, just concerned to establish a pecking order. These shared the blue with seagulls.

In the meadow were mostly these two butterfly species, with an occasional white, a rarer peacock, a small blue? At the first dike the dragons began with a green darter of some sort. The demoiselles also showed with damsels too, a blue and a green and a red.

At the river the demoiselles were dense, flying over the banks and the hedges, skimming over the rippled flowing stream, keeping out of the range of the mouths of brown trout who beat their tails to maintain station in the races or patrol the pools, not yet rising.

I saw a red admiral here and little skippers. A brood of ducklings and five signets with a parent on regal patrol. There were more green damsels and a speckled moth which flashed a red underwing when disturbed. The second brood of commas were patrolling, bright and bold like fools' fritillaries.

At every flicker of brown and orange I watched for the characteristic pattern of the gatekeeper upper wing, but saw only the brown and eyed wings of meadow browns. (A marbled white on the way back up the hill).

On Saturday I was in my garden (a wild and wildlife friendly place if you must imagine it) and, of a sudden, was surrounded by gatekeepers. It was that moment of the year when the changeover happens, from meadow browns to gatekeepers. The 12th of July this year.

The hedgehog has been hiding, but the young robin is still chasing insects on the lawn. The slowworms are about. I dug one out of the compost heap whilst tidying a week ago and saw one basking in the morning on our rotting tree stump. Both of these examples, assuming they were different individuals looked like healthy fat females, so there are babies to anticipate.

I cut the lawn today. I've never known the sward so thick in July. We've had warmth and sunshine with just enough showers to keep everything growing. The apple trees have a fair crop, by numbers, but the sizes are well ahead of the last few years.

Spiny stop out

Feeling that I should perhaps be whispering, lest the weather gods hear me and over-react, I might mention that we have had a summer already. No prevarication, no guessing - I name this weather summery and you cannot tell me I er'.

Some sailing has happened, though only by the slightest of dinghies. Very little gardening has happened (since I got depressed about the number of ticks in the garden at Easter). Some sad, but enevitable events have rocked our family about; leaving us still floating, but spinning gently.

Exams have struck the house. New toys (replacing old in most cases, such as the depature of our good and trusty friend DP). And, amongst the joys and woes, the rhythm of life continues with work and washing-up.

I had a good pile of stuff to wash yesterday morning, and the pleasure of watching the, still fresh looking, summer garden while it moved from right to left via the soapy sink. Under the yellow apple tree, some movement.

A rabbit I thought, a small cat? No, a hedgehog out and about collecting grass for nesting in the late dawn light. It combed the understraw, dragging balls of it out of sight (I guessed to shelter under the shed). In the deep shade of the low apple boughs a young robin bobbed; swooping down on the disturbed insects as the hog did her? work. The oranging breast hardly discernable in the low light, but given away by the dance, the flit, the swoop and hop of a robin - and nothing else quite.

The good weather and long sunny days have meant fewer sightings of reptiles, since their basking is done before I rise. I neither saw nor heard May bugs, though there were quite a few stag beetles about. We've been seeing a good variety of birds, including raptors. Plenty of bees and just recently I've seen more marbled whites than usual.

quiet spring

I re-hung some of the white washing, to take advantage of the bright and the breezy, cleared some of the invasive weeds from the surface of the new half barrel (hoping to see a pair of shy fish) and then settled to watch the slow metamorphosis of the tadpoles in the temporary pond.

The sun warmed me between swift clouds. I wrapped by knees in elbows, not as comfortably as they used to, and watched both the wriggling black shapes and the reflections of sky and house.

The breeze brought occasional apple petals to rest on the water surface, a few sticking to my jumper, one tickling my neck.

Ripples of memory washed my eyes and tracked like the original salty sea to rekindle older memories in my mouth. Origins and evolution, growth, metamorphosis and death. All held there wrapped in arms by a pool.

Well past mentioning that it has been wet

!Strident spokes of dawn sun spear down, exciting the motes inside, igniting the fine drizzle outside and forcing my eyes, bashful.

Boughs, branches, twigs and buds of deciduous trees out-line a filigree against the West's contrasting purple wall of threat.

I drive, so illuminated until, passed slumping trunks and fresh hung catkins, I go back to rain.
Weather again takes precedence over wildlife this year. Striped blue and grey, holding beams and showers, litter the sky beneath the tired sun-visor. Shining more than yesterday's long-tailed, or today's blue.

Monday broke bright and clear early and the strutting birds took full advantage. I heard great tits and woodpeckers. The house opposite provided the stage for starlings, combining their unique starling techno sound with false ponies on the ridge tiles.

Now though, as the rush-hour peters out, there is a huge calm. The varied cloud layered pattern only slowly changes, revealing high striations between the thin bands of low cumulus. The chorus fades to release the more mundane day time.

Monday's longer road to work (seasons)

Crows flapping in pairs.
Flirting; suggestive of spring.
No sleuthing required.

Autumn's leafy bonfires outclassed

Autumn colours, faded now to sombre shades;
befitting the death of a house.
Lit by smouldering fronts of embering reed,
the lights of a dozen emergency response vehicles.
Blue, flickering, pulsing, on the column of smoke glow.
Busy black ants played their hoses onto weather-proofed thatch.
To no avail.

Autumn, delivered

To the West of my home, one third mile or thereabouts, is the most beautiful tree in the village. I should qualify and state that it is the most beautiful in Autumn and, as usual, this year it has turned a stunning red with sparse orange and yellow highlights. Every year on my way round the village of a Sunday morning some time around now, I will whimsically stoop and collect a few leaves before they are pulped by passing cars and cause hazard to cyclists. They soon dry out and lose their lustre but I gain a brief pleasure from them.

Last week's storm caused a certain amount of chaos locally. I needed four attempts before managing to leave the village early on Monday morning due to fallen trees and road closures, probably resulting from flooding or the works to prevent the same. I eventually found a narrow route round the major tree collapse; too small to be signed as a diversion. I finally emerged 20 metres beyond the road block, turning North against the stalled flow of delivery lorries waiting for the chains saws to complete their buzzing.

On Sunday we tested our resolve and strength against the gathering blow on the top of Hurst Spit. Minor rain storms swept through in minutes, damping us and adding an edge to the otherwise warm wind; spume blew over the spit into the salt-marsh; seas were two men high.

Pausing in the front garden this morning my eye was caught by a red leaf. The storm was near due West, I wonder if this year the tree came to us?