Brampton, Norfolk

  • Sounds and scents in November

    I like the smells and texture of November. Helen shared her view of the underrated month as walked under a clear starlit night. At last the temperature had dropped after a fortnight or so of rain and fog. Underfoot the going was soft, the mud a slippery plastic. There was no wind and the Field Maples has dropped their first batch of rich yellow leaves. The Red Oaks along the old railway line had succumbed at once and a rich bronze leaf carpet lay along the floor if the cutting. Every footprint yielded the sharp scent of denying leaves. It is the sort of scent that evokes memories of long past autumns; the pure pleasure of kicking through wind-raked piles of fallen leaves.

    Further along the sharp stink of a Fox hung in the air, so acrid and fresh that we must have disturbed him on his rounds. The dogs pressed forward along the trail of some invisible creature. All three converge on a gateway in Back Lane in an ecstasy of a find. They strain at the leash as something noisily jumps from the lee of the hedge and flees to the centre of the field. The Fox, we think, until we look across from descending road through the next hedge gap. The unmistakeable shape of a Roebuck is just silhouetted against the sky line – he watches us from a safe distance and visibly relaxes as we walk down the lane and away.

    Overhead, to the east, the star Aldebaran glows orange on the tip of one of the horns of Taurus.

  • Autumn song

    Before dawn the only sounds are the fall of leaves in the light breeze and the distant call of a Fox. Later as the first light arrives the variety of sounds increase. Birdsong has settled into its Autumn pattern. Loud shouts from the Wrens. Dualling Robins. The chatter of Greenfinches and when the blue sky appears the drifting melody of the Skylark lightens the mood.

     

  • Flocks

    The movement of birds in flocks is becoming more marked as we reach late October. The daily commute of Rooks and Jackdaws seem to fill the shorter daylight hours. Arrowing groups of Starlings head somewhere with purpose. Finches raid the bird table in noisy clusters. Golden Plover continue to stop over mid-migration. As we walk to the allotment on Sunday morning, a flock of a hundred or so circle overhead calling with a light whistling call which drifts on the breeze. The ocassional clear starlit night will assist their onward progress southwards.

  • The arrival of new neighbours

    The frenzy of lead-tugging, sniffing and running back and forth from the dogs as where approached the house reminded me about our new neighbours. Not house neighbours but newish residents of the copse. Just before harvest one of the local Roe deer moved in. I almost tripped over her whilst trying to approach a hawk which happened to be perched nearby. She sprang up from her comfortable lie as soon as I got within ten feet of her. The form of her body left a warm depression in the long grass of the woodland margin. She merely watched me from a reasonable distance, confident that a thirty yard head start was more than enough.

    Since then she was joined by a Roebuck, who eyed us from the field with a confident disdain as we walked past along the road.

    This evening’s Whippet frenzy merely confirmed the deer’s continued residence. More active at dusk they wander in search of succulent grass as the vegetation becomes more Autumnal and declines in quality.

  • Visitors from the Arctic tundra call in to Brampton

    This morning a plaintive whistling drifted down from a hundred-strong flock of Golden Plover. They circled over the Town Field and banked towards their favoured ground. Each Autumn and Spring they call In for a brief respite on their migration from the Arctic tundra to their African wintering quarters. Always the same place. Nearly always at the same time. Their contact calls can be heard on clear starlit nights as they reconvene in ever larger flocks. A little piece of the wild north drifts through the village with a promise of cooling air.

  • Wheat harvest

    Last Saturday lunch time the Combine Harvester arrived in the village in order to cut the wheat on the 26 acre Town Field. By eight o’clock that evening, not only had the crop had been fully harvested but the straw had been completely baled. All done in roughly 6 hours. By my calculation the wheat crop would produce enough flour on that one field to produce 210,000 large loaves of bread. Incidentally, a quantity which would only be sufficient for 4 minutes worth of the national demand for bread (roughly 12 million loaves per day).

    This made me think. At the outbreak if the First World War, crop yields were less than a quarter of those which are attained now. In fact, the yield was probably only enough to provide for 53,000 large loaves. It would have taken nearly three days to harvest the wheat on that same field, and then only if they had the benefit of a modern reaper/binder. Before such machinery was available, three experienced farm workers, along with their families to help gather the sheaves and “shock” the crop would take nearly three weeks to cut the wheat. In all likelihood more than three worker’s families from the village would be involved. No wonder harvest was such an important event. An event which now is limited to a Saturday afternoon. A sad comparison in so many ways, but at least we have enough to eat.

  • Real Autumn

    Now the breeze is northerly. The branches sway at the change in direction and Birch leaves rain gently down on the garden with every gust. The village lanes are strewn with the leaves of Sycamore. Hazel and Wych Elm. The Field Maples, which have taken on a glowing chrome yellow, are slowly losing their fight to keep their leaves. On the railway line the Poplars are already bare, their wind note has changed in pitch and the sweet smell of leaf decay scents the air.

    As I stack wood – the most Autumnal of tasks – a ragged skein of geese head towards the coast; at least one hundred strong. I watch and listen for a minute or two. The cut logs give off their scent of sap and resin. Indoors, the plaintive notes of French Horn from a Britten Pastoral adds to the Autumnal feel.

  • Fiery moon

    The moon, which was full on Sunday, rises at around seven in the evening with its fiery orange colour reflected on the coastal shower clouds. At first we mistake the glow on the horizon for a distant house fire but she reveals herself as she gains height. The steady cold light of Jupiter accompanies her.

  • November frost

    The ground frost lingers after dawn. On mornings such as these, deer venture out of their woodland cover in search of fresh-thawed grass. I am being watched by a Roe doe as the dogs and I follow the railway line. She stands still in the lee of the old hedge; only as light movement of her head and the twitch of her ears as she monitors us. No need for flight, she is confident in her distance from us and the proximity of the haven of Keeper’s Wood. She is still there after we turn around and head for home.

    Further on a Muntjac Deer adopts a different tactic as it crosses our path, its ungainly pig-like run following a straight-ish path to the wood. The Barn Owl does not waste energy in a hunting flight this morning, but perches hunched on a fence post, but patiently watching.

  • Bats

    Evenings in late September are the prime time for bat walks. This evening the old railway line was teeming with them. Pipistrelles patrolling the well-treed sectors with their tightly turning acrobatics. Often many in sight and, with the help of a bat detector, in sound at the same time. They have favourite areas and stick to them and on occasion briefly chase one another. We walk and listen.

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