Brampton, Norfolk

  • Wave of blossom

    It is at this point where all of those time- lapse natural history films come to mind. We watched the welcome early bursts of cherry blossom, which first lit up the hedges a fortnight ago or so, which have been replaced by a breaking wave of Blackthorn. All along the railway line each hour of warmth persuades more blossom to burst. The newly arrived Warblers now start to fit in with those illustrations that you find in coffee table style bird books.

    Amongst the trees the Hawthorn and the Sycamore have reached bud-burst. The Oak and the Ash, ever the laggards, are not far behind.

    At the cottage, the Barn Owl has morphed into a garden bird – at least late at night. Wednesday night was punctuated by their rough screeches.

  • Spring song

    The cacophony of bird song is moving to a higher level. This Sunday mornings’ spring sunshine has introduced new songs. The complicated and attractive songs of two more of the Warbler family are now part of the soundscape. They sing as if they have been doing so for weeks, but this really is the beginning of their spring campaign. The Blackcap is the first of them ; from a position deep within the gardens towards the church the powerful song is a full throated tuneful whistle with a characteristic ending (which I can only write as suey suey suey sue..). Almost Nightingale like in its intensity, but with less of the master’s variety.

    The second is the Garden Warbler, another complicated song, this time from the anonymous depth of a bramble patch on the railway line. This morning’s effort was more a sub-song, a practice effort following a long journey whilst the confidence is being built for the real thing.

    As I sit to write this and unusual call for Brampton drifts across the railway line – this is the unmistakeable “keeyow” of a Buzzard. Yet to be seen, but now anticipated.

  • On not being grey

    The Stock Dove is not nondescript – although generally described as grey. But as I spotted the Bridge pair as I drove into to Norwich, it struck me how subtle their colouration really is.

    On each side of the neck a splash of verdigris, that copper pipe green, which is at this time of the year almost jewel-like in its intensity. The bird’s chest has that blush of pink that is so characteristic of many pigeon species. The wing and the back are a uniform grey which is nicely set off by the soot black wing-tips. In flight they stick together in a simple formation wherever they go. Their black wingtips show up a clear wing fringe edging.

    The Bridge pair has been concentrating on colonising the girders which support the railway bridge on the Buxton Road. There seem very few ledges but this is their favoured spot.

  • Surfing the Spring

    As a song it would win no prizes. The ‘song’ is a repetitive two note announcement that the trees are shortly to come into leaf. So remarkably dull is the song that the bird is named after it – what else is there to say? The Chiffchaff is a warbler, relatively nondescript with a seemingly green hue above and a paler buff coloured chest. It’s close relations such as the Blackcap and the Willow Warbler have slightly more elaborate songs which are welcome in any garden. The Chiffchaff on the other hand, sounds so disappointing and even slightly irritating.

    But the sound is welcome nevertheless. It nearly always the first summer migrant to arrive and announce itself. Early on Tuesday morning it trumpeted its arrival in Brampton. After wiling away the winter somewhere along the Mediterranean coats, perhaps in North Africa, it arrives after surfing the spring northwards. It can be heard throughout the spring, but its call is most insistent before the leaves arrive – over the next fortnight or so it will be repeating itself all over the village.

  • Beware Lords and Ladies

    Along Brampton’s verges at the moment, one plant appears to be developing faster than all of the others. This is the Cuckoo Pint or Lords and Ladies. It’s broadly arrow-shaped leaves line all the verges, but with greater concentrations on banks along the run up to the church.

    Later on in the year the plant will develop a cowled inflorescence (it cannot be called a flower) with an erect central “spadix”. It’s perceived similarity to a male organ so titillated those that observed it that it gave rise to a great number of other names of varying degrees of bawdiness; amongst these are Cows and Bulls, Wake Robin, Jack in the Pulpit, Devils and Angels, Adam and Eve, Bobbins and Naked Boys. Just take your pick. I expect that there are many more that are unpublishable.

    The fun does not stop there. The berries which the plant develops in the autumn are bitter and cause great irritation if eaten. They are reputedly one of the most common reasons for admission to A & E for accidental plant poisoning. One seventeenth century herbalist recommends grating some of the root over meat offered to an unwelcome dinner guest in order to send him packing. This does seem a bit severe and should not be encouraged at the dinner parties of Brampton.

  • Russian immigrants stake their claim

    On Wednesday evening, in the dark, the gardens around the village hall resonated to the territorial calls of Pheasants.

    The cock birds, which have survived the shooting season, were staking their territories with a wonderful cacophony which must be a slice of sound from their native Russian Caucasus. Each male has an ambitious plan to gather a harem of hens and the competition is fierce. As the gamekeeper’s feeders are removed the focuses of territories change to the gardens – Pheasants are partial to the area under bird tables.

  • A hint of bud burst

    In spite of the raw cold which seems to have dominated the past week, the occasional warm spring sunshine has encouraged some activity from trees.

    So far, some the Hawthorns along the railway line have tentatively started to open as has the Bird cherry outside Beech Cottage. But then, like someone who has dipped their toe into a cold swimming pool they have stopped. They seem to be pausing and are prepared to wait for the next warm day. This point of near bud-burst always reminds me of that Philip Larkin poem, the Trees; “The trees are coming into leaf, like something almost being said”.

    Most of the trees are far more cautious. No hint of green, just that almost imperceptible thickening at the tips of the branches. I swear I can see this subtle transformation through my window as I look out at the Sycamores and Ashs on the railway line, but this may be just wishful thinking.

  • Broken silences

    At a certain point the balance tips. Early this morning, in spite of the dark and the persistent drizzly rain, a Song Thrush was singing in full voice. It is as if the bird’s determination to express itself would overcome any obstacle even the absence of light itself. To me this seems to show that that the territorial urge has become so strong that nothing will discourage it.

    Last night, as I was deep in a book, the dark and silence was broken by the unmistakeable whistling hum which comes from the wings of a Mute Swan in flight. Presumably disorientated by the lack of visibility, I can only hope that it found its way back to the river. Wildfowl do fly by night but in my experience this usually occurs on moonlit nights and not on nights of poor visibility such as last night. Perhaps this one was disturbed from it’s roost by a fox.

  • Caution Mermaid crossing

    After some dull February days it came as a relief this morning to feel that Spring is really happening. The intensity of bird song has increased – the Skylarks of the Town field were in full song and a bolshie Yellowhammer was re-establishing his ground on the railway line. The full throated calls of the Song Thrush, with it’s characteristic regular five repeats, rang out over the Common. There was even a sense that the sun may appear.

    Down at the Mermaid, river bank repairs are continuing. The sleeper wall which holds the river in place as it passes under the railway line has finally had to be replaced. There is some doubt as to how long the originals had been in place- the uprights had been pointed by hand and hammered in. I suppose it is possible that these could have been put in by the Victorians during the construction of the railway, but it would be interesting if anybody knows? It was with some relief that I learnt that the timbers which form the narrow crossing over this section are going back on.

  • late-night Owls

    Roz and Alex have jollied off to Norway for a Cathedral Choir tour. However, the fact that the coach was leaving Tombland at 3.00 in the morning was a bit daunting. All that struck me was that Brampton retains a far more pleasant atmosphere than the City centre has on a Friday night / Saturday morning. The wildlife in Brampton is a bit less wild as well.

    Numbers of Barn Owls are hunting within the parish. Their very presence is often more effective that a village sign in demonstrating that you are nearing home. Mr Crane’s new post and tape fencing has provided useful perches and on my way back from the city; at least two were adorned with owls as I drove home after the coach left. The Barn owls hissing screech is a regular night time sound. It seems to me that territories are being re-established. The Barn Owl population is certainly increasing and they seem so common now, a real contrast with the position ten years ago.

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