The slight southerly shift in the wind and the Chiff-Chaffs have arrived, the little summer warbler is not the greatest of songsters – the full extent of their song gives them their name. But they are generally the first of the Sumer visitors to arrive. We were “serenaded” as we walked up Common Lane on Friday 27th March and more arrived and started singing eleswhere over the next two days or so.
Now we wait for the Blackcaps, Willow and Garden Warblers – they should not be too far behind.
For me, the song of few birds symbolise the end of Winter and the impending arrival of Spring more than that of the Mistle Thrush. This morning the village was engulfed in that wild, wind blown song. The singer was perched high in the old Ash. The song seemed designed to float and carry on the breeze – a breeze which still carried the edge of Winter on it. As we approached the Thrush moved to one of the hill Oaks, his song did not pause but gathered in intensity as he settled on the utmost stag-headed branch. Around the base of the tree the Daffodil buds seemed to be on the verge of opening – drawn out by the Thrush’s call.
The dawn chorus is in its early incarnation. Not yet bolstered by the arrival of summer migrants, it consist mainly of Robins, Blackbirds and a Woodpigeon backing group. Occasionally the sporadic, short and loud bursts of a Wren joins in. It is not yet properly light. Minutes later some more Blackbirds start their song and the chorus take on the air of a singing contest. A fluting call from the Old Post Office garden; an answer from the copse; an interloper from the railway line – a circle of debate and challenge reaches a pitch and then dies away. The Robins open up again. Short songs and a deliberate pause to listen for challenges, a resumption and then silence. A repeated pattern until the business of the day has to begin.
Believe it or not there are grot-spots in Brampton. One of them is roughly a hamburger’s distance from the nearest burger shop, on the Norwich ring road. Journey time to here is enough to chew through a burger and to guzzle your drink before you drive through the parish. At this point it is common practice to toss all the empty containers out of the window. This is how grot-spots grow. Or so it seems.
This is why, every February, we have to have a parish litter pick – to clear up after the tossers.
It is a great relief that so many villagers are willing to give up their time during a chilly early Spring morning in order to restore some semblance of order to the pIarish highways and byways. This year twenty people turned out to do just that. An hour or so’s work, walking all the routes, generated eleven bin bags of rubbish. Very little seemed to be accidental rubbish, the sort of stuff that “blew out of the window” of that which failed to make it from the bin to the bin lorry, it generally the wrappers of the last meal. Although, bizarrely, the discarded pair of rubber gloves which individually were found under bridges which were a quarter a mile apart were a bit worrying. As were the aluminium road signs which were dumped in the hedge by the Council contractors, of all people. And the lunch bottles and containers that were thrown over the bridge parapet by some driver based at Brampton Hall – obviously in the knowledge that some one else would clear them up. That’s alright then.
Anyway. Rant over. The parish is tidier than it was. For the time being at least. Thanks to everyone who gave up their time and let’s hope that next year we find less than the eleven bags of rubbish!
The frost lasted well into the morning. As I walked the (well wrapped) whippets along the railway line, a female Sparrowhawk leapt from the hedge. She carried a victim gripped in her talons and made her way to the relative sanctuary of the Blackthorns. We followed slowly and a hundred yards further on, she once again took flight. In that characteristic ground hugging way of theirs, she powered along before turning sharply through a narrow hedge gap and was gone. The colder weather nearly always brings with it closer encounters with predators. Driven by hunger they discard their innate caution and grab every opportunity, no matter how close to us. Further on, a smaller tiercel (male) Sparrowhawk swiftly leaves its vantage point in Bill’s front garden Cherry Tree and heads for the marshes. It is not only the Blue Tits that bird tables attract.
A crystal clear Norfolk over the village gave us a chance to do a bit of comet spotting. Comet Lovejoy sails high in the southern evening sky. We returned to the best viewing platform- the old railway embankment. For the last few nights the Comet has been climbing alongside the constellations Orion and Taurus, but it was really only last night that it escaped the polluting skyglow from Norwich. A short search revealed it as a greenish glowing smudge to the west of that jewel-like cluster of stars, the Pleiades or Seven-Sisters. As we watched the frost nipped our fingers, but we felt some connection, no matter how distant, with cold space.
The feeling of being watched was never so tangible as it was yesterday evening. The sky was partly overcast. The primeval sound of a deer bark echoed around us. A repeated call, a call of the Muntjac Deer was the only noise that assailed us. It circled around us in that way that convinces you that he was keeping one beady eye on our location. Still calling, he crossed Digby’s garden and made for the copse – or so the calls from the invisible buck seemed to tell us. We walked on, blind to the movements in the dark.
Gulls rise from their overnight roost on Oxnead’s banks. It is the first Saturday of 2015. What remains of the Paston’s palatial mansion – one grand wing, a small church, a cottage and a scattering of more recent architectural follies – are set amongst gardens and lawns that slope down to the river Bure. Beyond the boundaries of the Hall gardens, the meadows and woods present a more agrarian aspect, a farmed landscape rather than one if studied grandeur.
The river water has cleared and refined down after recent rain. Along the meadow banks the water has dropped a foot or two. A hidden Kingfisher calls from the feeder drain. As we walk the gulls billow and soar briefly before re-settling. At the mill sluice gates the water no longer bursts through with its earlier insistent force. The shelves and hollows of the river bed are once again visible in the mill pool around the storm debris of a weed-draped Alder branch.
Midwinter on the marsh. This morning’s sharp frost, a low sun and the chill threat of showers sweeping in from the north, combine to colour and etch the landscape. A section of a rainbow briefly touches the Mill Marsh as a brief squall washes in. A Kestrel is mobbed by a Crow and I hear the high pitched call of an unseen Kingfisher. The river runs high in its banks and the pool below the sluice does not look at all inviting. The dogs and I are thankful for the frost which has made out progress much easier over the muddy well-used river path.
By the time we reach the Common, the sun has raised the air temperature as long as we keep out of the wind. Moles have pockmarked the drier sections of river bank, but the soke dykes are full and the drains are running. Just below the
horizon, the sun picks out the colours of cottages.
Thank you to all those who sang carols so heartily under a starlit sky during Christmas Eve around the village. We are grateful those who welcomed us to their door steps and into their houses, to those who delayed or interrupted their meals and helped us celebrate Christmas. You generously donated £212.77 to our collection in aid of the East Anglian Children’s Hospice.
