As I walk out along the old railway line, the waxing half moon hangs in the sky above Jupiter and Venus. The planets measure out a gentle tilting line arcing down to the south west. Above the evening hum of tyre noise from the Aylsham Road comes the unmistakeable whistle of a Golden Plover. These wading birds are much given to night flights, they probably migrate during the dark hours. Their arrival locally is a clear signal of the gathering momentum of Spring. For as many years as I can remember they have gathered on the same few arable fields to the south of us. They appear to use this as a staging post during their Autumn and Spring migrations. If I lay in bed awake on a moonlit night at migration time their whistles regularly drift through the open window
from somewhere in the night sky. Their journey north will eventually end on their nesting grounds on Arctic tundra, but for a short while they take the soft Norfolk air whilst refuelling and waiting for that moment when it is right to press on.
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Golden horde arrives
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Spring arrives
Walk along the river now and you can feel the changing season below the soles of your boots. In this dry period the footpaths have lost that puddled and sticky-mud quality of the late Winter. They have taken on the consistency of coir mat; so much so that you literally and temporally feel the spring in your step.
In St Peter’s churchyard the spring sunshine has drawn the Winter Aconites, Snowdrops and Crocuses into a flower. The Daffodils or ‘Lent Lilies’ are starting to flower. It is the peak time for the small rural church and its’ arrival emphasises the renewing power of nature. The Spring floral display is in marked contrast with the unadorned interior of the Lenten church.
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Red litter day
Brampton is a tidier place after this morning’s Big Tidy Up. Ten village litter pickers set out in all directions from the Village Hall art eleven o’clock. An hour’s solid picking yielded several sacks full of rubbish from the hedges, lanes and wider country.
Litter picking is a bit like the evil twin of fruit picking – once you get your eye in you see so much more. You find more if you walk in each direction up a hedge line, seemingly stumbling up more that was missed on your first pass.
Most of the litter came from the usual food wrappings – we must be a “cheese-burger’s” distance from the nearest fast food joint. Grateful thanks to all of this morning’s litter pickers and to the many more who carry out their own personal campaigns around the village all year round.
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Iron frost and duck
We woke up to an iron frost. As we walked out on the Common, the Bure was alive with wild duck. So many in fact that the book of collective nouns was taken off the shelf. A “spring” of Teal above Oxnead Bridge are as good as their word and take off with near vertical suddenness, only to alight again 50 yards further away. A little further upstream the frosty silence is gently broken by haunting cries announced small herd of Curlew at the top of Limekiln Farm. Further still, at least a score of duck wheeled around the Island Marsh – these proved to be Wigeon. Wigeon cause delight in their nouns; a bunch or a coil or a knob, all seem to sum them up beautifully. They circle at low levels before quickly settling below Burgh Mill.
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A view in Winter
Wigeon arrive on the marsh as the village slumbers in it’s blanket of snow. A small flock of these fast-flying duck circle us as we scan the riverside snow for footprints. The meandering trail of a morning fox provided evidence of his thoughts – out for an unsuspecting Moorhen or duck – the trail followed any little clue to and fro to the water’s edge. Smaller creatures, mostly voles, scurried their tubby ways from sedge to bolthole. Swans which looked so white under normal conditions reveal themselves to be a rich cream against the backdrop of snow covered marshes. Snipe are here in numbers; they spring away and follow crazy
zig-zag flight patterns emitting their wispy call. As we open the Church for Sunday a Woodcock flies rapidly at head-height through the churchyard, full of bombast and intent. -
The Isle is full of noises
At sunrise on Sunday morning the river and woods swirled with mists and vapours. The temperature veered wildly as we walked along the Bure towards the Common. The Keeper’s Wood resounded with an unworldly noise. The calls of a dog Fox and Vixen rang around the marsh – presumably engaged in creating the next generation. We dispelled thoughts of the Sherlock’s Grimpen Mire and carried on. The light changing continuously from mist to translucence within a few yards, then eventually settling into what passes for normal at this time of year. It was a morning that JMW Turner would have appreciated.
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Jupiter
The evening sky is brightened by a waxing moon. The waxing slow build-up to the full moon of 8th March is accompanied by a shining Jupiter and, for the early evening at least, by Venus which rides low in the southern sky and sets at around eight o’clock. The skies are clear at first but, as we walk round the village mist builds up and what sounds there
are start to deaden. A contact call from a Tawny Owl, the only creature that announces
it’s presence and the sweet smell of wood smoke beckons us home. -
Fox calls
On Tuesday morning, what seemed like an artificial cackle announced the arrival of a pair of foxes at the end of the garden. The fox conversation continued in a more traditional manner, yelps and barks in what seemed to be a playful chase along the edge of a nearby field. The noise cut into our sleep like an alarm. Thoughts such as, “were the hens shut up safely?”, raced through our heads. The foxes moved off after quarter of an hour or so, that is if one can judge the passing of time in flood of wakefulness at 4 in the morning
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First 2012 frost
A fine frosty morning, in fact the first real frost of this year so far; grasses on the Common carrying a delicate filigree of ice. Almost too fine and delicate to consider walking on. The Bure flows slowly through the beds of reed and cress, calm and unsullied by any waterfowl. The occasional Snipe wisps org from the margins with its strange stuttering alarm call, it’s delicate feather pattern seems crisp and etched in the clear cold light. The scent of a prowling fox hangs by the river.
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Dawn songs
This morning a bright waning moon illuminated the period just before dawn. The sky was mostly clear with a few shower laden clouds. Not a remarkable winter morning – except for the lack of frost. But, as i walked along the railway line, it was clear that the conditions had led to some confusion. The dawn birdsong was rare mix. A combination of night and day. A pair of Tawny Owls exchanged phrases; the plaintive hoot from the Town Field Ashes was answered by the “Kewick” of it’s mate. The second bird called from an Ivy covered sapling half a furlong further away towards Buxton. Whilst this duet persisted, the village Robins started their song. At least half a dozen Robins threw their song into the moonlit air, each from its garden stronghold. Splashes of sound with the growing confidence of a expected Spring.
