The decaying brickwork of the Oxnead Lock. According to Edwin Rose (writing in 1993 as part of the Norfolk Archaeological team at Gressenahll) this brickwork was probably built in 1851 when the Mill was refurbished, although it is possible that some parts of the structure may date back to 1775 when the original engineering work on the cut was completed.
What struck me was the cold, glassy eye of the Heron perching on a low fence at Oxnead this morning. The slight frost last night had still not entirely melted and the young Heron seemed to be waiting for movement or a sign of life.
The mini market stall (“Fiona’s Fayre”) at the junction of The Street and Marsham Road has been a storming success. Fiona’s Crab Apple Jelly has been whizzing off the shelves. If any one else in the village would be willing to sell their Autumn produce on the stall they would be very welcome – so if you have some spare jams or jellies, some fresh vegetables or other home grown produce, then please add to the stall’s delectable selection. All proceeds collected go for the benefit of Brampton Church.
It is the Autumnal silence which hits you on an early morning walk from Brampton to Oxnead. Silence punctuated only by occasional sharp bursts of song – a Robin, the screech of a Jay and the repetitive fluting of a Nuthatch in the Keeper’s Wood. Then there were Kingfishers – a pair chasing and calling upstream to the mill pool, another single bird calling from a perch above the sluice. It has been a good year for Kingfisher numbers so far, with numbers increased from a successful breeding season.
This week the House Martins abandoned our skies and headed for warmer climes. Recently they had gathered in wheeling flock of 40+ over the village – something akin to training flights for the late fledged young combined with a feeding frenzy. Air Temperatures had been high since Tuesday and the sky had become that deep shade of blue – cloudless and somewhat oppressive. Temperatures hit 32 degrees C (89 degrees Fahrenheit in old money) and activity on the ground had slowed. Then I noticed that they had gone – as ever to some unseen signal they had dissappeared. No stragglers apparent since then as I write this on a Saturday evening. The place is somewhat quiet without their movement and their cheerful calls.
Buzzards have moved from rare to commonplace in Norfolk over the last twenty years or so. However common they are, I still thrill to the site of the family groups that soar on the village thermals. This morning (Sunday) we watch as a group of four – presumably tow adults and two young – slowly circle over the Common. We immediately assume, probably wrongly, that the individual which soars at a higher level, conveniently away from the others, is the male. The other three circle one another, calling constantly and occasionally making contact in some form of aerial game of tag. A feint and a roll, one of the pair turning upside down as they touch talons in mid air – some form of pretend exchange of food or some such. All through this their mewing calls drift down from a sky of almost Italianate blue.
Ellen Miller is 90 years old this year. Born in 1926, a birth year shared with Her Majesty the Queen, she joined many of her contemporaries at a special service of Evensong at Norwich Cathedral. Ellen, who along with her late husband Tom, were for many years resident in Brampton, said she really enjoyed the service, the cake cutting with the Bishop of Norwich, and the gathering which followed on the Upper Close. Thank you Ellen for representing the Village in this way, and as with the Queen, we wish him you many more happy years to come.
The familiar flight silhouette. An insistent call, loud and chattering, high up around the upper branches of a swaying Poplar, following by an effortless scything flight. The Summer-visiting Hobby Falcon was back. In this case, two of them – the first the agile flier, the second (presumably the female) slightly shy, keeping the branches between it and us as we gazed up. The call changed to the more familiar repetitive falcon kee-kee-kee-kee.. as the male completed an arc, in sight then out of sight, before returning along the far side of the trees, his wings at first spread in a fast approval and then folded in a shallow dive towards his mate. To us this seemed like the start of Summer. To them, no doubt, the start of the serious business of the breeding season.
Not quite a Nightingale. This song was full throated, but without the seemingly endless variety of its relation; this was the song of the Blackcap. This morning we had the chance to stop and watch for a few minutes. The male was perched in full view on a Hawthorn. They usually sing from a perch with a bit more cover, throwing their strong voices and using the natural echoing acoustic of the scrub. But this morning he had adopted an more exposed perch. From where we stood some 10 yards away, the full throated effort and its resultant volume was apparent. Each verse seemingly ending with the same short phrase tooey-tooey-tooey-tooo, then a pause, before embarking on another convoluted tune. Oblivious to us he continued until we slowly walked on at which point he briefly retired deeper into the scrub, before resuming at our passing.
