Brampton, Norfolk

  • Spring arrivals

    After a week of Spring weather the Cherries around the village have sprung into blossom.

    Along the river, some summer migrants have arrived and started to announce themselves. A Chiff-Chaff Warbler was singing this morning – the clue for the sound of it’s song is in it’s name. This song tends to get grating in it’s monotony into April, but in mid March it sounds foreign, new and slightly exotic. The birds probably arrived over the last ten days or so; I heard one practising on 6th March, but this mornings songster was well into his stride.

    Another bird which has a touch of the south about it was present on the marsh, a single white Little Egret was fishing in the margins of the Bure. This visit in Spring has become regular in the past few years; I can remember when the mere site of one caused excitement on the Norfolk Coast. There is possibly a nesting site on a nearby Broad. This small Heron is pure white and a relatively agile flier when compare to the native Harnser.

  • Marsh sounds

    This morning’s soundscape was dominated by geese and Oystercatchers. The geese being a mix of Canada’s, Greylags and a lone Ruddy Shelduck (presumably an escape from a wildfowl collection). Their collective noise a mix of farmyard honks and squawks.

    The Oystercatchers were involved in more serious courtship rituals. Two (males) call musically in their pursuit of a less than keen female – or at least that is how I saw it. Eventually the loser took-off, climbed and circled in pursuit of another potential companion, calling regularly as it drifted over Upper Brampton.

  • Daws at dawn

    Just after dawn on Sunday, it was the calls of Jackdaws rather than the a song bird chorus which rang through the village. They favour the dead Elm at the top of the hill, which must stand out to them as a landmark once they have left the roosts at Oxnead. The Jackdaws accompany the slower and more direct flight of Rooks as they stream westwards. The exodus starting as soon as light levels permit, earlier and earlier each morning. As a species the Jackdaw seems to revel in flight, something to be enjoyed rather than just a method of getting there. Their gathering at the Elm being their equivalent of the bikers meeting at a favourite cafe.

  • Low flow

    This morning the Bure sits high in her banks. This is thanks to the Mill and lock operators who are helpfully holding up the flow in order to preserve the limited resource.  According to Dr Briscoe’s weather recordings (http://www.buxton-norfolk.co.uk/weather.htm ) we have had only 7 inches worth out of an average of 12 inches of rainfall for the period from October to February inclusive. In other words we are 32% below average. Without some retention of flow or some pumped supply from groundwater reserves, the river would be a mere stream at best.

    The other bad news for the Bure and in particular it’s fish stocks is the growing population of Cormorants. Last year numbers of visiting birds were particularly high. If they really do eat a pound of fish per day as we are told, I suspect that  fish numbers in the Bure were damaged considerably.

  • 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.

  • 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.

  • 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

  • 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.

  • 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.

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