Brampton, Norfolk

  • Father & son

    Father and son rivalry is back in the parish. The return of grass growth over the past week has drawn the Roe deer out of their winter quarters.

    Last year’s offspring have turned out to be, as I suspected, one of each sex. The young buck, with this year’s antlers still covered in velvet, is annoying his father just by being there. In the soft morning light, the youngster generally keeps a respectful distance, but when he strays too close his father runs at him making him jink, swerve and put a few more yards in between. Over the next few weeks both bucks will scratch the velvet from their antlers and the competition will start in earnest. It will be interesting to see how long the youngster is tolerated within the family group.

  • Arrivals

    A Swallow twittered and dashed around the buildings of Brampton Hall on the evening of Friday 15th April. Possibly not the first arrival, but the first I have seen in the parish this spring.

    Only a matter of days before the Cuckoo calls for the first time – hopefully next Saturday morning 23rd, but I am sure someone will hear one sooner..

  • Repetition

    The Song Thrush is the master of the dawn chorus at this time of the year. The Blackbird tends to favour the evening chorus, presumably because of child-rearing duties.

    This Thrush uses repetition as the main theme of its song. A verse consists of short passages of repeated notes, perhaps three of five of them at a time. Each verse itself appears in a repeated cycle and it is very challenging to try and spot the pattern of cycling phrases. At dawn this morning I had a go, but soon lost the trail. So I have decided that careful sound recording is the only way to do it. Mobile phones have a very basic facility for recording, so this is my next challenge – hopefully more analysis in future blog entries.

  • 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.

  • Dawn on a rainy saturday

    In the subdued pre-dawn light, the variety of bird song is gradually increasing. The robins, now well established, defend their bubbles of territory. In the rain a Song Thrush adds to the mix, perhaps for the first time this year, but then stops.

    The Blackbirds seem even less sure of themselves. Contact and alarm calls are the norm, as males seek to carve out an area of garden as their own. Any song, if it ever gets going, is fleeting and unsure. In the undergrowth the Dunnocks shout briefly and move on; their song does not really develop any further and reminds me of the sounds from a toddler’s game of hide and seek.

    One notable addition is the song of the Great Tit, only really two notes, but strident, clear and as much a sign of spring as a Song Thrush. It is of limited musical quality and is known to us as “the squeaky wheel-barrow bird”, which just about sums it up.

  • Snow fox

    Snow adds the extra dimension of tracking to the wildlife watcher’s armoury. Brampton is well served with linear routes – the railway line and the river , for example. It is often only the addition of a blank covering of snow that the daily routine of wild creatures becomes evident. In the garden, the thorough meanderings of the hens can be clearly seen. There are very few corners of the garden that go unvisited during the day.

    Outside the garden, the routes of the fox are clear. Along the river these are complete with minor detours, pauses and circuits. Scent markings are visible and for once we can see what sets the dogs off in a frenzy of hunting. It is usually not until the clear frozen nights in January that the fox’s calls add to the silent evidence of the regular route. That is, unless you confine your experience on the fox to television dramas – on the TV the Vixen’s screams can be heard at any time of the year, in Brampton they are silent until the depths of Winter.

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