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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The Isle is full of noises
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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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Blown away
Strong winds on Wednesday almost erased another little-noticed piece of
Brampton’s history. An apple tree, rotten of trunk and with no crown to speak of, displays what must be a terminal split. Structurally unsound, but still just standing, it seems unlikely that it will survive for much longer. It’s significance being that it’s origins seem likely to be domestic; planted at the end of a garden or small holding in an area
which seems today to be just farmland. I mentioned the site in an earlier piece (6th November 2011) and I have yet to establish the real recent history of this site.The ancient history of the site is much easier to identify. For the old apple tree
marks the edge of ancient track which leads to what seems to have been a wharf
or loading area on the original shore of the Bure. This was not the Bure as we know now, but the Roman waterway, bustling with shallow drafted sailing vessels collecting the amphorae and other pottery from the nearby industrial town with its many kilns. Within yards the astute observer can cast from the site of a rural dwelling of the nineteenth century to the fourth century AD. -
Fleeing Grebe
Dabchicks flee as soon as we approach. Flight is perhaps the wrong word, as they never try to get airborne; instead they propel themselves along the surface of the water in a whir of wing beats and skittering feet until they feel safe enough to dive and find underwater shelter in the bank side weeds. Once there they hide until they can be certain of your passing – preferably at least thirty yards away. You can rarely see them as you glance back towards their hiding place. Aquatic hide and no seek.
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Carol singer’s tale for 2011
Spontaneity is the key with village carol singing. Too much planning would take away the magic in some way. So, in spite of the odd telephone call which is made to ensure that we will not be a choir of just one or two, we leave the rest to Christmas Eve.
This year was no exception. By six thirty, eleven us had gathered. After a swift tot of Sloe Gin (very low food miles – as least for the Sloes, you will understand), we set off. This year the weather was milder than it has been. The stars were out with a beautiful clarity – just as they should be.
It is important not to peak too early with carol singing. It also seems to be important not to practice. But after a nervy start we hit our stride. We must present a strange sight to the passing traffic on usual march to Oxnead, laden with lanterns, seemingly in the middle of
nowhere. Across the causeway road and back, the spring remains in our stride and we catch up with the year’s events. Everything discussed , from all perspectives.Little did we know, but reinforcements had arrived in the guise of the Chapman family. Old hands at the carolling game, our volume and delivery audibly increased. Perhaps more relaxed now, the residents of Street Farm were generous in their support and then we struck off towards the rest of the village – along the muddy beet strewn road.
It is the wonder of children that has the greatest effect of carollers. Their palpable excitement and the invasion of their houses and gardens by a singing mob, must leave some sort of memory. We ‘Away in a manger’- ed houses up and down the street. We hit our peak (to our ears anyway), somewhere near John Frye’s house, or perhaps a little bit further on. Wine was mulled and the village club was welcoming – the acoustics within being surprisingly good. We felt something like a Brampton “Flash mob” as we regaled
them with our new found confidence. As ever the Humphrey’s were “treated” to “While
Shepherds watched”, for very obvious reasons, and the Hylton’s received the same
to our second tune (“on Ilkley Moor..bah’t’at). Hospitality was great from all angles, with John Frye’s Italian Wine from jerry cans, and superb mulled wine from both Helen and Geoff and from Linda and Andrew amongst others.Then to finish things off, a short carol Singer’s Service at the Church. Clustered in the chancel, we sang again and listened to some Christmas poetry readings, to bring the evening to a contemplative end. Now we wait for the count by Katy to see how much money was raised for Quidenham Hospice from the generous villagers. As for next year? Well we don’t plan, spontaneity is the key. The carolling tradition will roll on, depending upon who turns up,
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Christmas Eve – Gabriel’s Hounds
The musical call of a skein of wild geese heralded the morning of Christmas Eve in Brampton. The wonderful sound of their calls, which evokes the music of a pack of hounds, echoed from the woods at Oxnead. Some call them Gabriel’s Hounds in an effort to sum up the magic of their calls. This is considered in some parts of the country as being the sound of the diabolical wild hunt, but I think our geese were much more benign – and probably off in search of sugar beet tops.
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Blue diamond
The sighting of a Kingfisher lit up an otherwise dull December morning. At first it just appeared as a shape, albeit a familiar shape, perched on a pliant reed. As we approached it flew a few yards further away. As it did so the bird’s colours colours were lit; the diamond on its back being especially brilliant. This morning’s colour being more of a cerulean blue – some lights this takes on a more of a copper green, but not today. As we left it fishing the high pitched contact call continued to announce its presence to those who tune in.
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Caution Mermaid crossing
After some dull February days it came as a relief this morning to feel that Spring is really happening. The intensity of bird song has increased – the Skylarks of the Town field were in full song and a bolshie Yellowhammer was re-establishing his ground on the railway line. The full throated calls of the Song Thrush, with it’s characteristic regular five repeats, rang out over the Common. There was even a sense that the sun may appear.
Down at the Mermaid, river bank repairs are continuing. The sleeper wall which holds the river in place as it passes under the railway line has finally had to be replaced. There is some doubt as to how long the originals had been in place- the uprights had been pointed by hand and hammered in. I suppose it is possible that these could have been put in by the Victorians during the construction of the railway, but it would be interesting if anybody knows? It was with some relief that I learnt that the timbers which form the narrow crossing over this section are going back on.
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Benefits of a north-east wind
So, a nor-easterly wind brings with it a return of the dry cold that had temporarily moved away. This wind seems to cause more grumblings than any other prevailing direction. But in Brampton there are hidden benefits. Not only a crystal clear night sky but the return of that very rare commodity, silence.
Real silence is rarely encountered in Norfolk. There may be times in the depths of Thetford Forest . or as I found recently, in the late evening inside Norwich Cathedral, but in truth the all-pervading background hum of traffic or aircraft is always there. Or so it seems.
In Brampton the background hum of traffic sneaks over the railway line and invades the village form the south and west. The sound of tyres on the Aylsham bypass itself appears to get louder every year. But give us a good settled north- east airstream from the coast and we seem to get close to silence or at least to a human scale.
This morning the railway cutting was wreathed in silence. The shuffling of a rabbit broke the atmosphere, as did the flap of a Jay’s wings. Silence allows such concentration. The last shoot of the season brought a refreshing human scale to the sound-scape; calls and shouts and the barks of gundogs drifted on the breeze in much the same way as the noise of field workers must have done when the village was their world.
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Robin count
At daybreak this morning the weather was dull and a shower of cold rain made it feel damper than ever.
Whilst taking the dogs for their morning stroll I counted, in a totally unscientific way, the number of singing Robins within the southern part of the village. This part of the village extends to roughly fifteen houses. I reached a total of seven singing Robin’s within the 75 yard stretch from home to the railway line. This may not on the face of it seem a remarkable number, but no other species sang in these unsuitable weather conditions.
As I walked further on the railway line I only added two more to my tally in a half mile. I have no clearer evidence for the benefit of gardens in rural areas. More fences, hedges and boundaries means more Robins; it is unscientifically proven…
