Local patch 23

On a bright and brittle December morning, fortified by hot chocolate and wearing not quite enough clothes, we made our way along the high street. It was the week before Christmas and Topsham was twinkling. But we weren't Christmas shopping, we were going on a cruise! The water of the estuary glittered as we stepped onto the little ferry. It was very cold.

As we headed down the river our expert RSPB guides, both conveniently called John, talked about the Exe Estuary: an internationally important area which is protected because of the waders and water fowl that flock there in their thousands during the winter. It is all about the nutrient-rich mud, apparently. And the mild climate! A chill wind whipped off the water, icing fingers to binoculars and tugging at loose scarves and hats, but the birds from the High Arctic, from frozen northern Europe, Siberia and Iceland and were happy in the ice-free waters.

The Johns were able to give clear and practical hints to help with spotting and identification and so we chugged contentedly between shining banks of silt. Curlew spiked their long beaks into the soft mud for worms; bright turnstones turned stones, sanderling and dunlin fussed and rushed across the surface. There were large groups of godwits - black tailed and bar tailed - resting. Flocks of lapwing flipped and dipped in the air; their calls were shredded by the wind and bounced back to us along with the curlew's haunting cry and the piping of the oyster catcher. The mud smelled of salt and minerals. From our vantage point in the middle of the river we had fantastic views of grey plover, redshank and greenshank And there were avocets everywhere in large feeding flocks. The emblematic bird is smart and elegant. The tall black and white wader has steel blue legs and a long, slender bill which turns up at the end. They swoosh this perfectly shaped tool through the sediment on the edge of a rising tide to find worms and tiny crustaceans. We gazed, entranced.

After such a satisfying haul of waders, two very special ducks caught our attention. A spectacular male pintail stood proudly as we cruised slowly by, cameras clicking. As we neared the turn in the river, we were accompanied by a small group of red-breasted merganser - the fabulous diving duck. Its tousled bottle-green head and slender, red saw-bill were unmistakable.

The Exe Estuary is a rich feeding ground for so many species of watery bird and getting out onto the river affords excellent views of many of them, without causing disturbance. But don't be fooled by talk of a mild climate: I was chilled to the marrow for hours afterwards. Do go. Do wear lots of clothes!

Local patch 22

Bilbo and I ran across Aller Moor yesterday morning in the pink pearl dawn. The winter sky was ice cream colours as the sun rose. Ice clicked and crunched under my boots. As we reached the end of the drove road, a dozen little egrets took flight from the rhyne where they were fishing. Their pure white feathers glowed rose in the rising sun. These beautiful white herons are a recent addition to our landscape with some 700 breeding pairs here now. They have spread along the south coast and their territory is gradually pushing northwards. We are accustomed to seeing them. Numbers swell to more than 4000 birds during the winter. And they have been joined in Britain, much more recently, by two other white herons: the great egret and the rarer cattle egret. Their presence must be a sign of our changing climate, and that is worrying. But they do add an exotic elegance to our waterways!

Other winter visitors made their presence known too. Redwings called 'tseep tseep' overhead and the fieldfares chuckled. They are feasting on the hawthorn and rosehips. A small group of green sandpipers shot away from Bilbo on the water meadows. Their piping call is typical of the winter countryside. A pair of raven cronked as they passed, and along the Sowy River there were grey wagtail flitting and hunting.

The trees are bare now and they have revealed their hidden treasure: huge globes of mistletoe. In this land of apple trees, it is widespread. It hangs in perfect spheres of bright lime green leaves and ice coloured berries. The trees have their own baubles. We associate it with Christmas and bring it into our homes to hang above our doorways. We enjoy bringing the outside indoors during this darkest season of the year. Linked with ancient fertility rituals, we welcome friends and family with a kiss. But this hemiparasite is not a good neighbour; dense infestation eventually damages the host trees. Many berry eating birds feast on it and pass the seeds to other sites. Our mistle thrush takes its name from the mistletoe - but today, among the other winter thrushes, the mistle thrush was absent.

Local patch 21

As it weaves through the storybox of the Levels, willow (Salix) is part of this ancient landscape. Preserved deep in the peat, willows have been discovered along the tracks and trails of prehistory. For as long as we have needed something to put stuff in - willow has been woven into baskets. It has its own language: spiling and stripple and withy. And you find it in unlooked for places: under the bearskins of the Guardsmen; transporting racing pigeons; batting at Lords; catching eel and lobster. Living willow sculptures grace our schoolyards and support our river banks. As velvety charcoal it is used by artists. Ground into tea or aspirin tablets it is effective against pain and fever. We can sit on it and shelter under it. And at the end of days, it can carry us to the grave and cradle us in the earth. We, too, are woven in willow.

The Somerset willow harvest starts in November, as soon as the first frosts have stripped the leaves from the stems. Fresh green willow can be used by artists and garden designers to make their living domes and tunnels and wigwams. Other willow is graded, dried and stored in bundles. The brown keeps its bark, the buff is boiled and stripped. Spring harvested willow is stripped and sold as white willow - the finest and most expensive. 

We gathered nervously at Musgrove Willows on a bright, raw November morning and listened to the safety briefing: the secateurs are very sharp; the withies are long and whippy. Be careful you don't poke someone in the eye or slip on the cuttings. Who knew willow weaving was so dangerous? We smiled encouragingly at each other. It feels brave to try a new skill: children do it all the time but somehow, during the hurry of adult life, we forget to try new things. Our tutor was confident and clear and generous with his help and advice. Gradually we found a rhythm. It is a lovely material to work with. Forgiving. Natural. We tied and twisted, went with the flow. The workshop was quiet, filled with sunlight and thoughts. We bent to collect bundles of 6' brown withies and our spirals grew from the floor. The weave got tighter and neater as our movements became more automatic. The butt goes here, the tip goes there, follow the line, this one under that one ... 

Our thoughts stretch and twine with the rhythm and the movement. We are woven in the willow.

Local patch 20

In this week of All Souls and All Saints, the Levels and Moors have worn their own shroud. Thick fog hugs the land and gathers along the waterways. It is shape shifting and sense changing. Sound perspectives alter. Is the hooting owl close by? How far away is that barking dog?

Bilbo and I ran along the deep lanes in the early morning. There is a lot of mud. The rooks circled above us, their rough voices loud in the thick air. The trees are newly nude, showing their bare bones again. Bill dodged around a patch of strong scent where the fox had recently paused. A broad flick of white above a glossy black tail revealed the bullfinch deep in the hawthorn. There was a kerfuffle in the spindly top of the hedge and a sparrowhawk appeared above us, twisted and plunged into the lane. Barred chocolate and cream, its strong, sharp wings shot it along the hedgerow, low - like a bullet. Blackbirds called alarm from their prickly lookouts and the squabbling sparrows stilled. It punched a hole through the air and the fog closed up around it, as if it had never existed. 

Local patch 19

O open up your heartwood to us will you, willow, 

show your deep within, your rough without, 

your water-brushing bough, your shoot, your grain, your knot?

(Macfarlane & Morris, 2017)

Back home, with our feet firmly on the ground again, I drive across the misty Somerset Levels. Her pollard willows are a feature of this flat iron landscape. Traces of the ancient craft survive and willow beds are tended and harvested for fences and hampers and coffins. It is a renewable, sustainable raw material. The stubby trunks line the ditches and rhynes that march across the levels and moors. They sprout bright new growth: gelled up hair, standing in surprise. 

And between the willows, small gangs of 'ghostly swirling surging whirling melting' starlings (Macfarlane & Morris, 2017) are arrowing to their feeding or roosting grounds. They are gathering on the wires and in the trees, expectant. 
Let the murmurations begin!

(Macfarlane, R & Morris, J, 2017, The Lost Words, Penguin Random House UK)

Back there - again!

Autumn half term and we are back in God's own country. The Yorkshire Dales pull us and we make an annual pilgrimage. Briefly, we exchange the wonderful flatlands of the Somerset Levels for the harsh and high ground of the Howgill Fells and Western Dales. It is a time to visit old haunts and dear friends, to climb familiar fells and try some new ones. We remind ourselves that we still feel comfortable in the hills and explore the tension between here and there; where shall we settle?

Autumn has outpaced us up here; her colours are already bright and fiery. Ophelia crashed through at the beginning of the week, and started the stripping and piling of loose leaves. The next day was bright and ragged and we climbed Arant Haw (605m), behind Sedbergh, heading for The Calf (676m). But Ophelia still ruled the high places, howling up the dale and threatening to toss us from the ridge. We retreated over Winder (473m) and back to safety. Raven cronked and shouted in spirals, mocked and mobbed by crow and jackdaw. A stoat, in bright chestnut, shot across the path and Bilbo hunted and pounced on voles in the hissing grasses.

Under a red hurricane sun, we topped Great Knoutberry (672m), high above Dentdale. We ate a brief picnic in swirling, sepia cloud and squelched down through thigh-deep, sucky mud. Golly, there has been a lot of rain up there!

On a gin-clear day we were above Barbondale on Calf Top (609m) - England's newest mountain. On top of the world, we could see the Lakeland fells and Morecombe Bay. Pipits accompanied us across the rocky top; buzzard and kestrel tipped and swung on the breeze.

In a suntrap in the garden of our stone cottage, a red squirrel watched us with large, bright eyes. We could see his flame-coloured fur, cream belly and sharp, tufted ears. People love their red squirrels. They are proud of them here; tin signs on tree trunks throughout the valleys alert us to their presence. Drive carefully - look out - let's protect them.

At the end of the week there was an endless walk (23km) out of Dent and up onto the mighty Whernside (736m) which left us feeling accomplished and wanting more, but we could see nothing from the top.I have never seen the view from the top of Whernside; I will just have to keep going back.

Local patch 18

The large walnut tree in the garden is gnarled and looks ancient. It is too close to the house and its spreading shade causes problems in the veg patch and salad beds. But we love it. It makes its presence known all year. Its kinked twigs are brittle and lichen covered. The rooks crash around in the spring, breaking off chunks and dragging them back to their tangled nests in the churchyard. At leaf burst and when the pollen flies, the tree is alive with finches and tits, clambering and picking their way around the canopy, feasting. In the summer the woodpecker families hammer into its branches and trunk, or use it as a staging post before they approach the peanut feeders. In early summer the first crop of small, green walnuts fall. These are the walnuts that you pickle. They are collected whole, complete with their leathery green jackets, before the shell has formed inside. They are pricked and brined for a fortnight and then spread in the sun to dry. Once they turn black, they can be packed into jars and topped up with vinegar. They are great in a venison casserole!

And right now it is doing what it does best - dropping mature walnuts onto the lawn. We stamp on them to remove the outer jackets and shake the nuts onto a tray by the fire to dry and keep until Christmas. We bag some up and share with neighbours - a fair swap for their bramleys and figs. Our walnuts are small and I don't know why. Perhaps the tree is old or needs pruning. But there are plenty of them and they taste great in a blue cheese salad or smashed together with handfuls of basil and grated Parmesan to make pesto.

The rooks come back at this time of year, curving in to the top of the tree. They fly away with a whole nut in their great beaks; they always take the same route out - diagonally down the garden and straight out across the moor behind the house. I wonder whether they are burying a stash ready for the winter. Perhaps one day a grove of young walnut trees will rise up through the mist out on the moor - tended and watched over by their rooky gardeners.

Squirrels feast in its branches too. They dart along the willow fence and make a dash for the trunk before the dog notices them. And they dig their treasure into the lawn, carefully memorising the pattern and position of their precious hoard.

How good then, that in this generous harvest there is enough for everybody!