Woodland walk

Jack-by-the-hedge or Garlic Mustard

The swallows have arrived in the last week or so. Bang on time, a year to the day from their last arrival. One can only marvel at their in-built calendars.  The numbers are down but they have been battling against persistent northerly head-winds so only the strongest will have made it so far. Hopefully, more will catch up later. 

The sun has, at last, started to shine though the temperatures are still low and the solitary bees that usually throng the early blooms on the flowering currant in the hedge are few in number.

 The nest boxes are occupied and the warblers are singing in the woods.

Chiffchaff

 I heard what can only be described as a musical duel between two blackcaps trying to outdo each other.  What to my ears was a bravura performance of trill and counter trill was the black cap equivalent of two guys hurling abuse at one another.

Not to be left in the shade, a wren struck up its disproportionately loud party piece. How such a tiny body can produce such a volume and quantity of song is a mystery.

Further along the path the blackbirds had given up singing and were chattering their alarms call from branch to branch.  The reason became obvious as a dozing tawny owl opened a sleepy eye to see who was disturbing his snooze.

Sleepy Owl

 Stoats were playing scampering around the tree roots and generally the woodland seemed to have come alive with a small dose of sunshine.

Crossing from the woods to an old path through the fields, I came across a thrush's anvil - a stone used by a thrush to break snail shells.  It had been busy judging by the amount of discarded remnants of banded snail shells.

Thrush Anvil

 Back home by the burn with the blackthorn in full bloom and the chiff-chaff in full song. A pleasant stroll.

The promise of sloes for the gin this autumn

Give me sunshine

Yesterday, I picked my first bramble of the year. Purple-black amid the blush of ripening haws and hips, it signaled the end of summer. 

The swallows are gathering, twittering on the telephone lines.Their constant tweeting must be significant unlike that of their human counterparts. Are they reinforcing family bonds before their long flight south? 

The swifts would have gone by now if they had ever been - there have been no swifts around the village for years - but the swallows and, to a much lesser extent, the house martins still dominate the summer skies.
 Now, they perch on the wires, waiting for whatever sign it is that tells them the time has come, a trigger to their senses that says Go!   Every evening they congregate then one day...they're gone...every single one and summer is at an end.

Autumn approaches though its "close bosom friend, the maturing sun" has been conspicuous by his absence for most of the summer. Perhaps the poet's evocation will persuade him to give us an Indian summer. The apples and plums have cropped well, presumably swelled by the amount of rainwater falling on the roots.

To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,

And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core

A little sun would help.

Thistledown and Rosebay willow herb seeds are blowing in the soft southerly winds, thousands of tiny parachutes, drifting in every open window.

Butterflies and dragon flies are still aplenty in the Rackhamesque woods near the little loch but they too, love the sun.

The weird shapes of the pollarded woods

All nature laughs in the sunshine.*

* Anne Bronte