If only that were still true. If only hearing a cuckoo in June was so ordinary that no-one took note of it. These days it's hot news. We tell friends and neighbours when and where we've heard a cuckoo. And some of us go in quest and keep on searching until we find one. Hearing a cuckoo in spring is our inheritance, not to be lost.
'He was but as the cuckoo is in June, heard, not regarded.' So Shakespeare's Henry Bolingbroke speaks dismissively of King Richard II.
If only that were still true. If only hearing a cuckoo in June was so ordinary that no-one took note of it. These days it's hot news. We tell friends and neighbours when and where we've heard a cuckoo. And some of us go in quest and keep on searching until we find one. Hearing a cuckoo in spring is our inheritance, not to be lost.
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How shall I tell the story of a day, And where to end when there’s so much to say? Let us set out the Francigena Way. The Via Francigena is the pilgrim route from Canterbury to Rome, the way of pilgrims, Franks, Crusaders, and merchants over hundreds of years. Perhaps the Via Francigena would have looked like the strade bianche, the white roads of limestone gravel and rough stones that wind their way through Tuscan landscapes. Not the easy way for us, we like adventure, and solitude. So we do not cross the Ponte della Pia, a medieval bridge spanning the Rosia, the short route monks took to the hermitage of Santa Lucia. On a moonless night you may encounter a veiled figure, a Sienese lady murdered by her husband. She appears in Dante’s Divine Comedy where she begs the poet to pray for her soul, prayers to release her from purgatory. She is Pia de’ Tolomei and Ponte della Pia is said to be named after her. Good Government ‘ is nowhere to be found. In turbulent times, in 1338 when Ambrogio Lorenzetti painted his ‘ Allegory of Good and Bad Government’ his frescoes reminded the Sienese of the importance of shared values and the interdependence of town and countryside. Frescoes show scenes of artisans and craftsmen working within the town, tilers up on the rooves fixing pantiles, shoemakers, a doctor tending a patient. On a winter's night, Burns' night, what better way to celebrate than with Tam o Shanter and a tot of drambuie. Now it's spring and Burns' haunting poem poses more and more questions. The crux of the drama is set in the ruin of Auld Alloway Kirk where Tam encounters the devil playing the bagpipes as witches dance wildly. The young witch, Nannie, is an enchanting figure who throws off encumbering clothes and dances only in her cutty sark. A shift, a shortie nightie. Nannie is the enduring emblem of the poem. The bleating of ewes reaches us from fellside pastures east of the RIver Kent and the flock follows a shepherd come to feed them. Lambing time approaches, later as you go higher up Kentdale. The light is glorious and snow patterns the highest tops. Raven Crag glows gold in the sunlight. Above Kentmere Hall there's heather on the heights, juniper on crags, and the purplish hue of birch on the bracken slopes. In early spring sunlight pours down to the woodland floor and the herb layer flourishes whilst the canopy is open. How do we identify birds? Bittern are secretive and the focus is often on listening, and interpreting. Birding can be an aural experience where hearing comes first. Raucous black-headed gulls are audible long before we see them and the distinctive calls of redshank and widgeon tell of their presence. Looking-up where pintail breed I realise I've never heard this favourite because it's vocally discreet. Sound-recordist Chris Watson often features on Radio 4 and it's an evocative listening experience. telling of habit and habitat, the rhythms of the day, of the seasons, which birds are resident, which on passage. 1sr March sees Meteorological Spring and Bittern are booming in the reed beds at Leighton Moss. There are some nine males, a warden tells, and each bird has a unique voice print- if one has the skill to distinguish it. Their booming calls resonate and carry three miles on a still day. Once they are feeding young they may become more visible as they fly to and fro carrying food. Bittern are secretive birds and far more often heard then seen. No fells today. The western skies are dark, the distant fells are hidden and the woods below Scout Scar escarpment are plunged into darkness, only a glimmer of light on the nearest trees. Sunlight floods down from the blue onto the escarpment, turning it winter gold. Skylark sing and a green woodpecker calls. Someone has seen stonechat but they are silent and do not show for me. The cloudscape is wonderful and this chiaroscuro landscape with darkness to the west and the escarpment cliff-top in full sunlight. A skylark sang in display flight for several minutes. They return each year to Scout Scar to breed, establishing territories, finding mates, settling in. We were seeking skylark and I'd been asked by the Lake District National Park to check notices requiring walkers to keep all dogs on leads, from 1st March, to avoid disturbing ground-nesting skylark and meadow pipit. The breeding season begins in February so the date's too late, as I reported some years ago. Skylark conservation status is red, and with a huge decline in numbers and loss of habitat they need protecting. The quest for snowdrops is a tradition I enjoy and they show well both in Sizergh Castle garden and along the woodland ways . In the garden there's a mass of snowdrops, and aconites begin to flower. Witch hazel is colourful and lovely too. And there are shrubs with fragrant flowers. Perhaps the flora of this season is the most cherished because, this year, it comes after relentless rain interspersed with only a few days of fleeting brightness. The herb layer awakens and comes to life again. Birch has elegance with an open structure and a cascade of fine twigs tipped with tiny catkins. The crown has a hint of amethyst in winter, a distinctive hue. Catkins flower in a golden-green haze when leaf-buds open. But they're a subtlety and you have to look for them. Bewitching birch whose twigs can be made into besoms used by gardeners to sweep fallen leaves from grass. Birch twigs are seasoned for the broom and its handle is bound with hazel or willow. Winter seems long, with relentless rain an interlude of snow and ice. Dawn comes earlier, with birdsong, but it's good to seize a day of sunlight and a degree of brightness. WInd chill was significant on this day and streamers of high cloud converged on the sun. A couple of raven called and a song thrush sang. I'm still enchanted by a couple of scarlet elf cup fungi that appear in fine fronds of moss on a limestone outcrop, all that Story Homes have left of a wildlife corridor up on Brigsteer Road. You never know what might pop up; a chevron of geese clamorous over Kendal, a bittern booming across the River Kent from the Police Station. And a scarlet elf-cup in the mosses of the limestone outcrop, all that’s left looking natural below the high fortress wall enclosing Brigsteer Rise and Story Homes’ new houses. Look back down Brigsteer Road to the distant Howgills and in the foreground is compacted earth where once trees grew. What’s the plan- surely not a massive car park on this scenic route? Who knows, we locals don't. On a wild night Tam o Shanter rides home home on his horse Meg. Through bog and mire with thunder and flashes of lightning. with thoughts of his wife’s anger when he rolls in drunk in the early hours. It’s a rollicking tale with bogles, warlocks, ghaists and houlets in the murk. Tam rides home through Burn’s own landscape from Dumfries to Ellisland Farm on the River Nith. He sees lights at a ruined church, the scene of a witches’ ceilidh, but he's drunk so much he's more curious than scared. As soft snowflakes fell and settled on winter branches the birch looked light and delicate, its twigs tipped with catkins awaiting spring. Next morning, snow had frozen to crunchy ice. The sun shone but the ground underfoot was treacherous. After two days of hibernating I was restless. Hearing birds calling, I looked out into the garden. Blue-tits and a great tit came to the feeders. Then I caught my breath, kept absolutely still and looked again. My camera was in the next room, if I left the window the bird might fly. I took a chance. Snow on the distant fells, hurray! It's not a grand reveal on reaching Scout Scar escarpment. The ground is frozen hard and the sun moon-pale, shrouded in cloud. The air is laden with moisture, the fells veiled and indistinct. It's silent and still. During the morning a cold north wind clears the air, the sun breaks through fitfully and a roving spotlight shows farmhouses, trees and fragment of fell. Gleams of brilliance could be low cloud, could be snow in a swirl of sunlight and mist. On Boxing Day there was perceptible sunrise and a wash of colours on the horizon. The sun was welcome after days and days of darkness and rain, but the respite was brief. On New Year's Day the sun appeared, fitfully, once again. At this season the low sun casts long shadows and highlights landscape features in a distinctive way. Shoot of spring bulbs appear at Sizergh gardens where Charlie the cat always gives a warm welcome. 'When winter comes can spring be far behind?' A waxwing takes one of the last berries on a rowan. Bare fruit-stems show how a flock has fed here before and stripped the rowan berries. Town is in grid-lock with everyone rushing to buy-in all the supplies we think we might need at Christmas, and more. Life is an unimaginable challenge for wildlife, like these waxwing flocking in from Fenno-Scandinavia, in search of berries. They've been in the neighbourhood for the last month and berries dwindle. Once their food-source is exhausted they'll be gone. |
AuthorJan Wiltshire is a nature writer living in Cumbria. She also explores islands and coast and the wildlife experience. (See Home and My Books) Archives
April 2024
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