thawwalk78

December 4^th, 2010. 4.30 a.m. 7 miles, at least. It’s surprisingly mild after a very cold week… damp in the air, damp underfoot, thawing. There’s a metallic taste to the air.  I make for new ground, a lake – probably an old gravel-pit – about a mile outside my usual territory. It’s very dark, stars and moon blotted out. The lights of the city to the south, and from the villages round about, project a dull glow into the low crumpled cloud. I walk up the concrete strips of the guided busway – it’s too dark to take a path or farm-track. The going’s not easy. The packed snow and ice, partially melted, is especially slippery. I walk past high chain-link fencing crowned with barbed wire – a food-processing plant, humming and steaming through the night, arc-lights blazing, steel hoppers, silos and flue-pipes gleaming, ranged barrels stacked high. There’s no-one about. Then under a road bridge, graffitoed and sour, smelling of old tyres and asphalt. Out into open country again, past coppice and plough. Not a bird, not a creature abroad. I cut across pastureland. It’s like walking through tundra – low hummocks of grass set in a bog of crackling ice and snow. Beyond, the glint of water. But between me and the lake are a hedge and a spiked angle-iron fence. In the icy conditions there’s no way I’m going to try and climb over. Not at six in the morning. I track the fence until I come to a gap just wide enough to squeeze through. Open water, willow-fringed, hard up against the embankment of the A14, grinding with a never-ending flow of container-trucks to and from the east coast. But it’s too dark to see anything on the water. I wait for the dawn. It’s a long time coming. In fact, it never really arrives. Imperceptibly, over the course of an hour and a half, the dark turns a few shades paler. Then it’s day, as good as it gets.

The lake is disappointingly empty of bird-life. I was expecting to see some new waterfowl but only half a dozen pairs of mallard scull round the edges, like couples out for a walk. A peninsula of ice juts out into the water, and right on the edge sit perhaps one hundred gulls – mostly young black-headed gulls with a dark spot behind the eye, and a few larger lesser black backs and juvenile herring gulls mottled brown. They are mostly quite still and silent. Strutting and skidding between them are moorhens. The ice looks too thin to take all their weight. Out in open water, removed, are two black cormorants. One is fishing, sitting very low in the water. It tucks its head close into its long bent neck before diving, and then goes straight down. It stays under for about 15 seconds before emerging not far away. I watch it dive several times but it doesn’t appear to catch anything. The other is perched on a buoy in heraldic pose, with wings limply held out in a hands-up position, or held out to dry. It looks primordial, with a strange stump of a tail and ragged, greasy plumage. A prototype bird, reptilian, unbeautiful. These are, no doubt, the same cormorants I’ve seen flying over, three miles to the north. Now I know where they’re headed, and some of the passing gulls too. A snipe, or a jack snipe, propels from the bankside and whirs away at speed on a blur of short, pointed wings.

It turns colder, bleaker. The long walk back, though, is a warm feast of birds – song thrushes, unsinging, and plenty of skittering blackbirds; solitary robins; chaffinches; magpies; a pair of pied wagtails; great tits, blue tits, a party of long-tailed tits, and the glimpse of a coal tit. A charm of goldfinches – at least 50 birds – swirls overhead, uncertain where to go, finally dropping down into an alder just up ahead. They work through the female cone-like catkins, extracting the seeds. I’ve never seen so many goldfinches. The tree sparkles with little gold flashes. Then, for the first time, a single goldcrest, picking through ivy – a tiny, nervous jewel of a creature, twitching and flicking so rapidly I can hardly see it move; it just appears in a slightly different position each time, like old jerky newsreel.

Other birds come in threes today – I encounter three jays, three green woodpeckers, three kestrels, and three little egrets, each and all in different locations. One jay rattles harshly, raising and lowering its crest. The green woodpeckers mostly keep to the ground. I follow a kestrel along a row of bare horse-chestnut trees. Sleepy and cold, it is reluctant to move. I get within 15 yards of the bird. Through binoculars each and every feather that makes up the intricate spotting and barring and rich coloration of its beautiful plumage is revealed. It stares straight down at the ground from on high, watching intently. From time to time it turns its head to look directly at me, reproachful, as if I was intruding on some intensely private affair. Which I am. It tolerates me for a while, then with a shrug, launches into a long glide, and it’s away.

The three little egrets stand in the midst of a sprouting field a little to the south of where I last saw one, very white against the snow-furrowed earth. They are preening. I’ve not seen two together, or three, in these parts. Later a pair of them fly past me, low, on big slow wings, and settle into a ditch up ahead. A passing dog-walker flushes them into the air and they double-back to where I first saw them. I follow the ditch down to its junction with Beck Brook. From the stream, unexpectedly, another little egret rises at my approach. Is this one of the three I saw earlier, which had somehow slipped by me, or is it a different bird? They seem very exotic to me, these little egrets, belonging more to African swamplands than wintry Cambridgeshire fields, and it’s good to know there are at least three in the neighbourhood. A few yards further on, a grey heron lifts off from the brook with a slow whump-whump of wing, majestic, nearly three times the size of the egrets, and fearsome, with glaring eye and snake-like neck. It wheels away into the cold mists of the morning.

windwalk54

July 15^th, 2010. A day of wind, from start to finish, the windiest day this year. Clouds pour in from the west. Hats and caps fly, telephone wires thrum, big trees bend and bow alarmingly, roaring with pleasure. Jackdaws rush into the sky to ride the air-waves just for the hell of it, like surfers when the sea is up. Three black-headed gulls, the first I’ve seen for months round here, fly into the face of the wind, swooping low, tacking this way and that. It rained during the night – Oakington Brook carries water where it was dry a few days ago, and the main stream, Beck Brook, is up and flowing again. It is remarkable how quickly these little watercourses rise and fall during the year.

Spires of pink rosebay willowherb and bright yellow ragwort colour the corner of a field. The first thistles are over, the last of their down being dislodged by the breeze. A black cat, with white bib and front paws, incongruous in the scrub, freezes on seeing me, eyes widening. She crouches, slowly, lowering herself into the earth. We stare at each other, locked in the moment, until I move forward. In her own village territory or domestic setting she would probably ignore me, but here, out in the countryside, I am something to reckon with, to fear, and to wonder at. I often come across domestic cats on my forays, quarter of a mile, half a mile even, from the nearest habitation. I am always glad to see them. We have much in common – both interlopers, trespassers, wanderers from home, stalkers and hunters, seekers of the veedon fleece. They always seem surprised to see me, embarrassed even, as if I have caught them with their pants down, unmasked, exposing their truer, darker, wilder selves.

I disturb a heron in the sheep pasture below Westwick House. Its big wings unfold like umbrellas and fill with wind. It doesn’t glide far before settling again, easing down on its long, springy legs. It straightens up and stands as still as a post for ten minutes or more. From one hundred yards, it is a bare, dead stump in the ground – grey folded wings and back like fissured bark; the long, pale, serpentine neck like a bleached, twisted branch. I can just make out the black crest sweeping back from its yellow eye, watching me askance. On the brook, three mallard paddle down the runnel between the water-weeds. They are fully-grown but lack the markings of the male or the female so are probably juveniles, survivors from one of the many little flotillas of fluff I saw earlier this year. As I peer beneath the bridge at Westwick to try and catch a glimpse of the elusive pike, two dazzling blue bullets flash past me under the bridge, one behind the other, and disappear downstream. Kingfishers again! Three days ago I saw one for the first time ever in this district. Now two more, on the other side of the village, so probably not the same as the first. I couldn’t have missed them before – not in six months of watching and waiting. Surely not. Yet they are supposed to be more or less sedentary.