My binoculars languished elsewhere

December the 23rd already. It was a mild and blustery Friday, heavy rain overnight had moved north, leaving the landscape saturated but with little rain in the air. Dramatic clouds too. Mrs Wessex Reiver attempts to do a walk a day, today then I thought I'd join her. Given the rain overnight, I suggested Cheddar Reservoir.  If nothing else we'd return from the walk looking less like we'd been dragged through a ploughed field by abluting bovines. 

Created in the 1930s to supply Bristol with clean drinking water, I often think it is oddly named as the dam-contained 135 million gallons of water sits between 'cheesy' Cheddar and the 'Medieval' town of Axbridge.  It was from the latter town we accessed the reservoir this morning. Parking in the free car-park we walked up through the square and along the gently climbing High Street. The houses on each side were bedecked with Christmas trees set at a jaunty 45 degree angle rammed into first floor flag pole tubes bolted to the house wall exteriors. In the summer these flag tubes are used to display flags during the Medieval Pageant.  Today though is all about a festive walk.

In the commotion to set off I'd forgotten my binoculars, which had been a secondary reason for coming here as the reservoir is a designated SSSI for its birdlife, especially in winter. I'm not sure if it still is but it used to be the top place in southern England for wintering coot [Fulica atra], with a few thousand having been recorded here, though numbers have dropped in recent years. Their presence, as a dark raft of activity,  is a boon for birdwatchers as rarer passage migrants will flop down into this melee of coot for safety in numbers.  Great northern diver, Slavonian grebe and green winged teal have all been spotted here along with red crested pochard. It simply takes patience to scan across the coot flotilla looking for an aberration in shape using binoculars. Not today however, not with with my binoculars languishing elsewhere. The reservoir has a shallower edge on the Cheddar side by the Boat Club and can lead to some gems of the wader and wetland variety. I saw three glossy ibis one year, and at a different time a grey phalarope which I viewed only feet away from me completely unfazed by the attending crowd. For what is simply a circular reservoir in a flat Somerset landscape it has a lot of birdlife to offer. Partly due to it being the nearest body, indeed the largest body of freshwater, close by the Bristol Channel, a well known bird migration highway. An ideal stop-off then.

Today the generalists of this area were in evidence, grey wagtail, pied wagtail, meadow pipit, carrion crow, mallard, jackdaw, great tit, cormorant, coot of course, tufted duck, magpie, great crested grebe and a myriad of gulls were easy to spot with the naked eye (my ability restricted as my binoculars languishing elsewhere - you get the idea of my ineptitude)

What I love about Cheddar though is that while you walk its near 3 km circular route, to one side of you is open water, to the other marginal grassland with standing mature trees and hedges. During previous visits I've come with a scope and scanned these features with a birds eye view. Great spotted and green woodpecker, snipe, bullfinch, nuthatch, treecreeper, linnet, winter thrushes and members of the titmouse family are quite regular. The vantage point on the reservoir path is at tree canopy height thus  looking across into the top most branches gives a perfect view into these mature oaks, sycamore and ash. Better in many ways than walking along the lane down below and looking up.

What struck me today however was that most of these trees still had their leaves, albeit in senescence colours. Despite a recent prolonged cold spell, followed by wind and rain, those leaves cling on with a certain tenacity, giving an odd autumnal feel to this midwinter walk, and a splash of much needed colour it has to be said.

It was monochrome and dark even at 11am with grey clouds scudding over to the Mendip Hills in the distance. It remained mild and dry however, that is until we'd reached the furthest point from shelter. And then it rained. An odd rain that reduced us to quite damp ramblers in a few minutes but rain that didn't seem to be falling. It brought me to mind of being in the hills of  Northumberland - heavier than drizzle, but lighter than rain, it cloaks everything in dreek saturation at an alarming speed.

That mizzly-rain remained with us for the rest of the walk, that is until we arrived back at the entrance to the reservoir.  This entrance from the Axbridge side is flanked by an avenue of very mature, and lovely, birch trees. Some are old enough to be putting out buttress trunks and roots to stabilise them which is not often seen in the short lived betula genus.  These wonderfully gnarled trunks are very tactile and worthy of a few moments to wonder at and caress the deeply fissured bark, as presumably treecreeper and tits do on a regular basis, foraging for spiders and insects making their own homes here.

Having walked 3.37 miles according to the phone app, it was time to retrace our steps back to 'Medieval' Axbridge and a light refreshment in the Lamb Inn (dating back to 1480). A friendly little place now run by the Butcombe brewery. Already in-situ locals warned me of the wobbly stool I found myself perched on, with an air of 'he's not from around these parts'. Luckily I didn't provide the luncheon entertainment of falling hither and yon across the floor as it collapsed beneath me. Mushroom soup consumed, I'd hoped to finish this walk by visiting the church close by. I've been visiting Axbridge for nearly 30 years and never made it into the church, a tradition which was not going to be broken today as a Seasonal wedding was taking place, signposted by a white Royce parked outside sporting white ribbons. Another time then. 

Just time to retrace our steps to the car, but not before a quick image of King John's Hunting Lodge in the Market Square. Owned by the National Trust, the Lodge now houses a local history museum. This 15th Century wool merchant's house has nothing to do with either a hunting lodge or for that matter King John (who died in 1216 nearly three centuries before this building was constructed). A fine looking building, and if nothing else this walk revealed a pattern in Axbridge of naming things, such as the reservoir, that have nothing to do with their location or origin. 

So that's a pre-Christmas walk completed, though no doubt there'll be more over the Festive Season, maybe even with my binoculars. Home then to sit next to my 'twiggy' tree. This tradition of 'twiggy' trees began in the 1960's when my father, a production artist, realised the real fir tree they had put up was dying rapidly and would drop all its needles by Christmas Eve. Wandering out into the nearby countryside he felled a handsome shrub, painted it white and applied decorations. Most years after that we had a real Christmas tree and a twiggy tree in the house. And I am keeping the tradition going. 

This year I've used a number of smaller branches, mostly brought in by Julie while out walking, and bound them to a willow branch using cotton rope. It looked quite effective unpainted (like a silver birch), but I decided to paint it white as is tradition. I have to say, painting twigs and branches with white paint is not for the faint hearted. Two hours it took this year. I'm pleased with it and as with most things at this time of the year, it is all about tradition, though sadly having lost my mum in November Christmas may be a strange, and not traditional event. 

That said, if you are reading this, may I wish you a Very Happy Christmas.

Mixed corvid roosts

 

A couple of days ago I was entertained by what can loosely be described as 'a murmuration' of corvids. Of course that noun is mostly used in reference to starlings, yet on that morning what I witnessed was perfectly summed up by the word murmuration.

Corvid roosts are well known for providing spectacular displays overhead. I was once invited to view the famous Maddingly roost in Cambridgeshire with scientists from that University. On that wonderful day it was breath-taking to watch thousands of rook and jackdaw not only alight en-masse at dawn, but provide unbelievable aerial displays in the evening as they came into the roost site. What a privilege to be in amongst them, and what a noise!

And it was the noise earlier this week which caught my attention as to what on earth was going on. It was a few minutes before dawn, and in that half light a cacophony of rook and jackdaw calls drifted to me from the fields behind the house. I watched from the bedroom window. This mixed flock of around two hundred was moving swiftly and acrobatically over the fields. Some birds alighting on trees, others simply playing with the wind. Repeatedly they grouped together like black snow, twisting and turning before moving out over the landscape only to then return moments later and repeat this acrobatic show. On the side-lines carrion crow joined in and at one point a raven flew through the melee cronking loudly. I've seen these mixed flocks many times before, as I mentioned above, but always at or near to the roost site. This more recent event was across flat fields and over 2 miles from the nearest roost site on Worlebury Hill just to the south. It was all very much part of the normal behaviour of corvids at dawn as they reaffirm social bonds, however in the 20 years I've lived here I've never seen this over these particular fields. Had this flock been disturbed in the roost site and amassed over fields awaiting dawn? I wasn't sure but it was a wonderful fifteen or so minutes as the light improved.

I mentioned what I'd seen on Facebook and my friend Chris Sperring came back with an open invite to come and see his roosting corvids. These are 15 miles north of me (as the crow flies) and he mentioned that he has observed a number of ravens 'herding' jackdaw as they arrive over the woods, herding them to a specific area of the wood and therefore presumably the right part of the wood, in raven terms, to roost in. Raven have increased dramatically in this area and so later he posted a Facebook Live where indeed a dozen or so raven seemed intent on chaperoning the jackdaw to the part of the woodland the ravens wanted the smaller corvid to use that night. Time and time again watching that video, raven rose up from their perch in trees and flew with and around the jackdaw until the latter settled, with the raven then returning to their tree and waiting the next influx of jackdaw. I'll have to visit and see this for myself.

I'd not heard of this ravens providing a guard or a herding behaviour with jackdaw, or rook for that matter, so later in the evening I did a little research. Mentioned within Raven in Winter by Bernd Heinrich is an intriguing mention of Raven in Wales by W. A Cadman. In this observation from 1947 mixed flocks of corvids were observed coming to a roost with the ravens at the periphery of roost activity. This led me to another article by H. G Hurrell, A Raven Roost in Devon from 1955-56.  This was fascinating. A raven pair held a 5 acre wood as territory. While they did, they had the wood to themselves. Eventually they disappeared and a number of raven began using the wood as a winter roost, eventually over 80. However once the number of raven at the roost increased jackdaw then came to the wood and roosted there too. The summary therefore suggests that ravens provided security and support for the smaller jackdaw, both benefitting through collective feeding and roosting behaviour.

All very intriguing and leaving me wanting to know more. Are corvid roosting patterns, and indeed behaviour changing as the number of raven in lowland Britain increases? Certainly in the raven roost north of me, when I lived up that way in the mid 1990's you'd never see a raven, or maybe once a year as it flew by. Now Chris tells me 20, 30, 40 are not uncommon at night, every night.  Do these intelligent birds have a threshold number after which their influence to smaller corvids is triggered. I have read studies of ravens at a roost and there seems to be information intelligence happening, with some observations suggesting as one raven arrives one raven departs to prevent overcrowding, in other words they, the collective ravens at the roost maintain the numbers there at any one time through observation and communication amongst themselves. Society in fact. 

Whilst persecuted in the past, ravens were often describes as solitary pairs, driven to upland and wild areas. In fact throughout history ravens have been gregarious, lowland inhabiting birds, and who knows, the catalyst for extraordinary mixed corvid flocks, and behaviour as seen recently at the roost site? I simply don't know nor have the answers yet, but I have a feeling this question is going to return to me over and over again this winter, and so, I must visit that roost in the Gordano Valley and see for myself.

Steart Marshes - Dragonfly hotspot

I've had a week off work, postponed from the end of September when I'd come down with covid. Having time to relax at this time of the year is a pleasurable experience, schools have returned after the summer vacation, the holiday season is winding down, therefore like today, we had the huge Steart Marshes re-wilding landscape pretty much to ourselves.

At just over 6000 hectares this recently named super reserve is vast, and it is only the second time I've visited. Though saying that, I'm not being strictly accurate. I used to come here when it was simply Steart, a hotchpotch of farmed fields, freshwater rhynes filled with reeds, jutting into the Bristol Channel which battered it twice a day with its huge tidal surge. It felt then like a forgotten corner of Somerset, quite wild with a single track leading the visitor to a windswept pull-in of a car park as the tarmac petered out. It was empty of people other than birdwatchers and dog walkers and the odd farmer.  Birdwatching could be either exceptional or dire depending on the tides, seasons or weather. But that all changed around 15 years ago.

Climate change and rising sea levels were already having an impact along the Somerset coast. Following a storm in 1996 after a breach in the protective shingle ridge at Porlock, it was decided not to repair this damage as sea levels were rising, and allow the farmland behind the ridge to be sacrificed. Here at Steart, it was a more managed decision to sacrifice the farmland and let the sea take over in a more controlled way. Or put simply a massive landscape-based undertaking which after years of planning, nature mitigation, research and of course heavy machinery carving out channels, the plan was realised when the sea wall was deliberately breached in 2014 and the first tides flooded over what had been until then agricultural grassland. 

My last, indeed my only visit to Steart Marshes, had been in the winter of 2018. That day was cold, windy and for the return walk miserably wet. Today the sun shone, skies were blue and for mid October it was pleasantly warm. High tide was 11.25 hours. It's a four kilometres walk from the main car park to where the breach had been made on the banks of the River Parrett. Leaving it a little too late to arrive by high tide Julie and I set off on what was a rollicking scamper along the footpaths. Plan 'A' then was to get to the breach as quickly as possible, see what was happening then take our time on the return leg to observe any wildlife. Birdlife on the way to the hide was at best scarce, the highlight being skylarks singing on the wing as they drifted higher and higher. Unusual for October in my experience.  We got to the breach hide just after high tide, which today was not high enough to flood the landscape.

And when I said hide, it is simply a viewing screen with a couple of benches. The wind was quite strong now so the slatted structure provided a very welcome respite from the endless buffering. Wind we had plenty, birdlife very little. Actually this didn't matter. We'd hoped to see lapwing as Julie is trying to do a painting of these enigmatic waders, but we were here a bit too early in the autumn for the big flocks to have coalesced. In fact I only saw one wader the whole day, which aside from a flash of white along its tail as it flew into the sun could have been anything. There were however a lot of little egret and shelduck, the main incumbents of this new landscape I had read. 

Everything was watchable through binoculars, but at a real distance for my camera (even the shelduck above were on a x 150 telephoto) and facing into the sun didn't help. I did spy a marsh harrier and buzzard at some distance, and a wren behind the screen, but in reality that was about it, other than the ever present meadow pipits and black headed gulls. But then one bird popped up, which still intrigues me.

Stonechat or whinchat? I'm undecided. Initially I dismissed this as a female/immature stonechat when viewing it through the binoculars (it was about 100-150 m away). Of course a photograph was needed for this write-up which I took quickly without thinking. Later at home in the evening I looked a little closer. Hmmmm? female whinchat in winter plumage? The eye stripe is quite prominent. To that oracle then, Google. Big mistake. I descended into a rabbit hole of internet birdwatchers having the same difficulties. Questions asked, replies not definitive, seemingly the differences between female stonechat and female whinchat in winter garb, especially first winter females are subtle, obvious in a field guide, but in the field, tricky!  I think I'm erring towards whinchat, though the white covert might be stonechat... I don't know, if I'm wrong so be it, it brought joy anyway seeing it.

By now we'd been at the breach for about an hour. I'd been scanning a landscape mostly devoid of action, and while I scanned the horizon Julie sat on a seat by the hide sketching. The fact that there was so little birdlife was mostly my mis-timing of the season, wetlands are best in mid winter,  and partly my lack of knowledge of this site, assuming there'd be pools or scrapes with a smattering of waders. A mental note was then made to return here in December or January on a spring tide when the best views are to be had I believe. And I have to remember this is a developing landscape, it may take 20-30 or more years to find its ecological equilibrium. 

Julie's sketch completed, we walked at a more sedate pace back to the car park. It really is remarkable what's happened here in less that ten years. As we walked back, to our left were browning agricultural fields slowly reverting to saltmarsh. To our right the remaining agricultural fields, still being grazed and managed. The two separated by the cinder path provide complementary habitats.

 

This trio of roe deer were in a farmed field, while the magpie sat on the boundary observing us with a suspicion only corvids have.

At one point we deviated off the reserve and looked out over the coffee coloured Bristol Channel which today was quite choppy in the wind. Adjacent to what was once the only car park here, a seat had optimistically been placed to look out over Hinckley Point Nuclear Power Station, and the works there to build the new reactor. A stark reminder that this whole coastline is man made and man managed, with the wildlife taking advantage of any work being undertaken

The sun was putting out some warmth now as we walked the 4 km back. This kestrel was over some fields and while not fabulous image, it pleased me as I took this hand-holding my camera on telephoto lens. Kestrels are such wonderful birds to observe.

I began this with the fact that we had the huge Steart Marshes re-wilding landscape pretty much to ourselves. I think in the entire 4 hours we were here we only saw 4 people in the reserve, though there were a dozen or so cars parked up. However we did see hundreds of dragonflies. I'd been reading before we visited that Steart Marshes has recently been awarded a dragonfly hotspot status. Going on the numbers we saw today, I can understand that. Given this was October the 17th, everywhere we looked they were flying. Always too quick to photograph, I'd read the site is now home to 19 species. The star performance for us being these enveloped southern migrant hawkers. We watched them fly conjoined in front of us for quite a distance, before alighting on a blackthorn branch when they stayed for a few minutes before flying off, still conjoined. 

To see this landscape coming alive with increased biodiversity is a great achievement and result for what must have been thousands of hours of work, both in planning and implementation. It may have only been my second visit, but being 40 minutes from home it wont be my last this winter. Hopefully there'll be more birds next time though, and I hope as few people as here today.

It is strange seeing rain again

It was reported on the BBC News website today that the summer of 2022 will go down as one of record breaking temperatures. This report by the Met Office doesn't mention the lack of rain, July was the driest since 1935 in England. 2022 was very dry generally in England especially, yet as I write this outside it is pouring. For the first time in months it feels cool, autumnal and damp. And that is something to celebrate.

In that BBC News article it states the following,

"More than half of the UK's oldest active weather stations recorded their hottest day ever in 2022, according to Met Office data."

Adding;

"The new UK high of 40.3C was recorded at Coningsby in Lincolnshire on 19 July 2022."

Like many I remember that first heatwave very well, and the one which followed in August. Looking back in my diary, I note that on July the 17th I wrote 

"First hot day. It was cool at 7am, by by 10am we could feel the heat building...... curtains drawn windows closed we remained indoors until 10pm ... when [we] watered the garden in the darkness"

I remember sleeping outside at night, a pleasant experience lying there watching the stars and night sky yet warm enough to be comfortable. The heat was intense but it was bearable as the landscape was so dry, dry heat is so much different to humid heat. It was around this time we spent a few nights to watch nightjars on the Quantocks. Sunset being around 21.30hrs, it was a late few Fridays we ventured there to witness these remarkable birds. I noted at the time the landscape was bone dry. Dust billowed everywhere and the footpaths over the Quantocks were cracked and as hard as stone. Vegetation looked tired, really tired.

The heatwave which followed in early August was not quite as ferocious but lasted longer.  Flicking back through my diary we visited family in Salisbury on August 6th noting that in the afternoon we were exhausted by the heat and the grass around the cathedral was the colour of stubble. The heat built, and continued through to the 14th when for the third day running my car thermometer showed 39oC. Car thermometers are not accurate of course, but nevertheless, even reducing this by a few degrees, it was a hot couple of weeks.

However the following day, August 15th, I wrote. "It was forecast, but around 7am it started to rain - nice light rain, which carried on until lunchtime" 

The previous entry of rain in my diary had been July 2nd and I needed to search back to April to find reference to rain, and only then rain showers. The winter months were no better, January and February in this area of Somerset were dry, but not obviously though as it was cloudy, thick cloud, most days.

As I watched the rain this morning I began to think back to the dry summer, in reality it was only a few weeks ago. It seems odd to be looking at something so common again, but rainfall is so important to everything yet we take it for granted. "oh it raining AGAIN!". As if this was a life and death situation to be avoided at all costs.

Only when the rain stops do we think of how life would be without a steady trickle of moisture through the year.  As we read in news reports this year 2022 was a bad one for wildfires across the Planet, long-term stable weather patterns altered through Climate Change now backed up by science. Locally however the changes are just as evident.

Today as I write this I can see rain falling steadily on a mild autumnal day, but look at the trees, established trees that is. 

Many deciduous trees have shed some of their leaves already. We'd expect this in October as shortening days trigger seasonal change in metabolism and eventually leaf fall. Back in August however a False Autumn occurred in many parts of England. Not something I believe I've ever known before, and it seemed to happen within a few days. When the heat subsided a little suddenly lanes and paths were strewn with crisp shrivelled leaves, often still green. Walking through them and hearing their rustle, was akin to childhood memories kicking leaves about at Halloween. In the canopy, autumn colours mingled with high summer green, while swallows flew overhead. Quite strange. Shedding leaves in summer is of course a way of surviving for a tree, transpiration through stomata in the leaf is a constant which can only be stopped by jettisoning the leaf itself. It is survival. However shedding leave too early is risky. 

Deciduous trees and a few conifers use this year's energy production to lay down next years leaves. Those future leaves are in the buds which remain after leaf fall quietly awaiting a sunlit Spring day to literally 'bud-burst' and begin the cycle all over again. But, leaves falling in August? It is only to hope that those buds formed early too. Failure to provide viable leaf buds this year will mean no leaf canopy next year, or at least compromised cover and possibly a weakened transpiration system. A compromised leaf cover in spring is a problem for the tree but also for the wildlife which relies on that leaf-burst, invertebrates emerge, providing food for nesting birds and the problem expands beyond the canopy.

Next year many trees may well have a decent bud burst from a distance, but is it enough, will the tree actually survive? That is a waiting game that we'll only know next summer. What trees need now is to hopefully gain enough moisture this autumn while setting down their buds, and hope for a wet (or is that normal) growing season in 2023. Of course not all trees are affected as other species. Oaks are fairly robust for a few dry years at lease, whereas beech or birch will suffer quickly.

Today though I just enjoyed going out into the garden in the rain. Garden spider and their webs are everywhere today bejewelled with fine raindrops. The same raindrops making wonderful patterns on the foliage and flowers around the garden. The clover in the lawn was especially uplifting, like a verdant miniature rock concert, everyone having their phones out waving bright lights to show appreciation for the H2O show.

I like rain a lot, and it is good to see it come back into this part of Somerset. Yesterday it felt autumnal for the first time, cool misted vegetation, damp leaves clinging to pathways, pathways that never really dried out in the still quite warm sunlight. I arrived home from work to the feintest aroma of woodsmoke. It's autumn, autumn as it should be. And for that, I like it. Thank you rain, I hope you keep falling and keep life turning.

A Cross Walk and Art in Nature

After a long absence from regularly updating the blog, what topic is suitable for the Prodigals return? I think maybe a summary of a walk and a visit to the Art in Nature Museum this weekend. A gentle return then.

Saturday October 8th: Walk Cross to Compton Bishop and back

What a superb Autumnal day this was. Virtually no wind, not a cloud in the sky and the October sun in this part of Somerset still packed a punch. Perfect walking weather. I'm still post Covid, therefore in terms of my fitness levels this gentle 3-4 mile saunter was a most suitable length. 

Cross, the village, nestles at the base of the Mendip Hills and always seems to be sunny. A former coaching hamlet bisected by ancient roads to Bristol and Wells, hence presumably the name. There is mixed information over the origins of name, either the village was at the crossroads, or the village cross was a meeting place. Doing a little further research failed to establish any other historical evidence for its name. The village was however for the last 20 years of his life home to Frankie Howerd, and his house Wavering Down is now a tourist attraction - in fact today as we passed we watched a man cutting the grass. A highlight of the walk.

Julie had completed this walk the day before with her friend and enjoying it so much suggested it for today. Soon after leaving the village centre we entered a field running along the banks of the Old River Axe. Technically a drain rather than a small river this didn't matter, it was teeming with wildlife. I'm not great at identifying fish, certainly there were trout we could see, but possibly bream and tench in there too. They were everywhere. And hundreds of pond skaters and whirligig beetles. I can't ever recall seeing so many in one place. This seems a healthy habitat, so pencilled in as a place to definitely return to and do some proper natural history exploring.

Continuing along the Old Axe the countryside here is what I'd term gentle. Or even flat! There were a lot of corvids about in the trees, mainly rooks, carrion crow and jackdaw, noisily accompanying our stroll. A green woodpecker undulated off towards a tree yaffling away. Wrens, starlings, meadow pipits and possibly others. Walking without binoculars for exercise is a different experience to ambling along with binoculars, I was in the dog-house a few times for stopping too.

After crossing a stile the river took on a different feel, firstly a bend but then it seemed to develop a different character, the trout here were large, 30-40 cm, but very little in the way of small fish. Magpies followed us on our route squawking away, and we began to slowly walk up hill, away from the river, which eventually outpours into the Bristol Channel a few miles to the west.

Up hill along a farm track brought us to the base of the Mendips and a footpath up to Crook Peak, the highest part of this end of the hills. We were not going that far today.

Instead we were just walking the foothills part so to speak, through woodland, which on a day like today was a magical place to be in with the sun dazzling through the branches, interspersed with shade and coolness. A few speckled wood butterfly and a single small tortoiseshell were the only insects here. It is late in the season after all.

As we climbed, as one would expect, the views opened up from our vantage point hidden within shaded trees to the sun-drenched slopes of the Mendips. I've always loved this landscape on the southern slopes, and, considering we were only a couple of miles only from the M5, Weston Super Mare 8 miles distant, even Bristol less than 20 miles away, this corner of Somerset seems remote, timeless and silent. Well that is apart from the pheasant shooting happening over the valley somewhere.

Compton Bishop across the valley with the church nestled under the slopes.

Eventually we made it to the village of Compton Bishop, after a little detour and chat with a lady walking her dog, who got us back on the right track - and who suggested a longer route for another day. A sleepy backwater of a hamlet really.

Beginning our route back to Cross I spied this abundant ivy over a wall, thick with insects taking advantage of this late season nectar. Ivy in flower is such an important foodstuff for all manner of insects, and when in seed, birds and mammals. This area had not been flailed obviously, sadly further down the lane it had been shorn to within in inch of its life, here no insects could be seen. There is a moral to the story there somewhere.

Okay I know it's childish, but it made me giggle.

Finally we made it back to Cross walking along Webbington Lane rather then as planned along a footpath past an orchard. That route then is for next time, as I really want to return here and do some proper walking cum wildlife sleuthing. Note to self, bring binoculars and a good camera, there's so much to see just beyond arm distance. Walking with a smartphone does allow for lightness of foot but smartphone cameras, while good, are not nearly as good as a SLR for some images.

We got back to Cross and after a chat with a lady pruning a tree, Julie walked on another mile or so to the village of Axbridge where we planned to met up for a lunch. I had had enough, still not 100%, so I drove the car over there but before then noticed this at the outskirts of the village which I'd seen at the beginning of the walk but not really noticed. 'Maggie's Corner'. I like the sentiment of  'to find a spot of green'  very much.

Sunday October 9th : Art in Nature Museum, Gloucestershire

I'd not met up with my friend Rob for months and months, so today on his well received suggestion we met at the Art in Nature museum just north of Gloucester. Today was the last day of a Robert Gillmor  (6 July 1936 – 8 May 2022)  exhibition highlighting his artwork from teenage years to very recent. Gillmor was best known for his covers of the New Naturalist series from the 1980's. His lino-cut work is fantastic and at the exhibition there were 5 lino pads he'd cut to produce an oystercatcher image which was shown alongside. Such bewildering complexity given he had to work in negative relief for each pass of the print, each pass being a different colour. If you don't know his work, there's a nice summary here on the Society of Wildlife Artists website, a Society he co-founded.  https://swla.co.uk/members/robert-gillmor

It's a fascinating place to visit anyway as their permanent exhibitions are bolstered by special exhibitions such as the one we went to see today, and artwork and sculptures in the grounds. Plus a rather good café.

Walking around the grounds I noticed these desiccated teasels.  I've grown teasel in the garden, and seen it many times out in the wider countryside, but never noticed the leaves when crisp, form a heart. This was replicated in over half the teasels we could see. Interesting and I'll look out for this (is it just a local phenomenon) when out and about this winter.

Finally, this hairy beast caught both Rob and my eye. Rob has an app on his phone which confirmed it as a tiger moth, further confirmed by a couple of better entomologists than me as the caterpillar of the ruby tiger moth Phragmatobia fuliginosa . A perfect end to a perfect weekend.