Spring is not quite here, close though...

 There is always a sense of great excitement in me at this time of the year. I'm like a child sometimes. Yes it is still winter, yet spring is very much beating it's own emergent path towards winters closing door. After weeks of rain followed by a lovely but very cold spell, today felt almost no coat weather. I said almost.

I was on the Avalon Marshes area of the Somerset Levels, Shapwick Heath to be precise. I've not been here for months, and today Mrs Wessex_Reiver and I had not started out in the morning to come here. It just happened by chance, and as that chance would have it I didn't' have any binoculars with me. More on that later.

Following an errand in Weston super Mare we decided on the spur of the moment to visit Shapwick. After the obligatory drink and snack at the Hub, it was simply lovely having a walk along the central path, the former route of the railway line which once carried peat dug hereabouts to the rest of the country. A bit of fresh air and some gentle exercise. There were some visitors about but for once it was fairly quiet. Not having my binoculars with me meant I had to use my other sense, hearing. First up a few fieldfare were raucously chak-kak-ak-ing in a nearby shrubbery, silhouetted against the sky but unmistakable with that call. As I listened a song thrush beyond gently repeated its phrasing adding a songster's lead vocal to the fieldfare's rhythm. A nice start.

Other sounds emanated as we walked along. The ubiquitous mallard quacked away, or at least the females did, a flotilla of Canada goose honked as they flew over. Great tit called, not the classic teacher call, but the two note contact call, repeated before falling silent. Not everything made a sound, over the reeds at some distance a male marsh harrier quartered silently, its blue-grey wings flashing its presence to a number of duck species who rapidly rose and fled as it arrived. A great white egret stood silently at the edge of a pool. I find this amazing as it is now almost impossible to visit the Somerset Levels without seeing at least one great white egret or a marsh harrier within a few minutes. In truth on the walk back an hour later, three marsh harriers were together in one eye line. Having no plan for the day, my destination was Mere hide, simply because after 30 minutes walking I needed a sit down. I said goodbye to Mrs Wessex_Reiver who went for a longer walk. Crossing a bridge, the approach to this hide is through a small wet woodland, from which two jays erupted with their harsh call and flew over my head. I do love jays. In many ways the expectation of wildlife watching can overshadow the reality, and today Mere hide lived up to its reputation, for me at least, for having absolutely nothing to see, well not upon first entering it.

I was lucky as a family and then a couple were exiting the hide as I arrived, presumably they'd seen me coming. I always do this, but on arriving at the door of a hide I open it very slowly, gingerly even, as if a demonised phantom was within waiting to scare me. I love hides, they have a unique atmosphere but they are mysterious. One never knows who, or what will be found when the door is opened. Fling open that door with a loud crash followed by a 'Hello I'm Here' boomed out in a thundering voice and the volley of  'SHH, SHH, SHH's' from camouflaged middle aged men will return to you like machine gun fire, at which point you are trapped. Which leaves a dilemma, do you find a seat and carry on as if no one has noticed your entrance, or turnaround and exit the hide quickly. 

The one aspect of hides I find quite bothersome is when I'm seated quietly in there and someone comes barging in and immediately asks "anything worth seeing?". My immediate thought is to suggest some rare vagrant in a nearby tree and then enjoy the chaos as the they unpack all their gear in readiness to take that award winning photograph of the greater striped zebra-sparrow. It happened today, a couple who were visiting the Levels for the very first time, before they'd even come through the door said, "anything interesting". I wish I'd said I was from the north and not being able to afford binoculars I was counting the number of reed stems which I found helped my mental problems while I am on day release. I didn't, just mumbled something about it being quiet, and actually they were a charming couple (complete with campervan from Exeter). But why don't people just come in and sit quietly and look out the hide windows for themselves. Tribal acceptance I suppose. Sometimes visiting a hide is hilarious.

I once entered a hide on the Catcott complex nearby. With me was my friend Rob, we were on a between Christmas and New Year escape the indoors day and had walked here from Shapwick hoping for a quiet few moments scanning the wetlands. Not to be, as I opened the door we were greeted with a sea of late middle aged ladies surrounding a bemused gentleman in a fedora hat. "Come in, come in, there's not much room, but you can sit on our knees though" one lady said with a giggle, with another adding "we don't bite.....much". My friend and I found a space no larger than a postage stamp and squeezed in between our new friends, who I'm sure reduced the space as we settled. "Would you like a wine gum" one said. We took up the wine gum offer, fearing refusal may find us kidnapped and turned into domestic slaves, never to be seen again outside. We needn't have worried as in the end we had a riotous time. It turned out they were a ladies nature and birdwatching group from somewhere near London on a girls mid-winter weekend in Somerset complete with binoculars. Once they found out we knew what some of the birds were, the questions came thick and fast. "what's that duck there?" "Is that a pigeon?". The fedora hat wearer feeling somewhat miffed and ostracised I suspect said loudly "Ladies there's a garganey over there...". Given this was mid winter Rob and I sprang into action, "really? where?"... "there" fedora said pointing to a gadwall. We didn't say anything to avoid a possible lynching and death by wine gum, but ever since then Rob and I have called gadwalls, GargGadanywalls. 

Today however as I peered around the hide door the building was empty, save for the new logbook. Hide logbooks are another fabulous item of birdwatching culture. If well used, they invariably contain within their pages at least one, if not all of the following; 

a) a three page seriously compiled list of all birds seen, including taxonomic grouping, recorded during a three hour visit, signed and dated by someone called Kevin, self proclaimed ornithologist and RSPB love-child

b) a note in capitals that someone has pinched the pen - AGAIN, with the writer having to resort to his or her own pen to write this complaint

b) the word DUCK, TIGER or COW written in three inch letters, often in green ink, often with a drawing of something which may resemble the said animal, but the jury is out

c) or some lovelorn teenagers, outpouring of passion complete with words of Anglo Saxon origin relating to hoped for recreational activities later that evening

I love logbooks, though sadly this one was reasonably new, and sensible, with just a few species listed as having been seen today. Sadly no cows or teenage lust. I settled down then to gaze across the reedbeds and listen.

To my amazement I could hear many invisible species, and without the aid of my binoculars saw a number too. A couple of marsh harriers were simple, a cormorant too. In the distance some ducks alighted, by their size and flight teal were among them, and wigeon confirmed by their whistling calls once they'd resettled. Then as I sat I heard the unmistakable drumming of a great spotted woodpecker, that's a first this year. Then the squeal of a water rail. Not having binoculars was sharpening my hearing, a coot called somewhere, to my right a wren's song erupted, more quack quack from a passing flock of mallard. 

It was while listening that I noticed movement at the bottom of the reed in front of the hide. Two birds, one following the other skulking at the base of the reeds but in the open. Brownish grey nondescript plumage, pale grey underneath and looking quite 'warblery' if that's a word. I couldn't be 100% sure but immediately I thought Cetti's warbler - I've not seen one for years, although I have heard them many many times, they're fiendishly difficult to see. Quickly checking the ID via my phone somewhat confirmed my suspicions, but by the time I'd looked this up, the birds had disappeared back into the reedbed and as they never called absolute confirmation remains sadly elusive. I'll mark this as probable, possible, well I think maybe so. 

The remainder of the listening and watching took place to the right hand side of the hide within some wet woodland. Blackbird, blue and great tit, wren again, a chaffinch 'pinking' away somewhere and flitting along delicate branches high in the trees what I'm assuming were chiffchaffs, if only I had my binoculars to see these a little closer. A grey squirrel wafted about on the ground and a moorhen messed about in a water filled ditch which was nice to see, a much overlooked bird. 

Not too many species, but sitting there quietly watching and listening was a real joy. The sound of the breeze through the reeds was especially evocative.  

Retracing my steps the only additions were a long tailed tit, a male stonechat, a few starling, rook and carrion crow, a grey heron and somewhere over in the far distance a bittern was clearing its throat and ushered out two half hearted 'ho_oo_ops'. I've often heard them boom here at the end of January but it is in February that they'll really begin, when if you visit the Levels they are everywhere to be heard, a real success story.

So spring has not quite arrived, but all the signs are gathering, not least this thrown-out-of-the-nest starling egg I spied on my neighbour's path when I got home. Not long now.

Firecrest in the garden

An unexpected encounter. I found myself idly looking out of the kitchen window this morning when I spied what I initially thought was a goldcrest flitting through the standard hollies searching for food. As I watched it flew into the greenhouse. Imagine my surprise then when upon going to rescue the bird from there I discovered it was the much rarer firecrest. We get a few along the coast each winter but I've never seen one in the garden before. A very nice start to the birding year indeed.

Siegfried Sassoon, Edwin Lutyens and the village of Mells

Sometime way back in the final quarter of the last century I read a book, that book was Memoirs of a Fox-Hunting Man by Siegfried Sassoon. Ostensibly a novel, the book has very little to do with the Master of Hounds and is more a loose semi-autobiographical account of life's stepping stones encountered by the hero, one George Sherston. Given the book was based on notes and records of Sassoon's own life it could be easy to put two and two together and call it his own story, especially with the follow up novel Memoirs of an Infantry Officer, of which Sassoon was himself, with honours and distinction during WW1.

But we'll not dwell on that. Save to say when I read the Memoirs of a Fox-Hunting Man  as a teenager it really spoke to me for reasons I was then too young to fully understand. Although Sassoon is possibly now better known for his First World War poems and arguments against conflict, and I have since discovered many other authors to admire, Sassoon remains somewhere in my background knowledge of written works of merit. Then, more recently, Sassoon popped back into the foreground when a couple of years ago the film Benediction was released, which I thought was a mesmerising performance recapturing his friendship with Wilfred Owen. At the time I did a little reading around and discovered (or possibly re-discovered) that Sassoon had been laid to rest in St Andrew's churchyard in the village of Mells in Somerset, just thirty miles from me. I had to visit and pay my respects.  

The sun was out, the rain had finally stopped and on a Sunday morning Mrs Wessex-Reiver and I drove over the Mendip Hills to discover more about Mells, a village I'd never been to but had long known about for its daffodil festival each Spring.

We arrived to a very beautiful but rambling spread-out village more in character, due to its nestling along a steep valley, to a Cotswold village and it took a while to actually locate the centre happily delineated by a Community shop and café, which is open every day of the week. Despite the cold weather and post Christmas lull the village was quite busy which made me consider what must it be like when the daffodil events are on? 

As ever our first port of call when arriving somewhere new is to go to a café, this one is small and was full of people, many seemingly local, but we managed to squeeze onto a tiny table and take in the atmosphere. I also spied a Village Guidebook for sale at 75p, perfect. The guidebook contained a 2.5 mile ramble around the village but we opted for a shorter wander up to the church, which was after all why we'd come here. Mells is not just a very pretty village but as I was about to discover one that for a while just over 100 years ago was the centre of a lively arts, crafts and philosophical society, thanks to the inhabitants of Mells Manor at that time Sir John & Lady Frances Horner. Their connections brought into the village such luminaries as Edwin Lutyens, Eric Gill, Edward Burne-Jones, William Morris, Rex Whistler, William Nicholson and Alfred Munnings. And of course Siegfried Sassoon.

Exiting the café we headed up hill past an 18th Century (possibly earlier) cloth merchant's house and on to the War Memorial designed by Edwin Lutyens. As I discovered, Lutyens was commissioned to do a lot of work around the village, which is possibly why the village felt timeless, an English idyll captured and frozen in the 1920's. As a lover of fine architecture this fitted me very well.

A short walk beyond the War Memorial we chanced upon New Street. Despite its name New Street is the site of  some of the oldest houses in the village and was actually part of an unfinished 18th Century plan to create a crucifixion cross shaped street plan leading from the church, sadly the longer street part of the cross never materialised. The buildings here are superb, this one below flanking the church gates being medieval in age, though many houses in Mells can throw foundation roots back to the 13th Century.

Entering St Andrew's Church it is impossible to miss a huge memorial to Edward Horner, son of Sir John & Lady Frances Horner, killed in action in 1917. The bronze horse and rider is by Sir Alfred Munnings with the stone plinth, which itself is about 6 feet high, by Lutyens. It is a remarkable piece of artwork, even more so as it depicts in a huge way the grief his parents must have felt at his killing. And this is what struck me in the church, money, privilege and famous connections did not prevent sons and fathers being slaughtered in the battlefields of France. The War Memorial visited earlier lists the many villagers of this small rural oasis who lost their lives, and it made me think, for what? Maybe as I became closer to the grave of Sassoon his thoughts on the desolate pointlessness of war were beginning to permeate towards me.

Close by, underneath the church tower, there is another memorial, that of Raymond Asquith, who was the son of the Prime Minister Herbert Asquith and the husband of Horner's daughter Katharine. Raymond Asquith was killed in 1916 while his father was in office. By all reports Raymond was shot in the chest and although mortally wounded lit a cigarette to hide the seriousness of his injuries, his relaxed pose giving his company the courage to continue fighting. He died later that day. The memorial is a wreath designed by Lutyens with lettering by Eric Gill.

Opposite is a striking memorial to Laura Lyttelton by her close friend Sir Edward Burne-Jones, himself another regular visitor to Mells. Laura Lyttleton died in childbirth in 1885 and while she is not buried here, this stylised peacock representing resurrection is a thoroughly captivating image. Laura was part of the 'bright young things' set that circled this village, she was a good friend of Lady Frances Horner.

There was a lot more to see inside this church, I only briefly looked at William Nicholson's stained glass window, but it struck me how many connections there were to so many well known and well respected people in this seemingly out of the way village church. I shall come back on a summer's day and really take in what this village has to offer. But on this visit it was time to head outdoors and look for the grave of Sassoon.

The wind was bitter in this churchyard which in many ways suited my quest. There are a lot of graves here and it took a while to find Sassoon's. In fact it was Mrs Wessex-Reiver who found it from behind, which was amazing. Such a simple headstone to one of the greatest poets England has produced. Just his name (Loraine being the surname of a vicar his mother admired) and dates. Possibly had Sassoon been killed in WW1, as many people think, the Horners may have erected a large memorial. However Sassoon survived the war and died in 1967 aged 80 in Heytesbury, Wiltshire. But why here? Why is Sassoon buried in a village where he frequently visited but did not live? Well close by there is another grave to Father Ronald Knox.

Sassoon was a big admirer and friend of Knox who died ten years before him in 1957. Knox moved to Mells in his latter years to complete his most ambitious work, the translation of the bible into English from Latin, no mean feat at all. I also discovered, aside from his religious works, Knox wrote detective novels and spoke regularly on the BBC. Until this week Knox was unknown to me, then reading around his life I then discover Evelyn Waugh knew him well, and had himself lived in Mells for a short time to write a novel. Coincidentally I'd visited Waugh's grave last summer, also in Somerset. Waugh wrote the biography of Knox. 

As I stood by Knox's grave, with Sassoon's only few feet behind, I wondered if Sassoon himself had stood exactly here while his friend Knox's coffin was being lowered.  Sassoon said he wanted to be buried close by his friend and mentor in a quintessentially English country churchyard.  I can understand that. After everything Sassoon would have witnessed during the First World War, his longing for everlasting peace in a quiet out of the way location seems a small thing to ask. Interestingly right next to Knox's grave is a double burial of Lady Violet Bonham-Carter and her husband Sir Maurice. Lady Violet was the daughter of Prime Minister Asquith and the sister of Raymond whose memorial I'd earlier seen in the church.  She is also the grandmother of the actress Helena Bonham-Carter.

By now with the temperature was only 2 degrees and with the wind whipping across the churchyard in earnest we'd both had enough of trying to keep warm, thus after saying our adieus to Sassoon we walked back to the café taking in a short detour to look at Mells Manor from the road, the house where all this artistry emanated from over a century before.  

Visiting Sassoon's grave left me in somewhat of a quandary. Why did I want to visit a grave? In its purest form it is simply a piece of stone in a graveyard. The man himself, the physical himself, no longer exists other than presumably some remnant bones six feet below. It is about remembering, and his soul is here, this is where he wanted to be. Why? For me, and people of my generation Sassoon, Wilfred Owen, Prime Minister Asquith and Edwin Lutyens were near history when I was growing up in the 1960's and 1970's. Just a little prior to my grandparents' generation, that era from the end of the Victorian age and into the 1920's seemed relatively recent history to me. I have an abiding memory from my own childhood of listening to my grandparents, great aunts and uncles recounting their younger days in that era, it was their living memory. Yet now as we nudge into the second quarter of the 21st Century, it seems a very long time ago. No-one is now alive who fought in or even remembers first hand the First World War. 

Children being born today will not know of these people. History moves on but we should not forget who walked before us. Yes books, poems, sculptures and memorials are a physical reminder of these people, but soon their memory will simply be as that of Elizabethans, or Romans, printed names on an information sheet with no real connection to the modern day. Yet like the Elizabethans and the Romans, these people who gathered at Mells lived, breathed, fell in love and yes died in the name of their Country. Therefore standing by a grave in a biting wind brings it full circle, well to me at least. I wish to know more, especially about this privileged arts, crafts and philosophical group that came to this remote part of Somerset to exchange ideas, and yes, share grief, when they were unashamedly 'bright young things'.

Thank you Siegfried Loraine Sassoon, there is much more to discover hidden behind the picturesque façade of this village of Mells.

References :

Mells Village website : https://www.mellsvillage.co.uk/

Munnings Horse Memorial :  https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Equestrian_statue_of_Edward_Horner

Raymond Asquith memorial : https://www.iwm.org.uk/memorials/item/memorial/1390

Laura Lyttleton memorial : https://www.artandthecountryhouse.com/essays/essays-index/memorials-at-mells-an-emerging-story-of-remembrance

Laure Lyttleton : https://www.londonremembers.com/subjects/laura-lyttelton

Ronald Knox : https://classicsforall.org.uk/reading-room/ad-familiares/ronald-knox-1888-1957-wittiest-classical-versifier-twentieth-century