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

Christmas On The Move

It has, for want of a better phrase, been a mad-dash Christmas week. Those of a pedantic disposition could argue it was nine days rather than a week, but I for one am not counting the days, just the season. However I did do a lot of driving.

And so it began on December 23rd.

Sunrise was almost two hours away as we set off from Somerset at 6.35am. By the time we reached this road up to the village of Slaley in Northumberland it was half an hour to sunset and getting dark.  Not only dark but wet and quite windy. That wind would accompany our week in this remote cottage, all of which added to the atmosphere of festive escapism.

Our home for the week sat in splendid rural isolation hard by Slaley Forest. So rural at one point a flock of crossbill flew over the garden and on Christmas Day the sad remnants of a woodcock slain by a passing vehicle interrupted our visit to Tyneside with the fatted goose. Located on a hill farm of suckler cattle and sheep (plus four alpaca) the landscape was alive with wildlife, even in December. Rook roosted in the Scots pine shelter-belt, with the usual garden species on the feeders. A kestrel was a daily visitor but due to the volatile weather proper observation was tricky, however over the woods a regular scrap took place between a buzzard and carrion crow. Fieldfare, redwing and a single mistle thrush added variety to the huge gull flocks heading to roost each evening to what I assumed was to Derwent Reservoir about four miles away. 

Not everything involved wildlife. We managed to stagger down to Hexham a couple of times taking in and enjoying the Christmas atmosphere of the Abbey and catching up with friends.

We were fortunate to be staying during a full moon period. This is dark skies country and on Boxing Day morning at 4am I couldn't resist a short walk in the moonlight, moonlight which was strong enough to read a book by. It made for quite atmospheric walking too. Of course what this image does not show is the wind. Without exception every day provided strong winds, on a couple of days gales with sustained windspeed nudging 50mph, gusting higher. It simply never stopped blowing and as the farmer said they'd had three weeks of what the weather forecasters called volatile, I'd call it stormy, and rain, the rain was a frequent accompanying phenomenon with occasional breaks often at night. The last time I'd been in such relentless wind was on Orkney, very similar.

We also had snow. Admittedly this was wet snow, not enough to make a snowman but as with the Met Office's definition of a white Christmas, on our cottage one snowflake fell confirming a white holiday stay. How we realised it was snowing came by chance. Mrs Wessex-Reiver was looking out the bedroom window while it was still dark. I looked to where she was and thought the light coming in looked odd but then the moment passed. It wasn't until half an hour later when some daylight had appeared that we realised snow had fallen. Not crisp and even sadly as by mid morning it had mostly turned to rain.

It was the same day as the snow fell that we headed to Tyneside to see my father for a second day, the first being Christmas Day. On the North Sea coast by Whitburn we still had the wind, the sea was rough, however it was 11oC (7oC by the time we'd returned to the cottage). Quite a contrast to the morning.

All too soon our week was over, possibly as we'd had enough of the weather and returned south a day early. Not before another visit to Hexham where we not only discovered a fantastic independent bookshop where we could have spent hours perusing their stock but quirky little asides such as this advertisement for a clock restorer - these clocks are all broken but used in an alleyway display. And, as in many places these days the post box had a knitted hat. Hexham is a lovely market town.

By Saturday the 30th we were back in Somerset and after the eight hour drive the day before a quiet morning was required. We stayed local in Weston Super Mare having brunch at the Revo Kitchen which now occupies the former Sealife Centre. A bustling place a million miles from the remote area around Slaley and remarkably in the garden we have three daffodils in flower and a snowdrop almost about to open. Springtime in December.

Which all neatly brings me to New Year's Eve. We needed to stretch our legs so where better to head to than the Hawk and Owl Trust reserve on the Avalon Marshes. I'd heard short eared owl were here before Christmas, though on this visit despite there being plenty of other activity, no SEO's were to be seen. I'm fond of this reserve having watched it develop from arable farmland and peat workings. On our short four mile walk I realised I'd not been here for about a year, and therefore witnessed many changes including the maturity of the dragonfly pond which I'd last seen newly dug. Some nice hedge laying going on too. And the sun was out.

And so we reached the end of our walk, and the end of the year. A year in which many wildlife watching trips were curtailed due to other commitments, something I plan to rectify in 2024. How on earth we got to the year 2024 is beyond me. I'll be sixty in April and so need to rekindle the childlike naturalist spirit of encounter as I become Wessex-Reiver the sexagenarian. In fact it's starting tomorrow in earnest as I'm off to Slimbridge to kick start the birding year with some friends, I can't wait.

Happy New Year.

 

Excluding Christmas at Steart

 

Last weekend in a serious attempt to avoid the Christmas melee in town centres, Mrs Wessex-Reiver and I opted instead for some nature inspired walking led spirituality. For this, our chosen destination was the fairly recently opened Steart Marshes abutting the internationally important Bridgwater Bay. In September 2014 the sea wall was breached here and since then this landscape has gradually changed from farmland to estuarine grazing and extensive wetlands.  Only at the very highest tides does the whole landscape flood with the incoming water, however for the rest of the time it is a magnate for water and wildfowl in particular making use of the various new wet areas that have been created.

I used to occasionally come here well before the creation of this super-reserve was conceived.  Then you'd simply park on the roadside and having wandered down to the beach scan Bridgwater Bay for passing birds, or turning 180 degrees observe the fields for the more typical farmland species such as skylark, linnet and of course corvids. It is a site that is best visited at high tide.

It is also an odd place to get to from our humble abode. If I wandered out from the house and over the fields to Sand Point I can see it, about 10 miles away as the curlew flies, but by car, it is a 45 minute drive south down the M5, passing Steart when we're level at Burnham-on-Sea then at Bridgwater we do a loop to Cannington before heading back north until we reach the carpark.  And that is what I like about headland landscapes jutting into the sea, they take on an other-worldliness I find fascinating, bit by bit as the road narrows towards the inevitable dead end the sense of isolation grows. 

What I also find fascinating about Steart is I never see any birds here. Of course I do notice the robins by the carpark, the skylarks, meadow pipit and linnet on the banks, I hear the Cetti's warbler and curlew, and observe a passing mallard or egret, but I never seem to be here when large numbers of birds are visible. Mostly this is down to operator error as I only seem to be able to visit when the tides are ebbing or low. We did once come here for high tide, and after waiting for the appointed hour, absolutely nothing happened other than Mrs Wessex-Reiver sketching some reeds around a hawthorn to pass the time.

However it is also the sheer scale of the place which makes it troublesome for the casual observer. As Britain's third largest super nature reserve covering some 6,140ha none of the reserve, other than the perimeter path, has public access. Viewing is from raised screens off these perimeter paths or from a few hides overlooking lagoons, but in essence the birdlife is buried deep within the vegetation. And for me that is vital. If this is to be an internationally important reserve for species like curlew, then what it doesn't need are legions for day-tripping tourists wandering aimlessly about disturbing everything. Observing from half a kilometre away is near enough.

It was why on this Saturday, as we went simply for a walk, I didn't even take my binoculars. Though I wish I'd taken my proper camera as the static weather was producing some astonishing cloud formations. These were dark non-rain-bearing clouds moving very slowly in the near still air, it suggested a menacing feel to them which in a way matched the bleak flat landscape on this December day. As someone commented on my earlier Facebook post at the time, from the images I took they were expecting Magwitch to appear from the mud and ask for a pork pie. I like this type of landscape, and at Steart it is made all the more austere given only a couple of kilometres away rising from the swamps is the construction site of Hinkley Point C Nuclear Reactor looming like a giants gravestone dominating the horizon.

In 2009, for work, I spent a week at Dungeness recording sounds and sights of the shifting gravels of that part of Kent. I stayed in the Bird Observatory observing their work as well as capturing some of the sounds of this unique landscape for the Natural History Unit's sound library. During the day there was a constant hum from the Dungeness Nuclear Reactor, greatly enhanced at night by an orange glow, a glow so bright that we could walk about without torches. Such a fascinating experience to be there, but I'd not wish to live there. The same with Steart, it is beautiful in an austere way, but I could imagine it would take a certain mindset to wish to live here.    

Steart isn't quite as bleak as Dungeness, it reminds me more of being near the Wash in East Anglia. These flat landscapes, with their far reaching views, are creatively inspiring which today meant I had an inkling to take black and white photographs to reflect the mood well suited to this half-light near monochrome world we found ourselves walking through.

Quantock Hills to the left and Hinkley Point C to the right on the horizon. The latter is much closer in real life.

Light bursting through the thick cloud over the reserve. This happened frequently and provided some stunning eruptions of brightness in the half light of this December's day.

Which way now, winter route, or summer route?

Eventually after about 3 kilometres we arrived at The Breach viewing platform. During the highest tides the Bristol Channel rushes into this landscape, swallowing up the pools and water filled ditches and in doing so flushes waterfowl and waders to higher ground. That said from chatting to WWT staff here previously nothing is ever guaranteed, as we found last year sitting waiting for something to happen. Even if the sea does come in through the breach, how far it travels depends on the weather, pressure and windspeed. It will be nice to witness a full avian spectacle here one day.

But for today we were simply happy with the walk and a ten minute rest before the 3 kilometres walk back to the car, after a refreshment too of course. By the time we returned it was 2.30pm and starting to get dark, these dark days before Christmas really are short. Despite pretty much walking continuously we did observe some interesting birds along the way, a number of curlews calling, as were the redshank, Cetti's warbler and interestingly great tit with their 'teacher teacher' call. At some distance a skein of geese flew along the river. An obliging kestrel hovered over the path as we walked underneath him, a sizeable number of little and great white egret, mute swans, grey heron, coot, mallard everywhere, and a single little grebe yaffling away, but there would have been a lot more out there if I'd sat longer (and had a scope). 

By the farm on the way back, and around one field only, the hedgerows and trees were covered in starlings, noisy black snow chattering away to themselves ahead of going to their roost. As I watched them I'd failed to notice about the same number of starling in the grassland who suddenly lifted en-masse and flopped lazily over into the next field. Another good day then of not setting out to observe anything but just enveloping ourselves in the landscape for a few hours and we didn't see more than a half dozen people during this three hour visit. I just need to return when there is a high tide I feel.

Little Orchard Alpacas

This story actually began around twelve months ago. Wondering what to buy Mrs Wessex-Reiver for Christmas last year I stumbled across a lovely small alpaca setup near Axminster in Devon. The package I bought as a gift was a walking morning with their alpacas through woodland. To cut a long story short by the time we visited this July the woodland walking was permanently closed off to this enterprise so we and half a dozen other people on that day walked through the small fields and the orchard of the aptly named Little Orchard Alpacas. As a result Mrs Wessex-Reiver and I are completely hooked on these wonderful animals. I especially bonded with the alpha male Yorvik. Roll on five months then to last Tuesday when we visited again.

Mrs Wessex-Reiver and I had come to take part in an alpaca keeping session. There is a full day session, we however opted for the half day, four hours, and just the two of us this time. We learnt on the day the keeper course is mostly for those wishing to, you guessed it, keep alpacas. A kind of taster day before they buy if you will. I'm not sure what Vic the owner made of two people paying her for the privilege of picking up alpaca 'berries' on a winter's day. But we absolutely loved it and I caught up with my old friend Yorvik too.

After arriving our first job was feeding not only the alpacas, but two Vietnamese pot bellied pigs, and a couple of chickens (who kindly provided 5 eggs in return). And then as all good stock people do, we had a cup of tea and planned our chores. New bedding, poo pick (berries) the field shelters, clean out water buckets, body condition testing of the males, then the two key jobs, checking eyes for signs of worm infection and last but the most vital job, applying vitamins orally to the males out in the fields. More on that later.

It brought it all back to me, working outdoors with animals. I spend far too much time sitting Infront of a computer in my job. This session in the lovely Devonshire countryside was such a tonic and a perfect de-stress for a few hours. Of course if we did this every day of the year with wet snow running down our necks the novelty might wear off, but I doubt it. Berries cleaned up, water buckets thoroughly cleaned next it was to round the boys up for the testing.

Getting them in the pen was, while slow and like herding alpacas, relatively easy. Checking their eyes for signs of worm infections (pale or white membrane rather than bright pink) was something I found quite difficult. We did three tasks on one animal at a time. Eyes, fat, vitamins in that order. Firstly if you ever try pulling down the eye lid of an uncooperative alpaca you'll understand my trouble,  Actually Mrs Wessex-Reiver was far better at this than I. 

Next it was the body conditioning, much simpler, simply putting a hand over the back and gaugeing how fat or thin they are on a scale of 1-6 with 6 being tubby. Next the vitamins. Until recently Vic has injected vitamins but today she wanted to trial a vitamin gun, in essence a similar contraption to a grouting gun used in DIY. Each squeeze of the trigger dispensing 15ml of bright pink goo. Sounds simple. But trying to widely open an already lively alpacas mouth and getting the goo in the right place while the animal is wriggling was very entertaining. Vic had tried doing this herself before today and had more pink goo on her than in the animal. Even with two of us it was a bit of a hit and miss affair which is making Vic reconsider. But eventually we got all the boys checked and let them out into the field again, though what was funny was that each boy after treatment looked like they had pink lipstick on.

Main jobs completed, time then for a festive break, before we took three boys out for some much needed exercise around the orchard, where windfall apples were a welcome treat, with me taking Yorvik of course.

Walk over, the final task was to let the girls out of the barn for the afternoon. As Vic said often she'll let them out but after ten minutes they're back indoors where it's warm.

After four hours we'd finished. Actually we also made some alpaca fibre nesting material cages while having our hot chocolate. Those four hours passed in an instant and as Mrs Wessex-Reiver remarked we were smiling from arrival to departure. Alpaca have that effect I feel. They're very strong but very gentle and very inquisitive. I'm not thinking of having a smallholding just yet, but spending time with them down there is making me think about what's important in life. Yorvik is a great mentor for life, fascinating too and I recommend everyone should spend a few hours with these charming animals, I guarantee you'll not regret it.