Mr. Vernon's Small Fritillary - Dorset Butterflies 1

 As one William Shakespeare said “We will all laugh at gilded butterflies.” 

Of course the Bard was referring to superficially beautiful beings with no substance or purpose. Whereas as I have a week's leave and as the weather has turned sublime I am purposefully on the quest for Mr Vernon's Small Fritillary. Or as it is now known, the Duke of Burgundy butterfly.

I had to look it up. I came to this part of Dorset in the spring of 2013. Then I was with Richard Fox from Butterfly Conservation and the irrepressible presenter Dylan Winter. We were here to record a piece for the Radio 4 series Shared Planet and this particular episode I produced had as a theme Fragility and Niche. Which was why a decade ago we had arrived at the Cerne Abbas Giant Hill to record a field piece to illustrate the precariousness of species survival in a crowded human landscape. 

[The episode is still available on line here : https://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b03dsk4n ]

At the time we saw a few Dukes, all found by Richard, but it surprised me then how small they were. A grandiose name for a very small butterfly. 

The act of producing a programme essentially involves becoming an expert on a subject for a week then forgetting everything.  Midway between these points there will be a recording usually on location. As the producer I'd be there but concentrating on what people are saying through headphones rather than being fully involved with the surroundings or what's happening. Once recording is over I'd then head back to the office, no time to stop. I vowed then to come back to this hill and, without editing timescales or deadlines, to look for Dukes myself in a leisurely way. That vow somehow took a decade to be realised but on Monday May 22nd 2023 I arrived with my camera, a small picnic and the excitement of exploring a huge hillside better known for its outrageously fertile giant.

Oddly it is virtually impossible to see the Giant carved into the chalk from the hill itself. The climb begins by crossing the river Cerne over the 14th century Kettle Bridge, then through a lovely old gate and into a small wooded area before a number of steps up onto the lower slopes, which on my visit opened out from the trees into a vista of chalk downland on a hot sunny spring day. Expectations were high. 

The one thing I did remember from the programme was that the Duke of Burgundy's natural habitat is coppiced woodland and they were once widespread across England. With the demise of coppicing their population declined rapidly so now they are a threatened species in Britain. As a result Dukes were forced to adapt to a lesser habitat of mostly southern England chalk downland and short grassland at a few other locations. Lesser in that the primrose and cowslips on the downland are prone to drying out in the summer exactly when the larvae need that for food, though with climate change they may benefit from warmer and damper summer weather. 

Previously the adults would fly in sheltered sunny woodland glades and therefore on this grassland they will only be found on the lower sheltered slopes, near the cowslip and primrose the larvae need, and tussocky grass from which the males fly up to defend their territory. I'd also remembered that the best sightings on this site were further away from the entrance. Time for a walk then. 

The first few butterflies encountered were a tatty tortoiseshell and quite a few common blues which were proving impossible to photograph, not helped by the gusty wind. This was a minor inconvenience as being on this hillside was an uplifting experience. Only a couple of other butterfly watchers about but on this Monday morning it was quiet, other than the incessant call of a yellowhammer which was a particular highlight, as was the hawthorn blossom. All across the West Country this year, and maybe elsewhere, hawthorn blossom has been the best I've ever known it. I'm assuming the cold snap we had delayed bud burst which then, when the sun emerged a week or so back, synchronised everything and the hedges, fields and hills looked as if they were dotted with snow white pom-poms - a spectacular sight providing dazzling delight in the sun. But back to the butterflies.

If I'm truthful I will admit to not being a butterfly expert in any sense. Yes I can identify a number of species but know precious little of their ecology. And that's a shame, as there are under 60 regular species in the UK. How much I have missed out not learning about so few species. As my week's leave approached my plans changed and so I decided to rectify this lack of butterfly knowledge and spend a few days in Dorset simply watching and learning, and in doing so I made my first error. 

Initially I thought the two images below were female common blue - I'd read the books. Common blue male looks blue and female looks brown (I've simplified this a little). I'd seen a lot of common blues on the sheep track to find the Dukes, taking many images as I slowly walked along, and my mind said common blue female. However later in the evening going through my ID guide, I'm reliably informed (and will be chastised by readers) this is a brown argus. I thought it showed too much blue on the body for an argus, but working all this out has somehow got me hooked, I need to know more. 

Saying that, I could identify the male common blue (below) and a handful of the other species wafting by in the breeze today, speckled wood, large white, orange tip and brimstone which were reasonably abundant by the hedge at the bottom of the hill, as was a single red admiral. 

However on the short grassland I kept seeing small beautifully marked butterflies, some brilliantly so, others more subdued. Suddenly deep in the recesses of my brain the words skipper came to me. I've seen these before with others more knowledgeable but I'd not really properly taken in what they looked like. On my visit there were two species on the wing, dingy, on the left here, and grizzled, on the right. What lovely little butterflies they are and being so abundant I could study the marking and the behaviours with a relaxed air of one who knows - absolutely nothing. They loved perching on the salad burnet.  

And yet, much as this was entertaining I had come to see a Duke. Walking to where I thought the Dukes may be I had a conversation with a proper lepidopterist - binoculars, baggy shorts, big camera and a khaki floppy hat. He pointed me to roughly where to go and also told me they were on the wing. I now knew they were flying, but there's no guarantee of that even this late in May, their normal flying period, especially this year after this cold spring has held a lot of emergence back. He also let me know that up on Telegraph Hill (a private access reserve opposite the Giant) they'd counted 20 on a field trip the previous Saturday. He suggested between 4 and 6 were on the Cerne Hill today - not many then in this vast landscape. One would be enough for me, and in the end I found two - possibly a third but that may have been one of the other two returning.  

I now found myself about half way along the hillside and below me a really sheltered spot between low shrubs and bramble there lay a grassy area, which on closer inspection looked trampled - possibly by lepidopterist feet. Down I went. Initially nothing moved other than an orange tip and a whacking big hornet. It was getting really hot now so I sat down and had some of my picnic. It was at this point a Duke shot past. I knew instantly it was what I'd come to find and although it then disappeared I found myself silently whooping for joy. I sat a bit longer and after ten minutes it returned and alighted on a buttercup, to then be joined by another which caused a rumpus and they spiralled into the air and away.

Eventually one came back and alighted on a grassy tussock. Having observed it for a while I tried to take a photograph, at which point it flew off. And this was the cat and mouse chase we danced for the next half an hour, until I finally managed a half decent image. I was overjoyed and what a beautiful insect, though I never saw the two together again.

Having mentioned the Duke's previous name in the radio programme I'd produced, I did some reading up on this species discovering that it was in the 1700's that this butterfly was first named Mr. Vernon's Small Fritillary after the man who found it. I've yet to discover much about Mr William Vernon who was a serious collector under the patronage of Sir Hans Sloan and one James Petiver. Vernon travelled to Europe and the United States and sent specimens back for identification, by Petiver and interestingly  John Ray who is often quoted as the father of natural history and igniting modern ecology. 

The first printed reference to this earlier name was in 1699 within James Petiver's book (published between 1695-1703) Musei Petiveriani centuria prima-decima, rariora naturae continens (a systematic catalogue of wildlife).  Petiver was a member of the gloriously named Temple Coffee House Botany Club near Fleet Street in London, which at the time was a meeting house for those who studied, and traded in botany and entomology. Sometime in the early 1800's the name was changed to the Duke of Burgundy fritillary. Why the change is debated still, today however as this butterfly is not a fritillary, it is simply know as the Duke of Burgundy. I've digressed again.

I decided to leave the Duke to its habitat and head off and to be honest the rest of the walk along the base of the hill was quite uninspiring butterfly wise, though I did spot this which I am to believe is the day-flying Mother Shipton moth. A nice cinnabar moth effectively ended my visit here.

It was getting really warm on that hillside on my way back so I stopped for a while to finish off my picnic, simply to take in the view. The wind was quite strong now, presumably temperature related and enhanced by the slope, meaning there was little if anything flying now other than more dingy and grizzled skipper. Somewhere also a song thrush sang continuously. It was a great end to a momentous day.   Little was I to know then I'd return in 48 hours.

Dingy skipper

Grizzled skipper underwing and topside below

Having got home in the evening on Monday and spoken about the joy of finding my first Duke, Mrs Wessex Reiver reminded me she had a day free on Wednesday and she'd like to see them and go for a walk. And that's what we did. I had one quest that Wednesday to try and take a better photograph of the Duke, then go for a walk. On this second visit we didn't get to the hill until nearly 1 pm and had the place almost to ourselves, which is amazing for a worldwide tourist spot. Following on from Monday's encounter I went straight to the place I'd seen the Duke, and to my amazement one arrived minutes after we'd sat down to wait. Repeatedly this individual settled, flew off and returned to the same area, onto his tussock of grass for a good twenty or thirty minutes.  So tame was he that both Mrs Wessex Reiver and I sat down next to it and watched all his activity close to. What an absolute privilege to see one of Britain's rarest butterflies so intimately.

It was time to say our goodbyes and off we went up the hill. I've never walked up the Giant's hill but the views are superb and it was a good release of pent up adrenalin to not be staring in awe at the Duke.

Path on the left up from the hill bottom and then along the ridge towards camera

Wonderful Dorset views from the Wessex Ridgeway

The Giant is now fenced off. And that drop was STEEP!

It is hard to describe the moment this week that I realised that watching butterflies in baking heat really appeals to me. I used to record radio programmes involving the great butterfly man Matthew Oates and he said to me once why he watched butterflies. 

"With birds you have to get up before dawn and crash about in the half light to get the best views and remain still and silent. With butterflies I can have a leisurely breakfast, head off mid morning, maybe sit on a hill, or in a woodland in a deck chair with bottle of wine if observing purple emperors, or listen to the cricket test matches on a portable radio while slowly walking along watching butterflies, before then returning home in time for an early tea"

I think I have reached an age where sitting with a glass of wine observing wildlife is quite appealing. It has me hooked and what I didn't know on that Wednesday was that on the following day I'd return to Dorset on my own and see over 100 Adonis blue along one track. That however is for a future posting.

The Diminutive Wildflower Meadow....

I have what can laughingly be described as a wildflower meadow. But it works. In the middle of the circular lawn in our small semi rural garden, over the last five years I've developed this meadowland. I say meadowland but in reality it is a 2m circle of not cutting the grass until August with additional planting. 

The planting here is a mix of naturalising garden bulbs, snowdrop and crocus first, followed by daffodil and tulip. Lesser celendine, primrose, dandelion and cowslip are also present and encouraged. Later in the year fox and cubs will dominate before the grasses overtake everything. This year I was thrilled to see my alba fritillary in flower. This was especially joyous as I bought 12 dried shriveled corms last October for 50p, mostly as I don't like to see garden centres throwing out unsold stock. Despite these dessicated specimens looking truly dire, I planted them and crossed my fingers.

Of the twelve corms planted seven flowered. I'm hopeful then they will survive in the heavy clay, though not waterlogged, soil under the lawn.

Despite its insignificant size I love this little slice of unkempt in the garden, it changes by the week. To be honest the entire garden is wildlife friendly as Mrs Wessex Reiver being a professional plantswoman is of the organic persuasion. As am I.

The longer grass allows a small yellow meadow ant (Lasius flavus) colony to exist. Their soil 'molehill' is on sunny days alive with activity as the ants emerge from underground. Snails of all differing shapes and colours love the cover and humid vegetation too, a topic maybe for another day. But it is the accidental finds that enrich this corner of Somerset's biodiversity.

Yesterday after watching a little of the Coronation we spent an hour or so fettling the garden. It was while doing this I noticed a pair of orange bugs upto naughties in the long grass. I had an inkling what they were but thanks to the power of Google Lens, which is an amazing bit of technology, they were confirmed as cinnamon bugs (Corizus hyoscyami). I've never seen this bug species in the garden before. Difficult to photograph in situ so after they'd ahem finished I tried to do better by placing them in a plant saucer. Not great but enough to identify them. I then returned them.

I'm no entomologist so reading up on these beautiful looking bugs I noted that until recently they were localised in sandy habitats around the coasts of southern Britain, but recently (climate change?) this species range is expanding north and into an eclectic mix of habitats inland. So that's why they're in my garden. It's an eclectic habitat! And they weren't the only recent arrival to the garden.

Earlier in the week I stood admiring the cowslip,  which from one self seeded plant three years ago now number around a dozen. On one stem was a jewel-like blue beetle, resembling a dark blue marble with legs. Various ground beetles went through my mind but I had a notion this was different. 

And it was. Thanks to my go-to encyclopaedia of all British wildlife, Brett, he confirmed what I'd half thought; (Agelastica alni), the alder leaf beetle. Wow. I say wow as this beetle was thought extinct in the UK. Then in 2004 it was found in Manchester, seemingly brought in on plant stock imports. From there it slowly spread across the north midlands, before being found in a second area in southern England around a decade ago. It is spreading.

Brett informed me there is a very healthy population on the Somerset Levels where there is unsurprisingly a large number of alder. As they fly he suggested, despite no alders being near our garden, the one on my cowslip would be flight-resting between alders. Fascinating.

Definitely a first for the garden. I've not seen it since that day, assuming therefore its onwards travel to an alder has taken place.

But all this goes to show, a tiny bit of wild meadow even in a small garden can attract the most interesting of discoveries. I wonder what the next rarity will be? Osprey maybe on the 40cm pond?

Richard Jefferies Society : Election to the Executive Council

After what I think is about seven or 8 years it was wonderful to be back at the Richard Jefferies Museum at Coate, on the outskirts of Swindon, Wiltshire. Though this time in a different capacity to my former visits.

Marble bust of Jefferies recently arrived at the Museum on long loan from The Mercer Art Gallery in Harrogate. Bust created in 1904 in marble by W.J.S Webber.  

Around a decade ago I found myself spending a lot of time at the Richard Jefferies Museum. Then I was a Trustee of the Museum Trust. The Museum is housed within the birthplace of the influential natural history writer Richard Jefferies. At the time of his birth on the 6th of November 1848, his parents had the farm here, though in reality as the farm was less than 40 acres this was a large smallholding and by all accounts not that successful. However this farm, Coate Water which the land backed on to and the surrounding Wiltshire countryside had a profound influence on the young Jefferies and cemented his pragmatic view of natural history observation at a time of great change. In many ways his writing is as relevant, if not more, in 2023 than it was 150 years ago.

My visit was not to be involved with the Museum, but as a potential member of the Richard Jefferies Society Executive Council. In late January of this year I received an email out of the blue, within which was a question "Would I consider being nominated and proposed as a member of the Executive Council". 

At the Executive Council Meeting of the Richard Jefferies Society a week or so before, my name had been suggested as one who may be willing to replace one of the vacancies now created given a couple of members of the Council planned to step down later in the year. Initially, though honoured and thrilled, I hesitated to accept, for a short while at least. I'm not a scholar of Jefferies work. I've read many of his essays and books but would consider myself a reader rather than a knowledgeable devotee of his work. He is however a massive influencer for anyone who writes about English natural history, not just back then but today. Therefore after a quiet and brief discussion in my head, I replied that I'd be delighted and honoured.

Which is how (and why) I found myself walking through those familiar yet oddly different Museum grounds on a glorious sunny spring day on April 29th to attend the Annual General Meeting. I entered as a member of the Society. I left a few hours later as an Executive Council member.

Sometimes I worry that Richard Jefferies is encumbered with a noun ascribed to him every time he is written about. Victorian nature writer Richard Jefferies.  

Certainly he was a Victorian,  his short life ended before his fortieth year in 1887. However his writing has a timeless sense of place for those of us today reading his canon of essays, books, journalism and an astonishing Utopian novel about London after a natural disaster renders it unliveable. His influence continues and crosses genre, art, music and a mindfulness psyche of what it means to be in an English countryside. Edward Thomas, a huge admirer of Jefferies, wrote a perfect biography of him. The author W.H. Hudson who knew Jefferies work, so admired him and wanted to be buried next to him (some sources say with him). Modern day writers like Henry Williamson, John Fowles and Robert Macfarlane all quote Jefferies influence. Yet for the wider public he is somewhat unknown.

His thoughts in Victorian times really do resonate in the 21st Century, but for different reasons. Unlike writers such as Thomas Hardy or W.H. Hudson who looked backwards at a vanishing way of life in their writing, Jefferies was a realist, an acute observer, a pragmatist but not one who versed himself in some bucolic idyll. While he discussed the changes in the customs, ways and fashions of his nineteenth century countryside, and as a journalist in his early career wrote about the need to provide agricultural labourers with a better standard of living, he also embraced the new. He wrote about the railways then sweeping across the landscape and the benefits they should bring, neatly exemplified at the Museum which now has its own 'HALT' on the recently constructed Coate Park miniature railway at the boundary of what was once the Jefferies farm. Jefferies would I'm sure see the visitors who alight here to enter the museum as a positive reflection in the modern world.

I however came by car, and after my 65 mile journey upon entering the Museum, the first person I saw was John Price, the erstwhile chair of the Society. It was a lovely reacquaintance with an old friend. Immediately I felt at home. During a break in the proceedings later in the day John showed me his latest personal acquisition, a 1st Edition book of Jefferies Red Deer published in 1884, inside of which was written a short but loving inscription to E Jefferies, (Richard Jefferies mother), from the most loving author. I held that book, a tangible handing down through the eons of time. Jefferies, then living in Surbiton will have handled that book while writing the inscription to his beloved mother.  Now 175 years after his birth and with thanks to John, I too handled this book, albeit quite carefully it has to be said.

Although we were meeting at the Museum, which provided light refreshments, the Museum is run by the Museum Trust. The Richard Jefferies Society, whose membership is global, has a small influence in the Museum but is separate to it, and having been formed in 1950 the Society's main remit is, to quote from its literature  

" To promote interest in, and respect for the life and works of Richard Jefferies."

The Society does this through individual membership, meetings, regular Society newsletters and a journal, social media, research and maintains a book collection of Jefferies' output and more recent works on the author. The Society also does what it can to maintain physical links to Jefferies such as maintaining his grave in Broadwater and Worthing Cemetery in Worthing, and his memorial plaque in Salisbury Cathedral. All for an individual membership cost of £12 a year, which I feel is a bargain. 

And of course the Society hosts an Annual General Meeting for its members, the very reason I was there siting amongst fellow members watching a large screen. I sat there watching the faces on the screen again thinking what would Jefferies make of these Zoom members streaming into his childhood home via Wi-Fi, modern technology connecting a global audience to the home of a writer who spread his thoughts using the works of his pen. One of the ladies there was Jefferies great, great, great, granddaughter (I think I have the number of greats correct) who happily sacrificed her breakfast in California to take part.

In due course the AGM got onto electing new members to the Executive Council and after a show of hands, thankfully unanimous, I was voted in for a three year term. What I hadn't expected was after the vote Colin the vice-chair turned to me and said "Andrew, would you like to say a few words to introduce yourself". Caught off guard I rambled on incoherently for what seemed hours, but in reality was less than a minute, and having completed my rambling discourse a lovely chap called Roy sitting next to me whispered, "well done and you're very welcome". I must have made some sense then, that's a first.

With the AGM concluded members had time to fill before the afternoon lecture. Time for lunch. I popped out into the garden to look at the mulberry tree Jefferies used to sit under and think. It looked a little older than I remember, but, like the Red Deer book earlier, a tangible link back to the author. Those of us having lunch outside had a discussion about this theme of tangibility over our home provisioned picnic fare. It went along the lines of - with the advancement of on-line and digital storage, in 150 years time, what will people interested in history actually have to physically connect with? Will emails, e-books and documents be available, be readable or will the technology of today be as obsolete as wig powder and quill pens of the past.  It is an interesting topic for discussion.

Ahead of the afternoon lecture; A Sweet View : The Making of the English Idyll, given by its author  Malcolm Andrews via Zoom, I explored the grounds a little more. On one of my last visits to the Museum, we trustees were involved in a discussion about what to do with the farmyard. There are larger plans which one day I'm sure will be fulfilled, in the meantime the area provides fresh food for the Museum café. It still feels rural and unspoilt from this direction, in reality however Swindon has now all but encircled the farm. Sprawling residential areas built in the last few years now cover the fields Jefferies once walked over towards Liddington Hill, one of his favourite walks.  

While I personally find it sad that the uninterrupted view from the farm over the fields to Liddington has gone, a view I remember well myself, maybe given Jefferies himself had a pragmatic approach to change, it may be fitting that progress is not arrested just because of one man's legacy, a man who himself decamped to live near London to earn a better living. Once he had moved away he was only ever to return to Wiltshire three times before his death, yet while away from the land he loved, he wrote some of his best works.

And for me Jefferies legacy is what inspired me to accept the invitation and why I felt deeply honoured to be asked to be on the Executive Council of the Society. At the close of the afternoon lecture a question and answer discussion took place. One member piped up with this reminder of how important Jefferies is to nature writing and our views on the natural world. He continued by noting that Rachel Carson who in 1962 wrote her seminal conservation work Silent Spring, herself said she was mostly influenced in her thinking by two colossus of natural history writers. W.H. Hudson, and yes, a Wiltshire lad who wrote some of the most influential natural history books ever, Richard Jefferies. 

A fitting end to my first 24 hours on the Executive Council as I begin to do my best, and to try and promote the life and works of Richard Jefferies.

Links : 

Richard Jefferies Society :  https://www.richardjefferiessociety.org

Andrews, Malcolm A Sweet View :  The Making of the English Idyll (2021). 

Richard Jefferies Museum :  https://www.richardjefferies.org/

Thomas, Edward, Richard Jefferies:  His Life and Work (London: Hutchinson, 1909).

List of Jefferies works (non exhaustive list of books published in his lifetime - from Wikipedia) : 

The Scarlet Shawl (London: Tinsley Brothers, 1874)

Restless Human Hearts (London: Tinsley Brothers, 1875)

World's End (London: Tinsley Brothers, 1877)

The Gamekeeper at Home (London: Smith, Elder & Co., 1878) 

Wild Life in a Southern County (London: Smith, Elder & Co., 1879)

The Amateur Poacher (London: Smith, Elder & Co., 1879) 

Greene Ferne Farm (London: Smith, Elder & Co., 1880)

Hodge and His Masters (London: Smith, Elder & Co., 1880)

Round About a Great Estate (London: Smith, Elder & Co., 1880)

Wood Magic (London: Cassell, Petter, Galpin & Co., 1881)

Bevis: the Story of a Boy (London: Sampson Low, Marston, Searle, & Rivington, 1882)

Nature Near London (London: Chatto & Windus, 1883)

The Story of My Heart: An Autobiography (London: Longmans, Green, & Co., 1883)

Red Deer (London: Longmans, Green, & Co., 1884)

The Life of the Fields (London: Chatto & Windus, 1884)

The Dewy Morn (London: Richard Bentley and Son, 1884)

After London; Or, Wild England (London: Cassell & Company, Ltd., 1885)

The Open Air (London: Chatto & Windus, 1885)

Amaryllis at the Fair (London: Sampson Low, Marston, Searle, & Rivington, 1887)

North East Garden Wildlife

I've been spending a few days up in the North East as my father has been in hospital. What with hospital visiting and working full time the days have simply been a blur. No sooner have they dawned over the North Sea then the sun is setting over Newcastle, sun which at this time of the year is as strong and warm as we'd have in August. However in the few gaps of my rushing about like a headless chiff-chaff I've been doing some wildlife window watching.

My parents garden has always been good for wildlife. In the thirty plus years they've lived here no chemicals have ever been applied. Before that the two spinster sisters who lived here had let the garden revert for decades, and when my parents moved in it was impossible to get to the bottom of the garden. My parents have never liked a tidy conventional garden anyway - it is mainly trees, shrubs and borders which now are semi-wild as my father rarely goes into the garden now. The wildlife flourishes here, and with the garden being two hundred years old I'd like to think it has matured gently over time into a little mini nature reserve. As far as I'm aware nothing unique makes this 30m by 90m garden its home, but that doesn't distract from the joy I get observing what goes on outside while at the kitchen sink.

Take these jackdaws for example. This pair are now nesting in one of the disused chimneys. I sat in the garden one evening watching them fly in and out of the hole in the side of the chimney, while making a mental note to ignore this property decay. Each time they arrived at the chimney, one, which convention would suggest the male, (but I'm not sure as females also tail wag) would sit on the chimney pot, wagging it's tail as a sign of communication, while the other popped into the void to be followed by the first bird, but only briefly.  Then they'd both fly out sit on the chimney in the glorious evening sun and repeat this behaviour a number of times. The nest presumably is built and eggs inside, it is impossible to tell, though I'd have though the female would be nest sitting if that was the case. This pair may simply be late prospecting after all, with the tail wagging all part of a ploy to speculate in this real estate. But they are fun to have around.

I'd put a new bird feeder up as the old one had been trashed by the grey squirrel which has it's drey in the ivy covered rowan tree nearby.  I know these mammals are despised but I like them and this individual is as fit as a lop. I watched it last night sitting high on the pub roof next door. Suddenly it leapt into the large holly tree which dominates this garden. A distance of 3 maybe 4 meters, a crash into the branches and then a scampering up and along the branches out into an acer, then a jump into the rowan and disappeared. Brave little chap, no fear then of launching itself into the prickly holly tree. 

That holly tree itself is a micro habitat - we've long speculated how old it is. I'd suggest close on a hundred years as the trunk is about a meter in circumference, all gnarled and covered in those nodules older holly is known for. Over the years a magpie has nested in there, blackbirds and pigeons have foraged on the berries and it is also a place to watch holly blue butterflies. I can't remember the exact year I first saw holly blue in the garden but at that time they were spreading north and on reporting it to the local recorder, it was only the second or third record in this area. Most days this week half a dozen have be seen flying about in the sun. Along with a lot of bees and flies. Down at the lower end of the garden is a hawthorn which has been consumed by ivy, it looks like a huge green mushroom now. Stand there in the warm sun and the sound of hundreds of insects is evident from a gentle hum. Later in the year this will be a butterfly magnate. Oddly though while I've been here, aside from the holly blue,  I've seen no other butterflies or moths. That's probably observer error rather than lack of species. 

Next to the hawthorn is an ancient pear tree which is now in blossom. In the past I've seen bullfinch here, but not for many years since houses were built on the fields behind the house. It is a favourite spot though for the wood pigeon and often I've seen a sparrowhawk sitting here waiting to ambush, though not this week. One evening though I watched a blackbird nest building near by. Arriving at regular intervals with leaves or twigs it popped into the ivy and while I couldn't see exactly what was going on, the shuddering and juddering of the ivy gave the game away. A most enjoyable observation, which went on for at least half an hour as I sat in the evening sun with my mug of tea. I did think though at the time that while a good safe location concealed from most predators, the resident squirrel may have other ideas. 

However a lack of species was not my issue at 4.30am mid week. I'd had a restless night, thinking of this and that, so having woken I thought time for a cup of tea. Before heading downstairs and although quite dark still, I heard birdsong. I popped into the back bedroom where there are windows that open to almost the floor. As I opened them and sat on the window ledge the birdsong of a Tyneside conurbation dawn chorus hit me. The predominant bird was a blackbird, and as I listened there were at least three dotted about. But also in this soundscape, at least one song thrush, carrion crow, jackdaw, blue and great tit, and I'm sure a greenfinch, a smattering of house sparrows and a coal tit which are resident in the garden. A dominant wren added to the chorus as did a dunnock and later some passing herring gulls. No summer migrants yet. Dawn is getting earlier now and the soft apricot glow to the east added to the sense of peace and quiet after my restless night.

Yesterday however there was very little peace and quiet. The garden is home territory to a pair of collared doves with presumably a nest nearby. They sit for hours on the garden chairs cooing gently. But they are aggressive too. 

I'd discovered a handful of early Roman era crumpets lurking in the freezer, so having a sort out I threw them onto the lawn for the birds. First down the jackdaws. That was fascinating. I'm not sure crumpets are a staple diet of these birds, but immediately one hopped over and having quickly looked at it stood on it, before beginning to pull and peck at the crumpet - and of course standing on the crumpet meant it didn't move, clever. The jackdaw then moved around in a circular motion taking small bites on each pass. That was until the collared doves began attacking the innocent corvid. A bit of a tussle took place before the harrying doves chased the jackdaw away. All was calm, for a while at least. 

Half an hour later I heard a raucous commotion and looking out a carrion crow was in the garden eyeing up one of the crumpets. It was a matter of a few seconds before I saw the doves fly at the crow in a territorial attitude. Unlike the jackdaw the much bigger carrion crow was having none of this and before I realised it had either hit the dove with it's feet or its bill, but whatever had happened there was a flurry of dove feathers billowing in the air, with the dove flying off to look a little non-pulsed on the pub roof. Meanwhile its mate sat in the acer tree in an attitude of, I'm not going near that big lad. Calm restored once more the carrion crow picked up the whole crumpet in its bill and flew off, leaving a carpet of downy feathers as the only evidence of a battle.

Later in the evening this was repeated, but now with rook. Three rook dropped into the garden, with a similar number perched nearby. In came the doves cooing and flapping wildly. One rook perched on a chair was repeatedly dive bombed, a risky business for the dove given that a rook's bill is more like a pickaxe. The rook still perched on the chair but with its neck stretched upwards parred and stabbed at the repeatedly passing dove. Meanwhile the other two rook were making tidy progress with the crumpets. Eventually all three rook, presumably fed up with the collared dove, flew off while being chased by the doves who were still dive bombing the rooks as they flew away. The doves soon returned and sat on the table looking all innocent and delicate, cooing softly. 

Innocent and delicate, I don't think so. I know what goes on, I've observed all of this out of the kitchen window this week. So after all that, I think it's time for a bacon sandwich for breakfast.

Quantock Easter 3 of 3 : Alfoxton House and Dorothy's Waterfall

So far then we'd completed two walks in what I am grandly calling our Trichotomous Saga. Time then to push on and complete the third and final Quantock walk over Easter. This time following in the footsteps of Romantic Poets.

After our morning's excitement of visiting and finally locating the mysteriously difficult to find Holford Kelting nature reserve, we made our way back to the car and had our picnic on the Green. Lashings of tea from the flasks and jam sandwiches. As the weather forecast had predicted the wind was beginning to pick up, still sunny but it was getting quite gusty now and the roar through the trees was ever present. I again checked the weather on my phone, dry still but 40 to 45mph gusts due by late afternoon. Exciting.

Joining Mrs Wessex-Reiver who was patiently waiting for me on the Green, our first destination was to 'Dorothy's Waterfall'. I don't actually think it is called that, but this cascading waterfall in the Holford Glen was a favourite spot of Dorothy Wordsworth. Just a short while after moving to Alfoxton House nearby with her brother William in 1797,  Dorothy wrote in her journal 

“There is everything here; sea, woods wild as fancy ever painted, brooks clear and pebbly villages

so romantic; and William and I, in a wander by ourselves, found out a sequestered waterfall in a

dell formed by steep hills covered with full-grown trees.” 

I'd heard about this waterfall and to be honest thought it was higher up the valley. However until today I'd not looked for it with any conviction, today's visit then will be a first. The waterfall turned out to be closer than I thought.

From the Green at Holford we stepped onto the Coleridge Way, a long distance path named after the poet, of some fifty miles meandering between his cottage at Nether Stowey and Lynmouth in Devon. The footpath is marked by a red quill pen, though oddly not the direction to take, leaving that to the general footpath posts. We were now entering Alfoxton Park and proceeding along a wide track used by vehicles up to the house itself. Walking along Mrs Wessex-Reiver spotted a fish - it wasn't of course but the branch remains of a felled tree which looked remarkably like a fish wearing a hat. Close by another fallen tree resembled a wild boar. I wonder what was in those jam sandwiches? We seem to be hallucinating.

Spot the wild boar?

By a bend in the track we approached a footbridge. At the time of the Wordsworths' living here to reach the waterfall required dexterity of foot to scramble down the ravine. It was a favourite spot for them, William Wordsworth wrote the poem ‘Lines Written in Early Spring’  while sitting here, 

"...

The budding twigs spread out their fan,

To catch the breezy air;

And I must think, do all I can,

That there was pleasure there.

..."

And his friend Coleridge wrote of this spot in his poem ‘The Lime-Tree Bower My Prison’ where he refers to the roaring dell;

"....

Wander in gladness, and wind down, perchance,

To that still roaring dell, of which I told;

The roaring dell, o'erwooded, narrow, deep,

And only speckled by the mid-day sun;

..."

Today then the footbridge transecting Coleridge's roaring dell both adds to and subtracts from the scene. Certainly it is safer to get to the location, however the bridge now crosses the ravine upstream from the actual waterfall which is a few meters downstream but obscured from this angle. I'm reliably informed that you can still get to the waterfall, but it is a precipitous ankle spraining climb down and not advised.

However the cascades here are very much in evidence. Along with the crescendo of the water down the valley below and the roar of the wind through the trees above us it all added to a very atmospheric soundscape, although not advisable to lean over the bridge railings for anyone with vertigo. It is steeper than it looks.

Retracing our way we re-joined the Coleridge Way as our next destination was to see Alfoxton House. This whole area is quite compact yet it offers a kaleidoscope of landscapes, views and history, therefore within a matter of minutes it can change the traveller's moods.  Rounding a corner the trees disappeared and a wonderful view emerged across fields to Wales and Brean Down. And a memorial seat to a couple who used to come here and watch deer. 

It isn't far to Alfoxton House, which is not in a great state of repair these days. The building having been a WW2 military camp for American troops, used for housing foreign workers and an erstwhile hotel the Twentieth century had not been kind to this building,  and since 2010  it has languished on an at risk register. Thankfully it is now being restored and brought back to life by the Triratna Buddhist Community as a Buddhist Centre. I think as the creators of the Romantic Poet movement Wordsworth and Coleridge would approve and appreciate it being rescued to become a centre for harmony with the world, both humanitarian and natural.

Yet with a slight feeling of frustration, as we approached the house we found we could not get any closer than the path due to a Retreat being in progress. Which answers a question as to why an Ocado delivery van was out on Easter Monday on the gravel track. The Coleridge Way passes through the grounds of Alfoxton which was a strange experience as we now found ourselves among people.  It was strange namely as for most of the time we'd been exploring this area this Easter we'd walked in empty landscapes without seeing no more than a handful of people.

Passing the house and by the farm buildings there was what looked like a newly erected notice board with some information for the passing walker. It is good that the Centre is acknowledging the importance of this landscape to not only poetry but a slice of history.  We pressed on past the buildings and saw ahead of us a steep path, and half way up was a lady with walking sticks standing looking at the view.

We stopped and chatted to this lovely lady for a good ten minutes. She was local, living in Holford all her life and walked this landscape daily. Sadly both age and horse riding accidents when younger now means she is not as nimble as once was. Informing us that she's recently passed a significant birthday (we suspected 80) she was very pragmatic about the fact that her gradual developing infirmity meant that despite her wish to walk the full circuit when she set off from home earlier, seeing the climb ahead she had reluctantly decided that a walk up the hill would be too strenuous today. And I suspect inwardly she knew that decision would apply in the future too. But, as she informed us, she goes walking every day despite her neighbours thinking she is mad to do so. I loved this attitude, one very much of being in the present, enjoy life and maintain a drive to continue walking each day until unable. 

It was such a joy to chat to this positive lady, not least as she informed us that when we begin climbing up what I now know as Pardlestone Hill in front of us, we need to look for a five bar gate,  go through that and then look for a smaller gate on our left further up the hill. As it turned out without that vital piece of information we may have just kept on the track and veered way off from our planned circular walk.

Reaching the mid point up Pardlestone Hill we were beginning to struggle. It is a lung buster and with the wind increasing it was head down and stoically plod on through the five bar gate and then keep going up the hill, where a single red deer was just visible before it scampered off.

As we climbed the wind increased. Last year's leaves eddied and blew about in all directions and the roar of the wind through the trees was amazingly loud. I've long loved that sound, much like the sound of waves crashing on a pebbly shore. It recalls nights spent half awake during storms, safe indoors but listening to the maelstrom being unleashed by mother nature outside. A comforting sound in many ways. Once again though we had the landscape to ourselves. It is amazing how quickly even in a popular location like this a quiet area can be found to walk in very quickly. 

A quarter of an hour later we found and entered the smaller gate we'd been informed to look out for. Finally we had reached the top of the hill. Thankfully then no more climbing today as we had just about reached our limit of the enjoyment of uphill walking! Either that or our level of fitness could be improved. Once in this area the mood and the landscape changed quickly. The pathway followed the ridge-line but through birch, scrubby rowan and hawthorn. It felt different and presumably that is because this is remnant parkland. Down by the house huge sweet chestnuts, distorted and twisted by age, mingled with standing beech, in a landscape so different to the predominance of sessile oak in the Combes.

Eventually we reached the ridge path and after one last look at Alfoxton House from up here it was time to turn left and downhill to Holford. By now the wind had really picked up and at times the gusts were blowing us about. However what I hadn't realised until reading about this later, was this trackway we were now walking on was once the main route from Nether Stowey to Watchet. Back in Wordsworth's time this was a very busy highway with people, horses, cattle, sheep and wagons from the various villages and industry in the area moving to and from the only port on this part of the coast. Watchet was once a major harbour for iron ore to South Wales and other products like wool and cloth heading up the Bristol Channel, the Irish Sea, or London and the Continent. Trade between here and South Wales was brisk from the seventeenth century. Watchet was a favourite destination for the walking poets too and the town is credited in being the inspiration for Coleridge's epic, The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, after apparently he looked down at the town, and presumably the ships in the harbour,  from St. Decuman’s Church. 

It is a meditative process to be simply walking the paths of history remembering the thousands upon thousands of feet that have passed this way before you. Coleridge composed his lines on the move, could it be then that on this track as he returned home, he mused on the Ancient Mariner structure. I like to think so. And in 2023 these routes still provide safe passage for the weary traveller. We'd almost reached the bottom of the path when I spied a pair of red deer in a field. They seemed unconcerned we were watching them, but it struck me as I looked at them through an old holly hedge that for generations wildlife and human activity have intermingled in this landscape, and many other landscapes across the country. Britain is a very small landmass but it really does offer a wealth of interest if we just take time to look.

Just before we left the woodland I saw a rabbit in an adjacent field, and that made me stop and think. We'd not seen a rabbit all weekend, three walks, around ten miles in total, and only a single rabbit. I'd not seen one this year either and couldn't remember the last time I'd seen one. How the fortunes of this once populous mammal have changed, and I find that quite sad.

Back at the Green we unleashed the second picnic of the day, tea and Bakewell slices. More exposed here than in the woods we were really getting a buffeting by the wind, challenging when pouring tea but ultimately an exhilarating diversion. The rooks however were having less fun up in the swaying trees. Adult birds were on sentry duty next to the now wildly gyrating nests, clinging to branches with their heads facing into the wind. Some birds were obviously enjoying the weather and flying in loops overhead. I've noticed rooks doing this sentry duty many times in windy weather - is it the female who's left the nest for safety, or the male standing guard? I'm not entirely sure but an interesting observation.

Time passes and all too soon we joined the Madding Crowd of stop-start traffic on the M5 as we headed back home. The memory remained though. The walk up Hodder's Combe on Saturday, the morning walk to the 'lost reserve of' Holford Kelting and then a short literacy ramble in the footsteps of the Romantic Poets during an afternoon enriched by conversation. 

And all from this single location beneath a rookery close to the A39 on the slopes of the Quantock Hills. Well done Somerset.