Careering Through Nature: holme

Friday, 22 September 2017

A Ten Mile Odyssey

Today I fancied taking a walk out along the Trent Valley Way as far as my little legs would carry me, out to Collingham and possibly beyond, a real all dayer, a big adventure, using my online OS map on my phone to see me safely on my way, to listen to clever radio all day, and return tired but improved.

I of course always fail to remember my impatience.

I cannot do anything slowly; walking steadily somewhere seems alien, it takes too long out of the day, it doesn't burn enough calories. I had barely taken a step out of my front door when I immediately began to make a trot, and then a jog.

A jog was all it was going to be, I'm not running with any freedom at all at the moment - not like I'm an Allyson Felix like gazelle of an athlete at the best of times - and I soon started feeling a bit sore. I kept on going, dodging the stretch of river now claimed by scrap dealing fishermen, and ran under the bypass into Winthorpe and beyond.

The Trent Valley Way starts as an off track route just out of Winthorpe, and follows what I'm guessing is a disused railway embankment along the side of the Trent. Being worn grassland it is a lot easier on the body to run on, but there are some muddy bits to catch you unawares and send you sprawling disgracefully down the bank. If you are unlucky this will involve sliding through dog mess as well.

I stayed on my feet today, but I knew I wasn't going to get any further than Holme Village, especially as my path was becoming strewn with more and more cowpats. Joy joy joy. Saving the long trip for another day, I turned off the route onto a footpath that led me into Holme.

Holme is a small village of less than 200 people and no facilities - no pub means no Si ever living there - but it is pretty enough. The church of St Giles is probably the most impressive small church in the area, with it's impressive fascia above the door, turret, and steeple.

Corn marigold is growing round the walls, and speedwell is out again on the pathway.

I returned by a slightly different route that took me around Winthorpe fishing lake. The concrete barge is a legendary fixture, now part of the landscape to the extent it has trees growing in it. But again, it is a sterile place, for for fishing but not much else, with only a solitary gull out on the water.

I was getting very creaky, and my trot back to town was very laboured. I ended up doing 10 miles.

I felt I had earned my Aldi Sunny Delight!

Si

All text and images copyright CreamCrackeredNature 22.09.17

Wednesday, 22 April 2015

The Lusting Lapwing Pressed his Suit

At last! I finally managed my first cycling adventure to RSPB Langford Lowfields of 2015, the nasty cricket clonk on my leg discouraging running today.

Typically I overdressed and was rather sweaty after not very far, but on a pleasant cycle in on a warmish day I was cheered to see a blackcap gathering nesting material, and the house martins circling the old station cottage at Winthorpe crossing.

The fields were a vivid yellow with blooming oilseed rape, and before the turn off onto the dirt track to Langford, a buzzard had found a thermal and was using it like an escalator to ascend in broad spirals to look for food from on high.

I noted with approval a little bike park had been installed up by the Beach Hut, and after parking up and taking in the view across the lake and the sight of the densest clusters of cowslips I'd ever seen, I headed down to the waterside to see what I might see in my 10x50s.

As ever, all the interesting ducks of winter had gone before conditions were good enough for the cycle over, and at first glance only the usual mallard, tufted duck and grebes and coots were on the water. But as ever at Langford, you must be patient in order to be rewarded.

The first slightly more exotic bird I noticed was an oystercatcher, probing away in the mud surrounding the table sized island it had decided was home. But as I watched it, and failed to take a picture through my binoculars, an odd cry alerted me to another presence over the reed bed.

It was a lapwing, engaged in a crazy series of flights across the water, its raggedy broad wings alternately flapping, gliding, then folding up like a peregrine to drop like a stone almost to the surface of the bed.

All the while it let fly with excited cries. "Brrrrrrrrrr poyyy-WOOOOIEEENK". Not at all "pee-wit" to my ears (see also; chiff chaff) and very different from the alarm calls I hear them make at night. This bird was in love.

"Brrrrrr poyyy-WOOOOIEEEENK" it swooped and cried, and another bird flew up to join it from across the lake. "PEEEP" scolded a pair of oystercatchers as they flew off rather more sedately. The lapwing flew together for a while, but soon our lusty young blade was aloft alone again.

I set off round the lake, watching sand martins in the distance over Phase 3, my first of the year. "Brrrrrr poyyyy-WOOOIEEEENK" followed me all the while, on top of the scratchy call of what may have been hidden sedge warblers.

It still cried as I crossed the wobbly bridge, still flying for love unrequited. I could hear it as I observed goldfinch and greenfinch squabbling over the feeders by the hide. I could hear it as I watched a number of shy whitethroat peering up at me from the reeds.

Back to to where I started, idle chit chat with pair of ladies who lunch having their lunch while birdwatching. "Brrrrr poooyyy-WOOOIEEEENK" he cried again.

"He hasn't stopped yet" I said. "We know", said the ladies.

One can't help wondering, was his love strong enough in the end?

Si