East coast Nature Notes 19/08/2011 (Southbound)
As we leave Leeds station the rose bay willow herb is now much more white fluffy seeds or bare stems than straight purple clad sticks and what had been a summer\s day turns dark and the clouds press down to oppress us with their heavy loads of soon-to-be-rain nestling inside their soft looking covers. It is not even four pm and already it is as dark as it was at 8 of the evening clock last night.
Wakefield station awakens briefly from its slumber and welcomes us with … well not a lot actually. The air is still and lifeless. The seeds of the RBWH hang suspended in the air and then slowly subcomes to gravity and fall to the ground scant fractions of inches from where they started. One magpie watches us with am ill-tempered expression of mischief temporarily thwarted by our arrival. But deep down it knows that trains come - trains go - magpies remain.
Far to our east there are a few tiny and vulnerable patches of blue sky, crowded in on all sides by gangs of angry clouds. Few of the house roofs are touched by ay moss or lichens, even those that have to be at least sixty years or more old. We cross the river and pass a tree blasted black and silver, twisted in painful death throes, bare of leaves and hopeless against the green of the brethren trees that seem to pull back from its skeleton.
A flock of rooks rise from a grassy field and we are now well clear of Wakefield and its many delights. Two well bred horses stand in the little bits of field and ignore each other in the way that only creatures with a limited IQ can.
A number of the trees are starting to yellow their leaves, early even for a bad summer while have lies scattered across a field in preparation to be gathered. Then another. And a third, at least there the grass is tidy and in neat rows waiting to be processed.
Magpies are our mile markers. More reliable than clocks for our progress. The fishing ponds closed in on all sides by fisherman and empty of any sign of bird life. The rougher horses that live near Doncaster are less than interested in grazing. A flock of twenty white doves in a ploughed field and some winter wheat is rising as a flock of small birds dart across the tops. Yellow. Dull and tired is dominating as the shadows of Doncaster appear on the horizon. More yellow. In the fields and the margins. The greens fading like a promise rashly made and we reach Doncaster in all its glory and the leaves here are turning brown and brittle. The scrub land filled with brambles and thistles topped with seeds.
Just outside the station, before we cross the Don, its width narrowing with rafts of pale green algae, an impressive number of teasels, their flowering done and they wait the seeds to form.
Even the train spotters look like they cannot be bothered as we sit at the platform. Not one even bothers to lift their note book and record our progress.
Leaving the station there are still buddleias still in flower though I must admit they look a little embarrassed about it. Two adult swans at the pond as we leave the station with three very shabby and dull looking youngsters swimming in circles behind them as they try and find the correct way to paddle forward.
Edinburgh 250 miles and getting further by the minute. Retford and a hint of wind is loving the tips of the trees and the tallest blades of grasses. Brown fields and brown grasses but at least the sun is making an effort to burn through the clouds and we have some real shadows again.
Newark, a blur and southward we go.
Grantham goes by without incident.
We have evidence of sky again.
The soil turns a red and richer colour, warmed by the first proper sunshine since the earlier part of the day. Then we reach Peterborough without anything of note.
Wakefield station awakens briefly from its slumber and welcomes us with … well not a lot actually. The air is still and lifeless. The seeds of the RBWH hang suspended in the air and then slowly subcomes to gravity and fall to the ground scant fractions of inches from where they started. One magpie watches us with am ill-tempered expression of mischief temporarily thwarted by our arrival. But deep down it knows that trains come - trains go - magpies remain.
Far to our east there are a few tiny and vulnerable patches of blue sky, crowded in on all sides by gangs of angry clouds. Few of the house roofs are touched by ay moss or lichens, even those that have to be at least sixty years or more old. We cross the river and pass a tree blasted black and silver, twisted in painful death throes, bare of leaves and hopeless against the green of the brethren trees that seem to pull back from its skeleton.
A flock of rooks rise from a grassy field and we are now well clear of Wakefield and its many delights. Two well bred horses stand in the little bits of field and ignore each other in the way that only creatures with a limited IQ can.
A number of the trees are starting to yellow their leaves, early even for a bad summer while have lies scattered across a field in preparation to be gathered. Then another. And a third, at least there the grass is tidy and in neat rows waiting to be processed.
Magpies are our mile markers. More reliable than clocks for our progress. The fishing ponds closed in on all sides by fisherman and empty of any sign of bird life. The rougher horses that live near Doncaster are less than interested in grazing. A flock of twenty white doves in a ploughed field and some winter wheat is rising as a flock of small birds dart across the tops. Yellow. Dull and tired is dominating as the shadows of Doncaster appear on the horizon. More yellow. In the fields and the margins. The greens fading like a promise rashly made and we reach Doncaster in all its glory and the leaves here are turning brown and brittle. The scrub land filled with brambles and thistles topped with seeds.
Just outside the station, before we cross the Don, its width narrowing with rafts of pale green algae, an impressive number of teasels, their flowering done and they wait the seeds to form.
Even the train spotters look like they cannot be bothered as we sit at the platform. Not one even bothers to lift their note book and record our progress.
Leaving the station there are still buddleias still in flower though I must admit they look a little embarrassed about it. Two adult swans at the pond as we leave the station with three very shabby and dull looking youngsters swimming in circles behind them as they try and find the correct way to paddle forward.
Edinburgh 250 miles and getting further by the minute. Retford and a hint of wind is loving the tips of the trees and the tallest blades of grasses. Brown fields and brown grasses but at least the sun is making an effort to burn through the clouds and we have some real shadows again.
Newark, a blur and southward we go.
Grantham goes by without incident.
We have evidence of sky again.
The soil turns a red and richer colour, warmed by the first proper sunshine since the earlier part of the day. Then we reach Peterborough without anything of note.