East Coast Nature Notes Northbound 11/09/11
Dark. Dark. And thrice I say, Dark. From which, dear reader, you can ascertain that the sun is yet to rise as I start another day of my seemingly endless loop of train travel between London and Leeds. This train appears to be the James Cameron edition as when we reach Leeds we will be "terminating there." So if you are called Sarah Conner, this would be a bad day to be in Leeds.
The tail end of tropical storm (nee hurricane) Katia is making itself felt this morning. The drive into central London was, to say the least, dark, windy and more like late autumn or early winter rather than the early part of September.
The sky as we leave King’s Cross is a dark, dirty grey-blue which bodes ill for the day ahead. It’s not a uniform grey, there are strips and ripples that are lighter in shade than others; but it is a fine distinction. At this time of day the plant life looks a dark grey that is almost (but not quite) a deep, sombre silver. The trees are darker still, wind bent, they threaten the sky as we roar past.
We make it to Stevenage without any problems and as we reach the station the first bird of the day is a pigeon in flight, followed by four more dark shadows against a dark sky. A seagull flies over the platform, buffeted from side to side by the gusts of wind that shake the trees and twitch the wires.
It's getting lighter and the cloud is lifting a little but the air is still filled with a dampness that makes everything look out of focus and sodden. The crows are out of their beds and scouring the empty looking fields. As we get bear to Sandy a flock of pigeons, perhaps a hundred strong, sit in the middle of a field.
Fifty minutes into the journey and the first magpie puts in an appearance. I suspect they like a lie in as much as I do. Technically it is now morning. The countryside has opened up and everywhere I look there are signs of autumn. The grass is fading, turning yellow, the leaves are turning brittle and going as yellow as the grass. A male pheasant stands aloof in the middle of one of the wide fields before Peterborough. Above him the clouds are feathering and tearing.
The swans are out in force. The seven or eight youngsters safely in the middle of the river, while the adults patrol either bank.
A young heron, a creature born of some older age, lurks in the middle of a small paddock, uncertain just what to do next.
one less pigeon as we rush on through a cloud of bloodied feathers.
Well we have reached Grantham and the only thing of note is that there was nothing of note. The station is damp, evidence of earlier rain remains puddled everywhere and the passengers are noticeable by their total absence. Oh wait, there are a couple but they appear to be unsure what to do at a train station and seem confused that the train is now leaving.
The weather has closed in now and the rain that has left its footprints elsewhere during the trip, is now making its presence known to us. The grass as we go north is now little more than poor quality hay, mixed with the remaining rose bay willow herbs, their stalks heavy with seeds and light on flowers.
As we go through Newark there is a small steam train, of the Thomas variety but deep blue. The surface of the ponds is choppy and there are very few fishermen to be seen (2). For a short while we run alongside the A1, a lorry filled line of lorries and motor cars. `Soon it will be Doncaster and Leeds becomes a certainty rather than a dim possible.
We pass Retford and I note that so far I have not seen a single rabbit.
More ponds. Surface churned by the wind and empty of birds and lacking any fishermen.
A moment of sunlight as the sky tears and reveals the blue above. But it is all to brief and as we reach Doncaster the way to the north looks promising but the other way, the way we must go, well that is dark and dreadful and I heard Sean Bean's voice making comments about simply walking into Mordor. The ponds before the station have some 20 or 30 gulls bobbing up and down on the surface.
The tail end of tropical storm (nee hurricane) Katia is making itself felt this morning. The drive into central London was, to say the least, dark, windy and more like late autumn or early winter rather than the early part of September.
The sky as we leave King’s Cross is a dark, dirty grey-blue which bodes ill for the day ahead. It’s not a uniform grey, there are strips and ripples that are lighter in shade than others; but it is a fine distinction. At this time of day the plant life looks a dark grey that is almost (but not quite) a deep, sombre silver. The trees are darker still, wind bent, they threaten the sky as we roar past.
We make it to Stevenage without any problems and as we reach the station the first bird of the day is a pigeon in flight, followed by four more dark shadows against a dark sky. A seagull flies over the platform, buffeted from side to side by the gusts of wind that shake the trees and twitch the wires.
It's getting lighter and the cloud is lifting a little but the air is still filled with a dampness that makes everything look out of focus and sodden. The crows are out of their beds and scouring the empty looking fields. As we get bear to Sandy a flock of pigeons, perhaps a hundred strong, sit in the middle of a field.
Fifty minutes into the journey and the first magpie puts in an appearance. I suspect they like a lie in as much as I do. Technically it is now morning. The countryside has opened up and everywhere I look there are signs of autumn. The grass is fading, turning yellow, the leaves are turning brittle and going as yellow as the grass. A male pheasant stands aloof in the middle of one of the wide fields before Peterborough. Above him the clouds are feathering and tearing.
The swans are out in force. The seven or eight youngsters safely in the middle of the river, while the adults patrol either bank.
A young heron, a creature born of some older age, lurks in the middle of a small paddock, uncertain just what to do next.
one less pigeon as we rush on through a cloud of bloodied feathers.
Well we have reached Grantham and the only thing of note is that there was nothing of note. The station is damp, evidence of earlier rain remains puddled everywhere and the passengers are noticeable by their total absence. Oh wait, there are a couple but they appear to be unsure what to do at a train station and seem confused that the train is now leaving.
The weather has closed in now and the rain that has left its footprints elsewhere during the trip, is now making its presence known to us. The grass as we go north is now little more than poor quality hay, mixed with the remaining rose bay willow herbs, their stalks heavy with seeds and light on flowers.
As we go through Newark there is a small steam train, of the Thomas variety but deep blue. The surface of the ponds is choppy and there are very few fishermen to be seen (2). For a short while we run alongside the A1, a lorry filled line of lorries and motor cars. `Soon it will be Doncaster and Leeds becomes a certainty rather than a dim possible.
We pass Retford and I note that so far I have not seen a single rabbit.
More ponds. Surface churned by the wind and empty of birds and lacking any fishermen.
A moment of sunlight as the sky tears and reveals the blue above. But it is all to brief and as we reach Doncaster the way to the north looks promising but the other way, the way we must go, well that is dark and dreadful and I heard Sean Bean's voice making comments about simply walking into Mordor. The ponds before the station have some 20 or 30 gulls bobbing up and down on the surface.