East Coast Nature Notes 20th April 2012 Southbound
East Coast Nature Notes 20th April 2012 Southbound
Rain. Rain. And thrice rain. If the rest of the year has been dry enough for us to be under drought orders that even Draco would have considered to be a bit strict then the weather of this week has been trying to rehydrate the country. Ideally in a short as possible time.
As I wait for the train to remember which way is south and we get underway the sky is in parts broken white fluffy clouds and in part black, threatening clouds with added menace and possibly malice-aforethought.
On the way back to the hotel on Wednesday evening, high on the thermals over the city centre was a sparrowhawk, reduced to little more than a winged and feathered dispenser of sudden avian death on the smaller birds of the city. Go Raptors go!
There is a lot less blossom to be seen now. Instead almost every tree is now in leaf. There are a few laggards but even they are tipped with green ready and waiting to burst forth. Those with not even the slightest signs of a bud I think are pretty much done for.
As we leave Leeds behind we pass many yellow dandelions with a goodly number that have gone to seed. Scattered here and there are white flowers with simple petals and yellow centres. Daisy like but not daisies.
A bit of sunlight breaks through the clouds and northwards there is more blue sky than when we left the centre of Leeds. Rabbits are out in a field, nearby some large crows are eyeballing a mob of magpies. Ownership of the field will be decided soon. The rabbits, unaffected by such a dispute continue to feed.
Over Wakefield a thunderhead is forming, rising high and fast, curling, looping and dominating the skyline as we head towards it. The high rising mass fills the sky ahead and to the left and now behind us as well We are in an isolated spot of clear sky that will not last long. A cloud of pigeon feathers marks the final education and indeed reduction of a pigeon by the laws of physics into something resembling a rather high grade but cheap pate.
Wakefield is discarded as we move off. The valleys that form Wakefield and its local area are now surrounded in every direction with rising thunder clouds. At least one of which looks like it will soon be active.
There are a few more trees in blossom still here than on the previous stretch. We run along the rape seed and its glare spoils the view.
Ducks and fishermen in equal numbers as we pass the twin fishing ponds. The streams nearby are busy with dealing with all the extra water draining from the fields. Lots of little rapids as the water turns and churns and boils as it finds the path of least resistance.
Can it be? Why yes. Doncaster is exactly where we left it on Monday. That’s probably a good thing. The idea of a Doncaster scuttling across the landscape is somewhat disturbing.
As we wait for a platform, gulls are circling nearby and overhead, riding the winds above the sewage plant that is the pride and joy of this part of Doncaster. It has the added attraction for the birds of having a small rubbish dump attached and as the JCBs tip out another load of rubbish the birds sweep in low to check out what delights are being scattered for their delectation.
In the undergrowth ferns are starting to sprout their strange flowers and pale, white tips of nettles in flower can be seen.
Under false sunshine we roll into out platform and wait for the waiting huddles of passengers to scramble aboard.
The cherry trees are still showing off their best as we leave Doncaster and begin to move south Broom is yellow and the silver birches are silver and green. Eight black and white ducks bob up and down on the pond, the sunlight begins to fade, the black headed gulls, no ore than twenty and two coots, also go about their business.
We run out of forward momentum and stop before a bridge carrying a busy road. The sky darkens by the minute and somewhere nearby there is rain. Amongst the short grasses are some short, deep blue flowers, little more than an inch tall and nearby the growing leaves of teasels next to the withered and dried out stalks of their parent plants.
We move again and pass through a village. At the level crossing the people wait for us to pass. Watching them from the concrete floor of where a signal box had stood was a large buck rabbit.
Some of the scrubby fields are mostly underwater. The fields with carefully managed cross are muddy at best and sodden at worst.
The daylight turns down another notch.
We pass a triangle of daffs still yellow with their flowers.
Retford station shows signs of recent rain and the river if full and lapping over the edges of some of it s banks.
Now we hit a misty area that has rain and cloud and yet knows not the sun. The yellow fields are dulled and we move back to February.
One field is heavy with week old lambs and the world brightens a small amount. Sadly so do the yellow fields.
Dead ahead the clouds go black, their bottom edges orange. Weather is incoming!
A field back a buzzard tries to find a thermal but despite the flap and glide, is not able to gain any altitude.
One edge of cloud to the east is showing rain slashing down at diagonal as we rumble through a small village. The day turns two notches towards night and we pass more daffs that have lasted well. Night comes another notch closer.
Through a field so damp a crow makes it way, more like a duck swimming than a corvid patrolling. The rain arrives and after ten seconds it would be fair to say it is now hitting us. Night comes closer and the world feels chill. Traffic on the roads has turned on the headlights.
Newark’s ponds arrive. Two swans feed alone. Other ponds have a range of gulls and geese and ducks. The river is full, dark, turbulent and groping up the bank sides. Ahead the end of the cloud formation can be seen, a ragged and torn edge that slowly reveals a brighter world beyond.
The raid did not last long for us. Rooks are patrolling a field and a male mallard flies a low and tight course over a field boundary ditch. Three starlings are in the air, stubby little wings working hard.
In the distance - and there is a lot of distance in this flat plain bounded by two ranges of hills - bands of rain can be seen extracting their vengeance of the ground. We pass through one band and the train slows down. Though it is raining the world becomes brighter as the cloud layer dumps enough mass to let more light through. A flock of wood pigeons dominates a field, their grey a fitting colour under the skies we pass.
Then we come alongside the new wind turbine which is moving well and the rain stops. For the moment. A swan moves slowly through a muddy stream the meanders and snakes between two fields.
We pass through the banks on which they hacked back the trees on the last two passes through and pass into the tunnel that marks a difference in the world more political and social than environmental and brings us into and through the place called Grantham. Count the day a notch brighter as we pass through the station but rain hits from the west and streaks the windows in running rivulets pulled flat and horizontal by out forward pace.
Six calves, four brown, one black and one between the two, lie or stand on legs slowly becoming used to gravity while their mothers chew the cud. The day grows one notch brighter.
Another notch towards brightness is made. Fields roll like great ocean waves, their tops crowned now by breaking water but by yellow crops. A glimmer of sunshine arrives and ahead the sky turns black.
The Mallard speed record signs basks white in the sunlight form the west. Straight before us the sky is back with three overlapping levels of clouds.
A cross a field a crow from a position of height, makes sweeping dives down on a large raptor, forcing it low towards the field.
Peterborough receives a smattering of rain to the west and south while east white clouds surrounded by blue sky, grow tall and start to anvil. So much of the approaches to the station are rust coloured or made of items taking on mass as they rust. There is an air of neglect and carelessness that does little to make the station a welcome sight. Plastic bottoms, paper coffee cups by the dozens chock the open spaces.
Seventeen swans to the east. The west side of the river hidden by other passengers. Daylight is turned down a notch and then another.
The trees on the south are full of vigour an eaves and help reduce the impact of the urban sprawl. Rabbits are everywhere along the side of the track.
A buzzard appears to be trying a new technique or walking across a ploughed field in an effort to get close to a large flock of wood pigeons that are grazing at the other side. The Lonely Church remains lonely.
St.Neot’s is drowning under a sea of yellow. Black clouds, heir ends curled under their edges by the win dominate the sky and we roll into twilight come early. A red-eye, huddled against the dampness looks up as we pass. Here comes the rain (again).
Rain. Rain. And thrice rain. If the rest of the year has been dry enough for us to be under drought orders that even Draco would have considered to be a bit strict then the weather of this week has been trying to rehydrate the country. Ideally in a short as possible time.
As I wait for the train to remember which way is south and we get underway the sky is in parts broken white fluffy clouds and in part black, threatening clouds with added menace and possibly malice-aforethought.
On the way back to the hotel on Wednesday evening, high on the thermals over the city centre was a sparrowhawk, reduced to little more than a winged and feathered dispenser of sudden avian death on the smaller birds of the city. Go Raptors go!
There is a lot less blossom to be seen now. Instead almost every tree is now in leaf. There are a few laggards but even they are tipped with green ready and waiting to burst forth. Those with not even the slightest signs of a bud I think are pretty much done for.
As we leave Leeds behind we pass many yellow dandelions with a goodly number that have gone to seed. Scattered here and there are white flowers with simple petals and yellow centres. Daisy like but not daisies.
A bit of sunlight breaks through the clouds and northwards there is more blue sky than when we left the centre of Leeds. Rabbits are out in a field, nearby some large crows are eyeballing a mob of magpies. Ownership of the field will be decided soon. The rabbits, unaffected by such a dispute continue to feed.
Over Wakefield a thunderhead is forming, rising high and fast, curling, looping and dominating the skyline as we head towards it. The high rising mass fills the sky ahead and to the left and now behind us as well We are in an isolated spot of clear sky that will not last long. A cloud of pigeon feathers marks the final education and indeed reduction of a pigeon by the laws of physics into something resembling a rather high grade but cheap pate.
Wakefield is discarded as we move off. The valleys that form Wakefield and its local area are now surrounded in every direction with rising thunder clouds. At least one of which looks like it will soon be active.
There are a few more trees in blossom still here than on the previous stretch. We run along the rape seed and its glare spoils the view.
Ducks and fishermen in equal numbers as we pass the twin fishing ponds. The streams nearby are busy with dealing with all the extra water draining from the fields. Lots of little rapids as the water turns and churns and boils as it finds the path of least resistance.
Can it be? Why yes. Doncaster is exactly where we left it on Monday. That’s probably a good thing. The idea of a Doncaster scuttling across the landscape is somewhat disturbing.
As we wait for a platform, gulls are circling nearby and overhead, riding the winds above the sewage plant that is the pride and joy of this part of Doncaster. It has the added attraction for the birds of having a small rubbish dump attached and as the JCBs tip out another load of rubbish the birds sweep in low to check out what delights are being scattered for their delectation.
In the undergrowth ferns are starting to sprout their strange flowers and pale, white tips of nettles in flower can be seen.
Under false sunshine we roll into out platform and wait for the waiting huddles of passengers to scramble aboard.
The cherry trees are still showing off their best as we leave Doncaster and begin to move south Broom is yellow and the silver birches are silver and green. Eight black and white ducks bob up and down on the pond, the sunlight begins to fade, the black headed gulls, no ore than twenty and two coots, also go about their business.
We run out of forward momentum and stop before a bridge carrying a busy road. The sky darkens by the minute and somewhere nearby there is rain. Amongst the short grasses are some short, deep blue flowers, little more than an inch tall and nearby the growing leaves of teasels next to the withered and dried out stalks of their parent plants.
We move again and pass through a village. At the level crossing the people wait for us to pass. Watching them from the concrete floor of where a signal box had stood was a large buck rabbit.
Some of the scrubby fields are mostly underwater. The fields with carefully managed cross are muddy at best and sodden at worst.
The daylight turns down another notch.
We pass a triangle of daffs still yellow with their flowers.
Retford station shows signs of recent rain and the river if full and lapping over the edges of some of it s banks.
Now we hit a misty area that has rain and cloud and yet knows not the sun. The yellow fields are dulled and we move back to February.
One field is heavy with week old lambs and the world brightens a small amount. Sadly so do the yellow fields.
Dead ahead the clouds go black, their bottom edges orange. Weather is incoming!
A field back a buzzard tries to find a thermal but despite the flap and glide, is not able to gain any altitude.
One edge of cloud to the east is showing rain slashing down at diagonal as we rumble through a small village. The day turns two notches towards night and we pass more daffs that have lasted well. Night comes another notch closer.
Through a field so damp a crow makes it way, more like a duck swimming than a corvid patrolling. The rain arrives and after ten seconds it would be fair to say it is now hitting us. Night comes closer and the world feels chill. Traffic on the roads has turned on the headlights.
Newark’s ponds arrive. Two swans feed alone. Other ponds have a range of gulls and geese and ducks. The river is full, dark, turbulent and groping up the bank sides. Ahead the end of the cloud formation can be seen, a ragged and torn edge that slowly reveals a brighter world beyond.
The raid did not last long for us. Rooks are patrolling a field and a male mallard flies a low and tight course over a field boundary ditch. Three starlings are in the air, stubby little wings working hard.
In the distance - and there is a lot of distance in this flat plain bounded by two ranges of hills - bands of rain can be seen extracting their vengeance of the ground. We pass through one band and the train slows down. Though it is raining the world becomes brighter as the cloud layer dumps enough mass to let more light through. A flock of wood pigeons dominates a field, their grey a fitting colour under the skies we pass.
Then we come alongside the new wind turbine which is moving well and the rain stops. For the moment. A swan moves slowly through a muddy stream the meanders and snakes between two fields.
We pass through the banks on which they hacked back the trees on the last two passes through and pass into the tunnel that marks a difference in the world more political and social than environmental and brings us into and through the place called Grantham. Count the day a notch brighter as we pass through the station but rain hits from the west and streaks the windows in running rivulets pulled flat and horizontal by out forward pace.
Six calves, four brown, one black and one between the two, lie or stand on legs slowly becoming used to gravity while their mothers chew the cud. The day grows one notch brighter.
Another notch towards brightness is made. Fields roll like great ocean waves, their tops crowned now by breaking water but by yellow crops. A glimmer of sunshine arrives and ahead the sky turns black.
The Mallard speed record signs basks white in the sunlight form the west. Straight before us the sky is back with three overlapping levels of clouds.
A cross a field a crow from a position of height, makes sweeping dives down on a large raptor, forcing it low towards the field.
Peterborough receives a smattering of rain to the west and south while east white clouds surrounded by blue sky, grow tall and start to anvil. So much of the approaches to the station are rust coloured or made of items taking on mass as they rust. There is an air of neglect and carelessness that does little to make the station a welcome sight. Plastic bottoms, paper coffee cups by the dozens chock the open spaces.
Seventeen swans to the east. The west side of the river hidden by other passengers. Daylight is turned down a notch and then another.
The trees on the south are full of vigour an eaves and help reduce the impact of the urban sprawl. Rabbits are everywhere along the side of the track.
A buzzard appears to be trying a new technique or walking across a ploughed field in an effort to get close to a large flock of wood pigeons that are grazing at the other side. The Lonely Church remains lonely.
St.Neot’s is drowning under a sea of yellow. Black clouds, heir ends curled under their edges by the win dominate the sky and we roll into twilight come early. A red-eye, huddled against the dampness looks up as we pass. Here comes the rain (again).