East Coast Nature Notes Friday 11th May 2012 Southbound
East Coast Nature Notes Friday 11th May 2012 Southbound
There has been a short gap in producing the nature notes as last weekend, with it being a bank holiday, I remained up in Leeds. Normal service is now resumed and now I sit waiting, while the cloud base lowers and the sky grows darker.
On Tuesday 8th Pellegrina reported that the swifts were back in our part of London, filling the sky with their less than musical but still exciting cries as they dart this way and that, chasing insects and showing off to each other.
Our ducks at work have been joined by a gay couple of male mallards who are showing all the signs of trying to mate and establish a territory of their own, though the resident pair keep objecting.
Somewhere in the bushes that surround the office building there is something that seems to be a fly catcher or warbler. But it is proving very difficult to get anything but the most fleeting look at.
In the square outside the hotel the magpie remains on the nest except for the occasional quick flight but there is nothing that would indicate that the eggs have hatched.
Now that I have finished the few paragraphs above, the rain has come down and the windows of the carriage are streaked with morse code messages formed of broken water droplets. A few patches of blue sky can be seen. But these are caused only by the clouds that a few minutes earlier had filled them having dumped all their water onto the streets of Leeds.
The gaps are already filling in as I watch and we wait for the train driver to find the forward switch so that we can, with several a shudder, move slowly, oh so slowly, from the platform.
The water levels of the river and canal are high but not yet as high as in recent weeks. The trackside has some scabby yellow plans eking out a miserable existence. Then though there is a stand of broom, fully in flower, truly an impressive sight. Yellow. Pure and simple. Unmodified.
Few places look good under grim and wet skies. Leeds sets a new standard for them to avoid.
On reaching Wakefield we have a few moments of brightness but to the north, ribbons of clouds are being pulled down by swirling winds more fitted to a winter than early summer. A starling flies over the top of one platform, its beak full of worms.
Wakefield is visited and left. The river is heavy, full, yet sparkling with unexpected sunlight. The trees have grown heavy with their leaves and much the worse of the urban sprawl is hidden. But not we pass the first fields of rape seed, bright and yellow but lacking the charm of the broom seen earlier.
Pal brown-and-white cows lie down in a long grass pasture with three new born calves lying nearby, almost hidden in the grass. A single house martin skims back and forth across the very tops of the grass.
Everything is looking lush. The recent rain and the lengthening of the days has given a noticeable surge to all of the plan life. Nettles are in flower as we suddenly slow next to a churning sewage plant. A hundred swallows with more coming by the second are swooping over the filtering and settling tanks, reaping the harvest of hungry flies feeding in what to us is filth and to them is home and dinner.
The fishing ponds have one Canada goose on display, three or four mallard, two white ducks and one swallow flying low over waters made choppy by a stiff breeze.
We continue slowly and I can see blue bells in flower and pale yellow primroses in the more sheltered parts of the trackside over which fragments of old woodland seem to survive.
A swift, elegant and agile, master of the air, balances on the crest of a breath of wind. A jay makes a colourful splash as it darts from one bush to another. Past the nettles we come across a long line of Docks.
A train in front of us is having problems which is why we are now stationary without benefit of a station. Twice in five minutes has the driver summoned the train guard to talk. This is not usually a good sign.
Ah. The handle for the train has come off in the driver’s hand. This is certainly not good. Still A nice view of three rabbits in a field. Not to mention the kestrel hovering over the next field.
Underneath two rather fine Cyprus trees a deer, little more than a dark show, grazing. The yarrow and similar plants are in flower. A plant with more flowers than ambition.
Thirty minutes and more late we finally reach Doncaster, past a river swollen and unhealthy looking. The small amount of sunshine fails to follow us into the platform and instead we get a few drops of rain that really just look like the clouds couldn’t even be bothered.
Doncaster’s pond is full of water but not of birds. A few at the end furthest from the track but I cannot clearly see what. One mile south and the sun appears to taunt us with what-might-have-beens.
Lilacs are in bloom. We hit another stretch of trackside in which the trees have been destroyed. Seconds later the fields to the east are underwater. River and swamp. But two sand martins are flying over the mess so all is not lost.
Over one field of rapeseed, two swallows appear to be mating on the wing.
In a field some sixty Canada geese. In the air another hundred flying right towards our train, but the leader changes their direction and a very significant amount of fois gras is avoided. It was a very spectacular sight, the first time I’ve been almost inside such a flight of geese.
Then we reach Retford under blue skies with fluffy white clouds to accompany the Ode to Joy. But for arrival? Or departure? You can decide.
Two rabbits sit and watch us go past. The sky is clear of birds. Then a buzzard, riding a thermal and gaining the advantage of height over two carrion crows who decided to head off in another direction.
The ponds of Newark are as dark and empty as the skies. But as you look more closely small shapes dart back and forth near the surface. The river is churned and filled with froth and rather high.
Another sewage works and a smaller collection of swallows But still - summer arrives with the swifts and swallows.
Grantham and the sky cannot decide between storm or really big storm. Just south of the station, by the track side, a buzzard flies low over the bank, from the size a female. A very good view.
A hint of rainbow to the east as we go past a field of soggy sheep. A swallow flies between the like Luke Skywalker in his speeder battling the giant Imperial AT-AT Walkers in the film The Empire Strikes Back but with a smaller budget for special effects.
Lo and their was sunshine again.
Now it is time FYPeterborough again.
A little south, two swans have taken control off a field and set up home. In one dark and ploughed field a fox is rummaging through the all-you-can-eat buffet. Two fields later and the first red-eye appears.
Another buzzard, patrolling the edge between the wild grasses and the manicured and uniform yellow of the field..
The canal swings in close, its waters over the edge and threatening to spill into the surrounding fields. Near by fields are flooded and ducks have moved in. A field full of rabbits looks around at the waters at the edge of their field and hope for dryer days.
Hello..oh goodbye Sandy.
A kestrel quarters a field and that seems to be the end of things of note as London comes closer by the breath.
There has been a short gap in producing the nature notes as last weekend, with it being a bank holiday, I remained up in Leeds. Normal service is now resumed and now I sit waiting, while the cloud base lowers and the sky grows darker.
On Tuesday 8th Pellegrina reported that the swifts were back in our part of London, filling the sky with their less than musical but still exciting cries as they dart this way and that, chasing insects and showing off to each other.
Our ducks at work have been joined by a gay couple of male mallards who are showing all the signs of trying to mate and establish a territory of their own, though the resident pair keep objecting.
Somewhere in the bushes that surround the office building there is something that seems to be a fly catcher or warbler. But it is proving very difficult to get anything but the most fleeting look at.
In the square outside the hotel the magpie remains on the nest except for the occasional quick flight but there is nothing that would indicate that the eggs have hatched.
Now that I have finished the few paragraphs above, the rain has come down and the windows of the carriage are streaked with morse code messages formed of broken water droplets. A few patches of blue sky can be seen. But these are caused only by the clouds that a few minutes earlier had filled them having dumped all their water onto the streets of Leeds.
The gaps are already filling in as I watch and we wait for the train driver to find the forward switch so that we can, with several a shudder, move slowly, oh so slowly, from the platform.
The water levels of the river and canal are high but not yet as high as in recent weeks. The trackside has some scabby yellow plans eking out a miserable existence. Then though there is a stand of broom, fully in flower, truly an impressive sight. Yellow. Pure and simple. Unmodified.
Few places look good under grim and wet skies. Leeds sets a new standard for them to avoid.
On reaching Wakefield we have a few moments of brightness but to the north, ribbons of clouds are being pulled down by swirling winds more fitted to a winter than early summer. A starling flies over the top of one platform, its beak full of worms.
Wakefield is visited and left. The river is heavy, full, yet sparkling with unexpected sunlight. The trees have grown heavy with their leaves and much the worse of the urban sprawl is hidden. But not we pass the first fields of rape seed, bright and yellow but lacking the charm of the broom seen earlier.
Pal brown-and-white cows lie down in a long grass pasture with three new born calves lying nearby, almost hidden in the grass. A single house martin skims back and forth across the very tops of the grass.
Everything is looking lush. The recent rain and the lengthening of the days has given a noticeable surge to all of the plan life. Nettles are in flower as we suddenly slow next to a churning sewage plant. A hundred swallows with more coming by the second are swooping over the filtering and settling tanks, reaping the harvest of hungry flies feeding in what to us is filth and to them is home and dinner.
The fishing ponds have one Canada goose on display, three or four mallard, two white ducks and one swallow flying low over waters made choppy by a stiff breeze.
We continue slowly and I can see blue bells in flower and pale yellow primroses in the more sheltered parts of the trackside over which fragments of old woodland seem to survive.
A swift, elegant and agile, master of the air, balances on the crest of a breath of wind. A jay makes a colourful splash as it darts from one bush to another. Past the nettles we come across a long line of Docks.
A train in front of us is having problems which is why we are now stationary without benefit of a station. Twice in five minutes has the driver summoned the train guard to talk. This is not usually a good sign.
Ah. The handle for the train has come off in the driver’s hand. This is certainly not good. Still A nice view of three rabbits in a field. Not to mention the kestrel hovering over the next field.
Underneath two rather fine Cyprus trees a deer, little more than a dark show, grazing. The yarrow and similar plants are in flower. A plant with more flowers than ambition.
Thirty minutes and more late we finally reach Doncaster, past a river swollen and unhealthy looking. The small amount of sunshine fails to follow us into the platform and instead we get a few drops of rain that really just look like the clouds couldn’t even be bothered.
Doncaster’s pond is full of water but not of birds. A few at the end furthest from the track but I cannot clearly see what. One mile south and the sun appears to taunt us with what-might-have-beens.
Lilacs are in bloom. We hit another stretch of trackside in which the trees have been destroyed. Seconds later the fields to the east are underwater. River and swamp. But two sand martins are flying over the mess so all is not lost.
Over one field of rapeseed, two swallows appear to be mating on the wing.
In a field some sixty Canada geese. In the air another hundred flying right towards our train, but the leader changes their direction and a very significant amount of fois gras is avoided. It was a very spectacular sight, the first time I’ve been almost inside such a flight of geese.
Then we reach Retford under blue skies with fluffy white clouds to accompany the Ode to Joy. But for arrival? Or departure? You can decide.
Two rabbits sit and watch us go past. The sky is clear of birds. Then a buzzard, riding a thermal and gaining the advantage of height over two carrion crows who decided to head off in another direction.
The ponds of Newark are as dark and empty as the skies. But as you look more closely small shapes dart back and forth near the surface. The river is churned and filled with froth and rather high.
Another sewage works and a smaller collection of swallows But still - summer arrives with the swifts and swallows.
Grantham and the sky cannot decide between storm or really big storm. Just south of the station, by the track side, a buzzard flies low over the bank, from the size a female. A very good view.
A hint of rainbow to the east as we go past a field of soggy sheep. A swallow flies between the like Luke Skywalker in his speeder battling the giant Imperial AT-AT Walkers in the film The Empire Strikes Back but with a smaller budget for special effects.
Lo and their was sunshine again.
Now it is time FYPeterborough again.
A little south, two swans have taken control off a field and set up home. In one dark and ploughed field a fox is rummaging through the all-you-can-eat buffet. Two fields later and the first red-eye appears.
Another buzzard, patrolling the edge between the wild grasses and the manicured and uniform yellow of the field..
The canal swings in close, its waters over the edge and threatening to spill into the surrounding fields. Near by fields are flooded and ducks have moved in. A field full of rabbits looks around at the waters at the edge of their field and hope for dryer days.
Hello..oh goodbye Sandy.
A kestrel quarters a field and that seems to be the end of things of note as London comes closer by the breath.