Red Kite Soaring

Last weekend as I sat quietly reading a book in the garden at R’s family home, I glanced up to see a large raptor circling lazily in the hot summer sky. Buzzards are common in that part of Hampshire, but this most certainly was not a buzzard. The forked tail gave this spectacular bird away. It was a red kite.

I sat entranced as it approached, lower and lower, quartering the field below the garden. It made a couple of lazy passes over my head, enabling me to capture these images on my not so great little point ‘n’ shoot, then sailed languidly away. A better flyer than a red kite you will never see; swifts and swallows and falcons are spectacular, but a red kite seems to defy gravity. With the tiniest adjustment of those long wings they can swoop or hang as if suspended on a string, turning and gliding, a burst of acceleration followed by an eerie stillness, all lazily performed (it seems) with the minimum of effort. Watching these birds you almost believe that if you stepped off a high enough cliff with your arms raised just so…

The birds beauty and prowess are not the only reasons for feeling surprised joy when one just casually appears above you. It was at one point nearly extinct in the UK, with only five breeding pairs surviving. And yet in Tudor London these birds were common scavengers,  with a contemporary report stating that “the kites are so tame, that they often take out of the hands of little children, the bread smeared with butter given to them by their mothers“*. Although officially protected in London for their valuable scavenging services by which much putrefying material was removed from the streets, red kites were persecuted throughout the British Isles until they reached their final perilous decline. By the 1920′s, the red kite was all but wiped out.

It’s spectacular comeback means that while red kites are by no means common, you are more and more likely to get lucky and see one with every passing year, and indeed they can be locally common. They are moving outwards at last from their strongholds in Wales and The Chilterns, and this bird is one of a pair which arrived in the neighbourhood only this summer. The first time I ever saw one close up I will never forget; it exploded out of a farmers field on top of Winter Hill near Cookham, a flurry of rusty red and charcoal and so very obviously the rare bird of my dreams that I actually shouted it’s name out loud. A grinning local out walking his dog told me I that if I liked red kites, I was in for a treat. He was right; that afternoon was spent on Winter hill with a picnic, a bottle of wine and the spectacle of red kites in plenty riding the wind below us. I will never forget that first sighting.

*Source of quote:- Birds Brittanica

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Stormy North Sea Sky

So where have I been this last fortnight? Away in Copenhagen visiting our friend Sonja at the Distortion Festival, and it’s taken me about the same amount of time to recover. R and I decided a while ago that if we were going to do any short haul European travel we wouldn’t fly. It’s not just for environmental reasons either – making the travel part of the fun is a huge reason too. Ferries and trains in Europe are a lovely way to travel. Hint: always carry a bit of root ginger, crystallised ginger, ginger ale or whatnot, as ginger calms travel sickness like nothing else can and makes a rough voyage as comfy as can be.  Anyway, our love of slow travel is what enabled me to get this picture of a stormy evening sky over the North Sea. You can’t see it in the picture but there was quite a swell already; by nightfall it was raining and there were huge waves too.

The ferry was vast and incredibly comfortable, so much nicer than being cramped in an aeroplane. However the bar was terrifyingly expensive;  we got some beer anyway and sat watching the “floorshow” – a hard bitten Glasgwegian wedding singer who plainly had cabin fever and couldn’t wait for his last show to end. His jokes probably hadn’t been funny when he began his tour and he wasn’t even pretending any more – at one point he walked off mid song and disappeared for about five minutes, presumably to take a big slug of Dutch Courage. Seriously, I could write a novel about this guy, but before I am tempted to do so I should describe the rest of the journey. The waves were pretty huge by the time we went back to our cabin, but thanks to my root ginger habit (see above) I was not feeling in the least seasick. However I was disconcerted when, once in bed, the ship was lurching and swaying so much that my head was hitting the headboard and I was sliding up and down the bed at irregular intervals. Luckily I was tired enough to sleep well once accustomed to the movement.

The train Journey across Denmark to Copenhagen was breathtaking – the countryside in gloriously sunny early summer (just a couple of weeks behind GB) was mesmerising and I longed to walk in the meadows and woods I saw speeding by. The huge bridge and tunnel that takes you across to the island of Zealand is an extra excitement. And the train its-self was comfortable, spacious, and fast. I love train travel – it accustoms you a little to the new place you are in. So much better than having to fly.

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Sky in the water

What’s wrong with these pictures? Unless you live on Pandora you don’t often get to see land floating through the sky! It’s been raining here in London almost non stop for the last couple of weeks, so on one of the few fine days last week I took my chance to go for a stroll in Finsbury Park. The huge expanses of grass that act as spontaneous football pitches in better weather were saturated in standing water and acted as natural reflecting pools. I took these photos of trees and sky reflected in the water and turned them upside down – as you can see from the image below.

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Sunset and Moonrise

It’s hard to believe that spring is coming but it is – no, really. The birds are singing with renewed vigour and in the garden buds are fattening, the heads of hyacinths are poking through the waterlogged soil and every evening the sun sets a little later. It’s cold, it’s wet, it’s still snowing in many places where it’s been snowing for months, but the return of the sun is inexorable.

At the beginning of the month we were in Hampshire where the scoured hills lay naked and shivering waiting for the first crop of the year to mantle them. The beginning of February is about as bleak as it gets in the UK, trees stand as bare as pylons and wind scourged hedgerows bleached by frost are choked with the dead straws of last summer.

Is it any wonder that people at this time of year are desperate to be reminded that summer will return? Ever since people have lived on these islands we have waited for the signs – any sign – that winter will soon be over. February 2nd is the day that many people tired of winter associate with the return of the sun and wether you call this date Imbolc, St Brigids day, Candlemass (or in the US and Canada, Groundhog day) I think we are all united in one simple desire – to see the start of spring.

Imbolc was a beautiful cold frosty day and as wintry as you can imagine, but it was the first time we’d seen the sun in a good long while.  I spent the day stalking through hedgerows (and I may write about what I saw there in another post), and as the sun sank low on the horizon a two minute miracle occurred. An ash tree in the hedgerow before me was struck golden by the falling rays of the sun, and it flamed against the brilliance of the deep blue winter sky.

As I approached I realised that the tree was full of Fieldfares, a shy migratory thrush we have seen in extraordinary numbers this winter. One by one they streamed from the tree as I got closer, their harsh alarm calls filling the air. I was distracted by sounds in the hedgerow – deer! and when I looked up again, the tree was grey and silent once more. But when I looked in the other direction, I saw this

And this

Later that evening as we knew that the moon would be full, we decided to go and watch it rise and light candles in thanks that the sun would be returning again tomorrow. The sky had clouded over and in truth we didn’t expect to see anything. Then with uncanny timing the clouds parted as we reached our vantage point and slowly a vast amber moon hoisted itself into the sky.

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New Year Sky

For new year I was in Edinburgh, and though that city is renowned for it’s phenomenal Hogmanay street party, we were there for a relatively quiet time visiting old friends. On New Years Eve morning we peeped out of our bedroom window to find the sky filled with whirling snow – a sight that we are now very familiar with in the UK, but last decade it was still exciting and new.  Despite my love of snow I was hoping that the sky would clear by nightfall as New Year this time around fell not only on a full moon but a blue moon, and as if that were not enough, it was going to be a partial eclipse as well. As the sky began to darken the signs were good – the clouds began to lift, and the early sunset was spectacular as they did so. We set out for a walk.

We wandered through canyons of stone tenements, the chimney tops catching the last salmon pink rays of sun; the air sharpened and pinched at our cheeks and noses. As darkness fell and we wandered along Princes Street it was preparing for a night of outdoor revelry with lights, a funfair and the din of sound checks as the stages were set up ready for the show. And above it all glowered the castle, perched high above the city on it’s snow dusted crag.

The trees that pour down the volcanic slopes on which the castle sits were dressed in lights, and as they twinkled it would not have seemed odd to me if one or more had pulled up it’s roots and begun to stride down the hillside.

But the snow wasn’t done with us yet – the wispy cloud that seemed so thin began dumping huge wet snowflakes on us as we drew level with the funfair, and my friends decided it was time to wander back. It wasn’t such  a terrible wrench – soon the huge crowds would come and I’m not so good at dealing with those, plus there were good things to eat and drink and more friends to see back at the flat. And there was still my hope of seeing that special moon. We’d agreed that when midnight came we’d all be standing on the roof no matter how cold, and I have to admit I had a couple of secret peeks out there on my own before that.  So the time came and one by one we clambered up the ladder and onto an icy, treacherous roof with our glasses and bubbly and big coats and wooly hats, clinging to the chimney pots for warmth and safety. I did see the moon and lovely it was, but I missed the eclipse despite determinedly checking for it all night long. Here’s what we did see though – the fireworks from the castle lighting up the sky.

I hope you all had a good new year,  and that this year will bring your hopes a little closer.

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