November.

Well October my computer failed me.  Specifically a hard drive failed me, the one that boots the machine.  I could have bought repaired it but it was time for a new computer.

When I say 70 quid on ebay bought me a better computer, you can well understand it was time to upgrade the old one.  I don’t play Call of Duty Special Ops, all I need is enough computing power to get man to the moon.

Anyway, it set my priorities a little differently as a connected up a string of dubious legacy hard drives with the images of years gone by and worded memories.  Backups exist and had to be redone to keep them current.

The weather turned from cold to miserable, to cold and miserable and then November arrived and added wet and windy into the combination.

The last thing meaningful I did was go into the woods and collect chestnuts.  This was just before Nov 5th of course, a spare afternoon where the sun was peeking out from behind a cloud.  Later it rained, but by then I was outside.

Being out in rain is different to going out in rain and I was under the canopy by then, foraging about in the leaf litter.

The strong winds had brought down a happy crop of chestnuts and they had obliging leapt from their prickly cases as well.  Collecting was very easy indeed, a seasonal pleasure.

This all lead to collecting more than totally necessary, or lets say, more than I ended up capable of eating, preserving, cooking, generally making use of.  The remains still await useful introduction to the local wildlife.

Anyway I am back to my fitful best and hoping the North wind at least dries or freezes the mud which passes for countryside all around me so I can get out there without the need to scrape boots and wash dogs.

Swift, I am not.

Just before I left for my ill-fated Dartmoor trip I had a last bit of business to do.

Transport yourself back to the middle of August, it is where you find me now.  My backlog of potential blog/diary entries is rather considerable.

An unusual sunny day broke clear of the dross August has been. It was a reminder that this was late summer, 19th August not 19th Feb and the weather should at least be civilised. Shirt sleeve order, the sky was a clouded blue, strong deep like bulletproof glass.

I am crammed on the last vestige of land before England gives way to sea. At the base of south facing slope linking sea to sky, dotted with scrub but dominated by a large wild rose bush. The red rose hips stand out clear, a scene of strong colour. Bursting with health, nothing wrong with them.

It is the dozens of swifts which are skimming the slope which have attracted my attention. I am not alone on this patch of England but I am alone in watching the swifts. They seem invisible to others even as they come down the slope through them.

The swifts squeak as they wheel and cart through the sky, feeding on insects caught in warm updraft. The swifts themselves take on the appearance of a swarm, flying crazy lines, in out and around, they come close to everything but hit nothing.

So rare to land they are the perfection of flying. As I watch the display more things come into focus. There is a blackbird chucking leaf litter about under the rose bush. Industriously busy he seems oddly earthbound, not prepared to take flight among the swifts.

Not so a number of white butterflies, they flutter seemingly without concern going about the business they have and always will have. A group of wasps take the usual unhealthy interest in me. Wasps seem to take a naughty delight in the reactions they instil. I let them hover and idle about me, arm waving seems to increase their interest rather than deter them.

All this is and so much more I do not see is going on in a bit of land maybe 20 foot by 60 foot. It was wonderfully life affirming. Yes, a newspaper article has just told me the swift population has collapsed and the future will contain less of them, but right there, right then, there were enough to put on a marvellous show for me.

Was it because it is a common enough site that I alone took time to stop and stare or were people too busy relaxing to care. I was the only one there who had business to conduct, everyone else was there to relax and enjoy themselves.

It is just one of those simple scenes which weave themselves into memories fabric for reasons .unknowable

Tree hugging.

My stroll through the history of Furze Hill, guided by the efforts of those that had taken the time to record the girth of some ancient trees had been enjoyable. My eyes had literally been opened to new knowledge.

It seems like a geeky thing to do, but I am all for that. So embracing my inner geek, I thought it was time to give a little back to the community that is logging the old and commendable trees of UK.

In a churchyard a few miles from Furze Hill I had a recollection of a most wonderful tree. It is a favourite tree. I saw it a few years ago and the memory has remained. Given this is as close as I am likely to get for a while, I went where memory took me.

Old tree in churchyard means only one thing in my mind, Yew Tree.

The church barely has a parish to serve now, it is at least a mile from anything significant, but it seems to have congregation enough to remain viable. There is a pond on the outskirts of it and a graveyard of some size and much used down the centuries, generations of families from pre-mass transit days. The church must be linked with the manor house nearby.

The tree itself is as high as the square tower of the church, a good deal more wondrous too look at and shades a considerable part of the churchyard.

Some gravestones have been moved and cracked by the trees continued growth. The branches are thick and twisted and in places threaten to touch the ground.

There is something otherworldly about this. Dwelling on the nutrient source for its root system is not completely comforting. Is this what prompts such strange growth? At the same time I sort of like the extended lifespan being part of a tree confers upon you.

The tree turned out not a yew, it was not one of the few species I am capable of recognising instantly. Still it would only be a matter of leaf comparisons later. I took enough pictures of the leaves to help identification. The tree was looking very healthy and vigorous, no need to remove a leaf from it when a picture will do.

Measuring the tree was made slightly more problematic because a group of hornets were busy in a pear tree 20 foot or so away. Not good, but they seemed to be minding their own business. I had seen a broken wasp nest in the ground next to the footpath earlier. The occupants of the nest were not best pleased. It felt like I was pushing my luck a bit.

My shoulder is 1.5m off the ground, a good height for measuring tree girths, I was built for the task. Too add another level of geekiness I can measure a 1m length of string to a 1cm+/- relentlessly just by arm span. Hand for 10cm measurement. fingers for 2cm. Well everyone needs a hobby :)

None of this was needed as I had prepared a 7m cord with knots at 1m intervals. The tree was a warty rascal and had a girth of 5m 30cm, maybe a little more, but this can hardly be exact science.

There was still the issue of identification. Thankfully after some feeble efforts searching the internet I gave up and asked on the Wild about Britain forum. Within half an hour I had my answer, Holm Oak.

5.3m girth put it in a category worthy of note so I placed it on the ancient tree website where it awaits verification.

It was a nice feeling to put this tree on the map, give it a bit of recognition the person that planted it could never have imagined possible. It is not much but it is a bit.

 

The Holm Oak sitting on the Woodland Trusts website, recorded, awaiting verification (I wonder if that will happen)

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