Tag Archives: Hares

Day 50

I had a long list of things to write about today, but in the end one magical moment grabbed my attention; the hares above Kelling Hard.

Native to Britain, they remain a sight for sore eyes in much of the island, but in this area they are seen in nearly every field, in the pastures, on the marshes, even bounding along the hedge-lined lanes. I am still at the point of savouring seeing them without having to seek them out. Like the barn owl earlier this month, if you remain alert to their possibility, they will appear.

It is May and my expectation is that hares are now settled into family groups, with territories agreed and the contest for female attention passed. So, I am surprised to see a stand-off between two hares. One is sitting tall on its haunches, ears pricked forelegs at chest height, looking like a relative of a kangaroo, or wallaby. The other is in a stalking, crouched position. Its shoulders and hips bulge above the outline of its back, it is ready to pounce; its ears are down, aligned with its back.

The upright hare ensures that it holds its tall, confident posture, but has to turn where it is facing to follow his crouched opponent, who circles, trying to gain a place from where to attack. This posing and positioning, the stand-off continues for several minutes. It is clear that neither is going to turn tail on the other. Around the field numerous other hares quietly graze in the lee of the hill, enjoying the last warmth of the day’s sun.

Suddenly, the two spring into action. Kicking and flailing at each other. There is a moment when they are both fighting in mid-air; backs bent to the fight so all feet can claw at the other. In this combined leap they repeatedly scratch and hit out, twisting like air-borne fighting blackbirds, the hares’ sprinters’ limbs a blur.

I am watching this from behind a low hedge down the slope. When they launch into action they break the line of the horizon above and I see blue sky beneath them; they continue fighting stalled in flight at the point before gravity brings them back to earth – Norfolk Ninja warriors.

The last vivid memory that I have of watching such behaviour was when I was a primary school pupil. It may have been during the March of 1968. Our teacher, Mrs Lally, took the class for a walk out of the school, past the art college and along the bank of the river. She told us about weeping willows, we saw grey, fluffy, ugly-duckling cygnets with their mute swan parents, rainbow trout against the gravel in the shallow river and across the water meadows, on the other side of the Itchen, hares. These were the already renown Mad March Hares, in good numbers, with three of four pairs boxing with each other.

As a child I was lucky to be part of a family where going for walks and learning about the natural world was part of growing up, even though we lived in a spacious, suburban, dormitory town. As a consequence, most of what I was shown on those school walks was not new to me, but the boxing hares were novel and exciting to see; lively, wild animals behaving badly – what a treat!

On this evening walk I had seen another family of greylags, but this time with just two adult geese in charge. I had my binoculars to hand and was able to count twelve goslings being shepherded by the parents. Something spooked the parent birds and they quickly set off with the goslings towards a shallow ditch where they could shelter en masse. The adults, instead of walking tall, heads elevated like periscopes, ran crouched low to the grass, beaks held out in advance, just a few inches above the grass, tails counter-balancing this unusual position, also just a couple of inches from the turf. The goslings moving in unsteady single-file between the big birds, allowed me to be more certain of their number. Can greylag geese count their hatchlings, or do they just instinctively protect the ones who can keep up? 

The call of cuckoos is becoming as commonplace as the sight of the swifts above the red-tiles in the villages here. Swallows are now more obvious in better numbers. Various bee species lay a gentle background buzzing to accompany moments sheltered from the wind. 

Against the setting Sun I see the shape of someone emerge from the sea. The man is up and away, jogging on home without much hesitation. I am wearing a cycling jacket and at least two good layers underneath that. Swimming in the North Sea might be good for me in some ways, (blood circulation, a sense of being in the present, a stimulant) but pneumonia is something I wish to avoid.

The wind gets at my chest and despite being sun-burnt on my face, I do not feel totally healthy as a result.

I will not report on the temperature today, other than to note that it is normal for Norfolk.

Christopher Perry

6th May, 2020

Day 36

While still strong, the wind is not so cold today. It is another day that is cloudless.

The association of April with rain being delivered in re-freshing, short showers is far from the truth this year. The winds driving in from the east and the north are bitter and dry. Their strength and persistence challenges patience and good humour. They force us to seek sheltered spots when seeking some sunshine, to carefully consider the route for walks, or cycle rides. It is best to bear the brunt of the wind on the outward route and plan a way back following the lee of a hill, or through woodland.

With everyday similar to the last, identifying differences between days helps keep a grasp of time. The most obvious difference is the lengthening hours of sunlight.

Without cloud it is quite noticeable how long it takes for the last light of the day to finally fade. Only Venus is visible against the cool of the stretched evening sky before the other stars and a passing meteor shower can be seen. In the morning the first clacking, squawks of the loose game birds gets earlier and earlier, when they respond to an initial crow’s caw, coughed up from the rookery on the hill.

Shadows in the middle of day are shortening and the amount of sunshine reaching the woodland floor is gradually being reduced as the tree canopy spreads. But it is not so shaded under the oak trees as to explain why a tawny owl would be sending out a plaintive hooting at just after nine o’clock on such a luminous morning. I heard a single call and thought I may have been mistaken, until the full, echoing call resounded through the trees.

It was an incongruous sound in broad daylight, but no less out of place than hearing a car alarm whistling in the mid-morning. Military aircraft, agricultural machinery and the postman’s van provide most of the mechanical soundtrack out here and these are rare enough. Birdsong and the conversation in gardens and across fences are the most common sounds that break up the backwash provided by the waves and wind.

In late afternoon I note that there are now two swallows sitting on the telephone wire. They are matched by a pair of goldfinches. These birds rarely settle for long. They are twittering constantly, fidgeting and jumping off to new perches at the slightest excuse, perhaps I should adopt one as my emblem? These unsettled years no longer seem temporary, but the way life has become for me.

On the last of the marshland to the east, there is a small, artificial lake . It looks natural enough; it is ungarnished apart from its island. The place is thick with small flies and numerous sand martins have come to feed on the wing. They chirrup as they swoop in delightful loops, arc back to return toward the surface again and again, skim the very skin of the pool, marking it with a splash from their contact, but so slight a mark that the water does not seem to even ripple after they have passed.

On the grassland and the hillside facing the setting Sun, hares sit and enjoy the warmth on their fur. They hold their ears up, always on the alert to possible danger, so look permanently startled. These nervous creatures need little excuse to tear off in panic. They rarely run in a straight line, preferring long curving sprints before suddenly switching direction, dust clouding their exit. I lose count of how many are out and about this evening. All they seem to do is sit, unless they are running away from something, or chasing off another of their number who has inadvertently loped into the wrong territory. What are they closer to, mice and rabbits, or dogs and wolves? When they run they move like greyhounds.

The strong winds are not a struggle for everyone. To appreciate this fully, one needs to witness a lapwing playing out a noisy display of stunt flying. Their squared off wings enable them to make spectacular turns, dives and climbs at speed which are the very epitome of random. Fascinating enough these complicated patterns would be on their own, but these demonstrations of agility are accompanied by a piping, tuneless calling which is as unpredictable as the flight manoeuvres. The peewit whistles like an ancient wireless radio set being tuned in after dark; all pops and whistles, whines and squeaks.

It is these moments that bring difference to the days. This is nature filling in for the absence of April showers, who would have previously been providing the seasonal variety.

Christopher Perry

23rd April, 2020

Day 24

A beautiful day. Still warm after six in the evening. The sea state is slight. Mist edges the horizon beyond the wind turbines.

I walk along a lane that becomes a raised grassy path across the middle of a huge furrowed field. The earth is banked high to protect hundreds of rows of seedling potatoes from sunlight. There are no shoots showing yet above the dry soil. The farmer has grubbed out the hedgerows here, so that where there were once two fields, there is now one. All for the efficient use of machinery.

The soporific effect of the warmer day has dulled the reactions of the hares. A good number sit and lie around in the open. One senses my presence and lopes off up the rise. Another sits at attention on the brow of the hill; a cut-out profile against the skyline with long ears up-right, back straight and no doubt, its nose twitching.

I take a little while to look for the skylark that is pouring out song. I have learned to look upwind of where the song seems to be originating. Eventually I can see it and I watch for well over a minute as it becomes a diminished speck and then works a wide, uneven circuit above the field to my right. The tempo of its song is matched by the rapidity of its wing beats. The only time a skylark seems at ease is when it drifts down on a breeze towards the earth, where it will land and then run in a low crouch to its nest hidden in grasses. At all other times this bird has a frenetic existence, desperately fighting off gravity with fast fluttering wings, while simultaneously churning out melodies that lack minims, breves or stops.

No word from the south coast. Another day is past.

Christopher Perry

10th April 2020

Day 16

From childhood I remember guidance from Richmal Crompton’s “William” stories! How to track deer. It is dusk and as I make my way up the track into the west wind I see two red deer hinds grazing up to my left in the field just behind the hedge. I have my binoculars, but how close can I get?

With the wind in my favour I am able to get parallel to them, although one is spooked slightly by an alarmed pheasant. I am able to watch these elegant four-legged athletes more closely until something scares them into a run, (perhaps the approaching Hercules military aircraft on its third recent circuit).

Turning off the track towards the sea, I startle a hare that leaps, jumps then disappears through the hawthorn hedge to my right.

Looking down the slope towards the beach I see a dark shape swinging between the sea and the coast road. One of a pair of the marsh harriers working westward, hunting before dark. They travel low to the reeds, only occasionally lifting in the face of the breeze before dropping lower, gathering speed in the swoop to whoosh along, almost brushing the tips of the reeds as they scan for supper.

Pink footed geese lift off the saltmarsh and land just across the road on the nearest field. Fresh shoots are providing good pickings courtesy of the farmer’s winter work. A pair of the geese had settled comfortably as I walked down the hill, but they are now joined by a flight of five others.

I am about to cross back and head toward the house when I see something bounding along on the land-side of the shingle bank. It picks up another runner, as if in a relay race and they continue belting along, kicking up dust in their heels. My initial thought that these are hares is confirmed when I look through the glasses. I have seen more of these than rabbits in the past fortnight or so.

Of course the pub on the corner is closed. I can see right through empty the building to the gravel of the empty carpark. This weekend coming would have been the beginning of the Easter rush. Schools are due to close tomorrow. A large chalk board explaining the food ordering procedures still stands by the back door to the low-walled garden. It is great place to sit and watch the activities on the marshes in early summer, but these weathered garden tables will be unused for some time yet.

The evening passes quietly. Chet Baker’s “White Blues” and Sun Ra’s “Super-Sonic Jazz” provide the sound track. We share a conversation before lights out.

CLP 03/04/2020

Day 15

April already! My day is consumed with detailed work, but it is still light enough for me to set out walking just after six in the evening.

Bard Hill is covered in hawthorn bushes glowing with white blossom – it looks as if it’s snowed. I stop halfway up the traffic-free lane to listen to the bees. Bumble bees at every hawthorn. So big that occasionally they disturb a tiny white petal causing it to tumble to the ground.

The bees produce a deep buzz as they power their wings at top speed to defy gravity, but they fall silent when they land and start probing for nectar. The overall buzz I hear is a series of slow waves that coincide with one bee settling to drink, then another lifting off to seek fresh fuel.

Up on the heath I see some lads setting a small fire while they smoke and drink a can or two of beer. There’s been no sustained rainfall for weeks. One is arguing that building a fire is unsafe, the other offers reassurance that it will not spread.

At my intervention from the road they put it out. I bid them a good evening. They apologise and reply in kind. I leave them to their illicit adolescent pleasures.

As dusk forms deer are more confident to come out of hiding and I see them nibbling grass at every turn. I lose count of them and of the hares that are sitting upright in the fields that slope toward the sea. A hare on the road ahead is surprised at my appearance, so it races full pelt down the lane towards the village. It is unable to get off the road because of the steep banks on either side and the pace of its escape. It disappears in a dust cloud around the long bend.

Turning toward the house I wait and listen to a robin in full song. Such a common bird; such a beautiful singer. I walk on and find another exercising its voice with equal subtlety and variation just twenty-five metres further along. No cars come to disturb the performer or audience.

A rumour is confirmed late tonight. A local deliveryman has succumbed to the coronavirus. Contact tracing isn’t part of the government’s plan here.

It is close to a half-moon tonight. We often celebrate the full moon as it was full when we first met. Now any light in the dark is precious.

We are content to message “goodnight” tonight.

.

CLP 01/04/2020