Wind or not, a sunny winter’s day is too good to miss, so I wrapped up warm and squelched through the mud around Wraysbury Lakes. In the car park, a Grey Wagtail hawked for insect life. Among the few ducks on the lakes were some Goldeneye, one of the winter specialities of the area. The Great Crested Grebes had most of the water to themselves, looking predatory with their sharp spear-beaks.
On the meadow, four Stock Doves got up – an under-recorded species if ever there was one, as people take them for feral or wood pigeons. A Green Woodpecker gave its ringing Plue-Plue-Plue call, really loudly: spring is on the way, honest! The Jackdaws wheeled and dived in the strong wind, totally at home. A Buzzard soared with barely a wingbeat, turning on well-rounded wings with fanned tail. Towards the end, the bushes thrummed with twittering Goldfinches.
But the best thing wasn’t a bird at all, but the Mistletoe hanging from a bare beech branch. Let’s hope it spreads.
When a chilly east wind drops and the sky clears to a brilliant blue in February, it is a shame not to drop everything and rush outside to enjoy it. So I found myself down at Wraysbury Lakes, all wrapped up in my winter clothes — but my gloves never left my pockets, and my jacket and pullover were soon unzipped as the temperature climbed to 9.5 C, and in the sun with scarcely a breeze (the planes returned to their usual takeoff towards the west) it felt far warmer than that.
White bracket fungi on fallen Poplar
Some handsome white bracket fungi shone in the sun; they were triangular in section with flattened tops, slightly toothed beneath. Could be a Trametes or Tyromyces perhaps.
On the lake, half a dozen Goldeneye were all that were left of the more ‘special’ ducks; a male joined the party, and a female swam rapidly up to him, bobbing her head; he bobbed back, and threw his head over his back too. Spring is in the air. It looked as if they were already a pair, I’d say.
Also on the lake were some handsome Pochard, mostly asleep, one diving and surfacing, and a Shoveler, preening. A Heron flew slowly over, half a wingspan from the water. A Field Mouse ran right in front of me and down to the waterside by the willows, and obligingly fed in the open for a minute while I watched with binoculars on close focus: the long tail, round ears and quivering ‘whiskers’ (vibrissae) at work.
Away from the lakes, a Rabbit hopped across the path. A Mistle Thrush called harshly; another flew past; a solitary Fieldfare left over from the sizeable flock a week or two ago.
I wandered down to the confluence of the Colne with the Thames; a Kingfisher gave me a good of that always astonishing turquoise bolt of blue lightning, flashing on short triangular wings over the little river. A minute later, it flashed back upstream, as startling as before. A single green sphere of Mistletoe clung to the leafless canopy of a tree behind the industrial estate.
The English seem unemotional … except for their passion for nature
