Anniversary (a)musings…

Just a little set of amuse-bouches – of hastily-scribbled, reasonably relevant, limericks… – to celebrate four years of blogging! (Photo courtesy of the wonderful people at Dr C P Grey Opticians.)

Read ’em and weep

The Bard of the village of Tysoe
Did wonder and worry just why so
     Few views were logged
     Of the words he had blogged
The paucity making him cry so

Hot off the press

There once was a brilliant Bard
Who typed so exceedingly hard
     That his fingers were numb
     (As was his poor bum)
And the keyboard he hammered was charred

Did Cicero say anything?

The Orchestra’s Writer-in-Residence
Loves using his words to set precedence
     With notes so unique
     They could well be in Greek
Ή ακόμα και για τους γούνιους ελέφαντες†

That familiar conviction…

From time to time, I forget that kestrels can fly: so used am I to seeing them simply suspended (the majestic puppets of an invisible deity) – tail bowed, almost motionless, even in the strongest blusters – or merely spiralling (a little like a lazy lark): withdrawing upward for a better sighting of their prey. But, on Thursday, making my way by the Avon, a keen example flashed close by me: gliding (a little like a sizable swift) fleet and fluent across a burgeoning field of barley – winging perfectly parallel with the tips of the green fronds (and only a few inches above them) – reminding me that these raptors’ abilities in the air are manyfold and magnificent.

I had found myself on the route of an almost identical (in almost every fashion) stroll to one I embarked on two years ago: encountering (again) not just my first damselflies of the year (banded demoiselles: as always, on these verdant cow-parsley-crowned banks); but perhaps premature butterflies – including bejewelled peacocks and small tortoiseshells: both of which wouldn’t – shouldn’t…? – normally be around (in such numbers, anyway) until July. (Having said that, I did espy a rather pecked and pale mature peacock, today, torpidly sunbathing….)

I was also lucky to spend a few minutes, on my rather leisurely walk – when immersed deep in stippled woodland, shadows, and thoughts – observing both a chiffchaff (which I heard before I caught sight of); and then an almost perfectly-camouflaged treecreeper – speckled with markings that merged with the leaf-filtered dancing dapples of sunlight on bark: demonstrating perfectly its apt appellation with its characteristic entertaining flits and scurries… – before a friendly chocolate Labrador nudged tenderly at my knees in welcome: craving a little attention (with which it was duly rewarded… well, until its much livelier companion spaniel requested the same – albeit a little less politely…)!

I was reminded of all this, earlier today, by another within-reach windhover – displaying more (to my mind) typical movements… – as I mooched up Windmill Hill (exhibiting my own such “typical movements” – i.e. ponderous plodding, and swaying steps). At first, I was more entranced by a solitary red kite: bewraying not one simple flap of its splayed fingers as it traversed the Tysoe-facing slope against the prevalent easterlies; directed only, it appeared, by that inimitable rudder of a forked tail. (Such poise; such beauty; such grace….)

But then the kestrel rose – although not to a great height – directly in front of me: cruel beak and talons noticeably empty. At first, I assumed it would simply drift, habitually, to one of the many power-lines and posts that straddle the hill. But no….

Soon it dived again: a small pause above the ground; and then, this time, victorious… – although the resultant worm, trembling in its beak, seemed a meagre reward for such unsparing skill. As the bird quivered over the tall hedgerow, not far from my path, I lost sight of it; but wondered if this quarry could be (partial) breakfast for one of this year’s progeny.

Later, coming down the hill towards Epwell Road, joining the witless Compton Wynyates ‘road to nowhere’, I noticed (and was grateful) that the rights-of-way here have finally been re‑scribed – albeit crudely, with some form of crop-killing spray. A cynical (rather large) part of me wonders if this would have been carried out at all, were it not for Saturday’s Tysoe Windmill Run.

And yet the more popular, direct footpath from Shipston Road had obviously only been re-instituted as a consequence of those runners’ pounding feet pulverizing the field of clover-rich green manure as they descended. If my fellow wanderers, today, are anything to go by, there is still some confusion as to where the authentic route lies.

By the way, the reason for the lethargy of my loitering circuit of Windmill Hill, this morning – apart from the obvious avian attractions (additionally, rare yellowhammers; the usual truculent rooks, and cheeping dunnocks by the dozen) – was the long tail of a virus which finally floored (well, bedded) me, over the weekend.

I therefore missed the chance to admire the stalwarts taking part in the above event. However, I was delighted to witness (from my bedroom window) the village’s transformation – especially yesterday, in the glorious seasonal warmth – into Bourton-on-the-Water (or some such similar Cotswold tourist hotspot), thanks to the National Garden Scheme (NGS); and the ten kind hosts who welcomed so many visitors onto their becoming plots. Never before have I seen – or had the opportunity to rejoice at – our “small, blessed corner of Warwickshire” so inundated with such a wonderful plethora of checked and striped shirts, oft-inappropriate shorts, and fascinating (mostly straw-based) headgear!

The Good Lady Bard – who toured the gardens in yesterday’s sunshine (summoned by a full peal of bells); passively gleaning only complimentary reactions: not only to the individual plots, but also to people’s discovery of the wonder that (we, of course, know) is Tysoe… – was exceeding impressed with both the horticultural talent and passion on display; as well as the obvious skill and effort that had gone into organizing the whole shebang.

Huge thanks, therefore, to the marvellous Julia Sewell: whose idea I believe this was; and to all those volunteers whose implementation of her plans was impeccable.

At last, it feels like summer has truly arrived…!

Wary of the furrows that we’ve churned…

Who can tell me where I am…?

Having worked in agriculture, I struggle to understand those landowners and/or farmers who plant a crop, and then force people to tread all over it, willy-nilly: damaging the young seedlings; flattening the ground; and, ultimately, reducing the yield. Try walking up to Tysoe Windmill, at the moment, and play a jolly game of ‘spot the path’ on your ascent. (Fun for the whole family!)

This is not a path; this is not a stile…

If you’re like me – badly disabled – you may be tempted to take the route of least resistance: looking for a gap in the next hedge, and heading for it as straight as the crow flies (although not today: the northerly wind was buffeting them like a mainsail rounding the Orkneys…); crossing your fingers that a gate or stile lurks there. However, if you’re really like me, and have innate, well-developed sensitivities about these things, you will try and follow the tractor’s elephantine depressions in the soil, tiptoeing gingerly between the green sprouts, and trying to minimize the spoil.

Probably pining for the fjords…

That such a strategy led me to encounter the stiffened, stripped corpse of a young badger seems strangely apposite. If it had been trapped, I suppose it would have been removed. However, rendered paranoid by the deterrence of erased trails – and a pair of rusty spikes seemingly designed to carry trespassers’ severed clotpoles… – I wondered if this too was a warding-off, even a poisoning? The rigid death-pose looked highly unnatural; and I can only pray that the resultant scavengers were more fortunate, if so.

Enter Guiderius with Cloten’s head…

Legally, paths have to be reinstated within a fortnight of ploughing and planting – but, of course, some (I feel I must be allowed to call them) capitalist bastards prefer you not to access their land at all: and will therefore string barbed or electrified wires across defined rights-of-way. Anarchist that I am, I am more than happy to smash these illegal (and anti-social, of course) blockages with my handy walking stick: until I can pass without fear of major bodily harm (and the subsequent Bard-invoked lawsuit).

Theory, one; reality, nil…

Such routes have either been hard-fought-for; or have existed as byways for many centuries. Why should the greed of a few spiteful individuals ruin – as they did today – my enjoyment of fresh air and public access: especially when I know these are effective treatments for both my chronic pain, as well as my PTSD-originated depression? (I therefore returned home more miserable than when I had set off… – my many rude mutterings causing the local, wind‑hovering buzzards to mew in dismay; the chattering chaffinches to blush; and the truculent rooks to welcome me with open wings….)

Round like a circle in a spiral…

Packwood House – what a real path actually looks like…

What a contrast, though, from yesterday! Not only the weather: but every footpath I traversed between Baddesley Clinton and Packwood House was clearly marked, and well-maintained. You feel welcomed (and even appreciated); and you therefore relax (despite, in my case – after a long, enforced bout of rest – setting too high a target; and not doing myself any physical favours – hence the re-stretching of limbs, today…).

Bluebells – you wouldn’t have known, otherwise would you…?

This was strong, sweet medicine, which required no sugar to swallow: especially as the wildlife also seemed happy in the surprising warmth. (My fleece stayed on for only a few hundred yards; and even a thin, technical T-shirt felt too much! Today, a thick, hooded fleece and a long-sleeved thermal vest were no protection from the harsh wind… – although it did help push me up the hill…!)

I know a bank where the wild thyme blows…

Straight outta Compton (Wynyates)

Written on Windmill Hill

A walk – a metaphor for a life –

beginning and ending in mist:

the spindrift confetti of gulls

and crotchety staveless rooks

bursting beneath the robbed-out windmill,

and fading facets of connection

kidnapped by the crawling clouds.

Code green: “You shall not pass…”

I know, as a lifelong (but now decelerating) walker, that I have a duty to the owners and tenants of the land I cross (not that we aren’t all “tenants”, really…). But, of course, this is a reciprocal responsibility – and one, that from my perspective, isn’t being upheld – not everywhere, anyway.

In a short crawl up an extremely windy Windmill Hill, this morning (along the infamous Compton Wynyates cul‑de‑sac…), I encountered two electrified fences (one half-covered – after a tunnel requiring acrobatics and/or body armour – pictured above – one not) barring my way – and in a field with no livestock whatsoever (well, apart from the rare breed of a struggling Lesser-Spotted Bard) – a missing sign (top); a freshly-hedge-trimmed waymarker (which also acts as a support post for those of us crippled enough to struggle with stiles at the best of times – pictured at the bottom, along with the bare electric wire); and, of course, now that harvest has come and gone, paths that are mere palimpsests:

Those who have trodden these before me have done remarkably well to create new, faint tracks on the freshly-cropped and -tilled earth – but these are visible only from certain angles; in certain lights – and, according to the OS map I always carry with me, diverge in several places. Surely it would be easier on everyone – especially as the scattered trees appear to prevent no obstacle – to drop in a few signposts?

Having worked on a farm (dairy and arable) – albeit before the invention of much of today’s automated machinery – I know that keeping public rights-of-way (PROW) maintained and open can be an inconvenience at best; and that those who tread them dropping litter, letting their dogs loose, etc. can be a menace at worst. But this is no excuse – certainly not for the ‘No trespassing: violators will be shot; survivors will be shot again’ sign I encountered last week… – and definitely no reason to dissuade people from enjoying their local patch. Nature – shaped as it is by our very presence – belongs to all of us.

Money can’t buy you love…

…but it seems that it – or, at least, the trappings of unearned privilege emanating from some long-lost royal arse-licking in the dim and distant recesses of history – can buy you selfishness; all the privacy you could ever greedily desire; sack-loads of solipsism; and the right to stick two very large, land-owning (probably silk-gloved) fingers up at the local peasantry.

I may be the concrete epitome of irony, being an anti‑social Socialist – but I’m sure that if I owned what has been described as “the perfect Tudor mansion”, I would not be so downright impertinent, miserly, covetous and inconsiderate as to keep it to myself: not only barring public visitation (along with Castle Ashby – whose gardens, though, you can enter, for a fee… (I wonder how much the Council Tax is on that second home?)); but ensuring that my property (“It’s all mine – mwa-ha-ha…!”) can only be glimpsed, hazily, from a great distance; and that the stinking, pestilential breath and pervasive body odours of the lower classes cannot be blown within shooting distance by the prevailing breezes. (I wonder if they also require some sort of licence to pass by…?)

Normally, of course, in response to such discourtesy, I would write an open letter, beginning something like this…

Dear Spenny – do you mind if I call you Spenny? (I don’t, of course. And you can call me whatever you want.) You have to earn respect around the Bard’s meagre land-ownings; and you have, so far, in my limited experience, done exactly the opposite…

…but I am sure that my missive would be treated – if not ignored – with the same narcissistic attitude that helped compose the above supercilious sign: which – translated from toffspeak (for the hard of understanding; and those who think that the hierarchies of class and money are there to be envied, and provide society with meaning and structure…) – reads, of course: “Fuck off, proles – and don’t dare cast your bubonic blights on – or anywhere near – my property again! (How dare you be so disrespectful towards your betters?)”

So what has prompted this vitriol, you may ask (or not – it is a little obvious…). Well, continuing to do my bit for the Rambler’s Big Pathwatch, I decided not to visit the windmill, directly, earlier today, as I would normally, but take the footpath around the hill – a route (mostly) new to me – that brings you down straight to Compton Wynyates church. I was then intending to head back along the level Shipston road, having passed the remains of Chelmscote, and past the entrance to Lower Compton Farm; having expounded all my cripple’s finite (and meagre) energy resources surmounting Windmill Hill’s (to me) forbidding slopes.

I had studied the OS map, beforehand, of course – noticing that the marked right-of-way stopped a mere gnat’s dick in distance from the church: which I foolishly, not appreciating my low rank (both meanings) in society, had assumed would have permissive access – due to its historical and community interest and value (not to mention proximity to the road) – and from both directions. (I don’t believe in any god, of course: but the local, supposedly-Christian one obviously only belongs to those with inherited titles – and all that stuff about mammon, charity, and brotherhood is mere cant…. What would Jesus say?!) I also could not imagine – brainless wazzock that I am – that a footpath this long, and leading so close to the public highway, would be a lordly cul-de-sac. But, like the somewhat clumsily‑revamped windmill, it seems its true purpose is as a giant garden ornament for Stalag Compton: on display solely for those with giant opinions of themselves, and Elizabethan leaded-window views. (The house apparently dates back to the time of Edward IV… – but I somehow feel I should be referencing Henry VIII: although, for the life of me, I really can’t think why….)

I may be misinterpreting the message I received (I’m only a northern clodhopper, after all; with proud, deep roots in the well-tilled soil of the working class): but it’s as if we plebeians are supposed to catch a glance of the great Mr Compton’s massive, er, pile; be stunningly impressed; tug our forelocks; and then mount a retreat, backwards, up the steep slopes between Windmill and Lady Elizabeth’s Hills. What I actually did was curse his name very loudly, and vulgarly, as I did so, until I ran out of breath (and the effects of my morphine and salbutamol sulphates had faded…), and had to rest awhile on the stile at the top of the retraced climb – interspersing my oaths with cries of “Vive la révolution!” as well as lambasting the whole principle (no, that can’t be the right word…) of hereditary peerages.

I also considered the Scottish people even more blessed – with their unfettered right to roam their nigh-paradisaic landscape – and temporarily toyed with the idea of pretending I couldn’t read (being thick and from Lancashire, like, tha noes; ferrets; pikelets; dripping; clogs; mills…); before realizing that someone who relies on a walking stick really shouldn’t be attempting to scale a gate (a rude message in itself) much higher than his own head; and wondering how much being pelted with both barrels in the buttocks actually hurts….

The Yahoo, of course, here, isn’t me. It is Spencer Compton, 7th Marquess of Northampton, himself – whose coat of arms, one assumes, is representative of the forces that would have been amassed against my disabled self, should I have trespassed one ermine millimetre onto his privileged, newly-mown turf. (Most of us have a Flymo. This man actually has a man with a shiny tractor…! Crivens!)

It is all very well and good for the latest Tysoe & District Record to fawn, desirously, in this man’s general direction – but not only does the windmill not look “once again as it should” (someone needs glasses…!); neither should the village be owing him “a great thank you” – not until he treats us all as the equal human beings we are; and allows us passage through what rightfully should be ours.

He said also to the man who had invited him, “When you give a dinner or a banquet, do not invite your friends or your brothers or your relatives or rich neighbours, lest they also invite you in return and you be repaid. But when you give a feast, invite the poor, the crippled, the lame, the blind…”.

Now I know why they’re called drones…

Until yesterday, I had not visited Upper Tysoe’s windmill to say hello to its shiny new prosthetic sails (‘prails’?) at close quarters (an addition that warms me with a feeling of quite some empathy). But, ‘encouraged’ outdoors by a clingy migraine, I decided This Was The Time. As I climbed Windmill Hill, I could see, in the far distance, what looked like a buzzard circling the summit – but it appeared to be flying backwards (perhaps for Christmas). It soon disappeared, though: and – momentarily forgotten – the only animate beings remaining were me, and the young cows in the next field: utterly accomplished in the disdain they demonstrated for their latest passer-by.

I had joked, before I set off, about our most significant landmark (since the sad bygone erasure of the sequence of Red Horses) now resembling the first obstacle on a Brobdingnagian crazy-golf course: with its stubby, fixed-lattice blades – perhaps locked deliberately in the ‘celebration’ position (which would seem appropriate). Although the sails are reasonably faithful to the design shown in the 1930s (after the tower mill went out of use, around 1914), they are considerably, disproportionately smaller; oh, and appear to be set to sweep in the wrong direction….

However, after so much time – first, with rotting stocks (below); and then completely armless (as above) – I am immensely grateful that the time and money has been spent (I presume by Lord Northampton) putting ‘our’ Grade II listed guardian monument on a par with the likes of Napton-on-the-Hill; – although, not yet, perhaps, attaining the high standards of beautiful Berkswell; the chef d’œuvre that is Chesterton (coincidentally, open to the public, this coming weekend); heavenly Heckington; or wonderful Wheatley.

We are just so very fortunate that our remaining mill has not gone the way of so many others: such as Edgehill or Warmington. Although it would be good, of course, to see it open its doors again; and for Kineton’s mill – a bigger sister to Upper Tysoe’s – to receive similar treatment.

What I had witnessed on my ascent – I then first heard, on my descent, before its swooping presence made itself irritatingly known – was some sort of remote-controlled annoyance: emitting the same sound (I imagine) as a freshly-castrated hornet; or possibly Iain Duncan Smith slandering the disabled. Thankfully, it soon disappeared, after its circuit of me and the hill; but my ears – and hearing aids – were ringing for long after.

I am sure, in the right hands, such gadgets are capable of great utility (although their larger “remotely piloted aircraft” cousins strike me as utterly horrific and inhumane…). These devices can also be used for good – for instance, in the production of awe-inspiring photography – if the top and tail of the RSC’s 2016 Summer Season launch video is anything to go by. But they are, improperly controlled – or used deliberately to provoke and intrude – an embuggerance too far: especially in not only disturbing, but completely eradicating, the peace of a beautiful, breezy, autumnal, rural idyll. (It did nothing to help my migraine, either….)

On my return, struggling to complete my circuit home (even on the flat), I espied a van from the Warwickshire Wheelchair Repair Service. This is provided by Invacare: whose slogan – which was just what I needed at the time – is “Yes, you can.” So, I did.

A walk on the mild side…

Hi,

Just a quick email to say how useful I've found the blog, particularly as a prospective Tysoean (or Tysoenese, I defer to your experience in such matters). I’m moving your way, you see, and was wondering if you had any tips on where to wander first, what to look out for etc? Local intelligence and any advice much appreciated. No obligation, of course, but my wife and particularly poorly behaved collie want to put the right foot first, if you see what I mean.

Kind regards and keep up the good work,

Tom

Dear Tom –

Many thanks for your wonderful email – which I’m pretty sure is the first piece of ‘fanmail’ that I’ve received, in a year of writing (mostly) about the place I live; the place I love. You’re obviously possessed with excellent taste – both in writers and in villages – so feel free to give yourself a pat on the back; and why not treat yourself to a pint, the next time you find yourself in one of our local pubs!

Seriously, though, I’m glad the blog is both useful, and being read by people who don’t already live here (“Tysoeans”, I think – although that makes us sound vaguely mythical or mystical; inhabitants of an almost 21st-century Shangri-La: which, of course, isn’t too far from the truth…). I’m also pleased that it hasn’t dented your attraction to the place.

You may have to go elsewhere for “local intelligence”, though… – but, as to “advice” on where to wander: well, you’ll be spoilt for choice! When we moved here, we ordered an OS Select map from Ordnance Survey, centred on our new home: and we immediately discovered that there are footpaths galore spiralling out from the village, connecting us like a beautifully-designed walker’s web to our neighbouring villages, and beyond. Alternatively, you could grab yourself a copy of the local OS Landranger Map (151: Stratford-upon-Avon, Warwick & Banbury) – which will give you a wider range of places to explore.

So, where to go first? Well, although it currently lacks both its sails and its stocks, the windmill – on the appropriately-named Windmill Hill, between Upper Tysoe and Compton Wynyates – is an obvious landmark; and it’s up a hill (d’oh): so good exercise for all three of you! At 181 metres above sea-level, it is also a great place to survey your new domain – with wonderful views particularly north (overlooking the three Tysoes) and west (towards Shipston-on-Stour and Chipping Campden) – or, on a warm day, to have a leisurely picnic. (What do you mean: you left the wine chilling in the fridge?!)

Should you wish, instead of returning to the village, you can then wander over the far side of the hill – with your rucksacks lightened and tummies filled – down past the stunning Compton Wynyates house (sadly no longer open to the public), and across the fields – on the flat – to Whatcote or Oxhill: both of which have the requisite pub – the friendly Royal Oak and my favourite (especially for fine food), The Peacock, respectively.

If you take the path to Whatcote, you will eventually join the Centenary Way (which leaves Upper Tysoe via Tysoe Manor, one of the village’s many listed buildings). This path is well worth exploring in both directions: and, if you don’t mind the odd gradient, clambering up by Old Lodge Farm is the best way to get to our nearest National Trust property, Upton House – which has wonderful gardens, a great restaurant, and one of the best interiors of any stately home I know (especially if, like me, you’re a fan of interesting art and comfortable chairs!) – or even further along the Edge Hill ridge (famously overlooking the first pitched battle of the English Civil War).

Depending how new you are to the wider area, it contains a plethora of local National Trust properties (although not many will welcome a “particularly poorly behaved collie” I’m afraid – otherwise I would have raved about Charlecote Park: which is home to a herd of fallow deer and a flock of Jacob sheep); and Stratford-upon-Avon itself is good for gentle strolls down by the River Avon, or up into the Welcombe Hills. (Have a look at my online Warwickshire photo gallery, if you need further inspiration; or take a peek at my list of Local links.)

But you don’t always have to leave the village (Mrs Bard particularly enjoys exploring the area around the Epwell Road): as there are byways through, and connecting, all parts of it – and all pretty much on the flat – so, when I’m feeling less energetic (which is pretty much my default mode, at the moment), I’m happy just to toddle along the back lanes to the church and back; or, following the footpath beyond the church and primary school, stretch my legs as far as Lower Tysoe. As I’ve said before, “the three hamlets – from Tysoe Manor to Lane End Farm – are less than two miles from end-to-end (and that’s using the roads; not cutting corners with our frequent footpaths, or as the numerous crows fly…)”: so it’s no great strain, and there is much to be enjoyed (including a wide selection of wildlife) – whichever direction you head in!

Hopefully, this will have given you a few ideas, for once you’ve settled in (or just can’t be bothered unpacking the twentieth box of the morning…). Welcome to Tysoe! I hope the place brings you many happy times and memories.

The wheel of heaven turns above us endlessly

This is all the heaven we got, right here where we are in our Shangri-La.

– Mark Knopfler: Our Shangri-La

When we had given our bodies to the wind…

I was reminded – by yesterday’s Country diary column in the Guardian – both how lucky we are to experience the wide range of wildlife we encounter, almost on a daily basis, living in the heart of the countryside; and how easy it is to take this for granted – until some rude awakening disturbs our reverie.

Red kites – the subject of that column – have become a common sight, in some areas: especially noticeable if you drive up and down the motorway between here and London; their supreme, natural and fluent command of the air, with their “ever-twisting forked tails”, too easily becoming a distraction. (It is so much better to be a passenger, on these occasions!) And I have a friend, living not far from High Wycombe – and, therefore, the most kite-populated section of the M40 – who is lucky enough to have them frequently swoop down on the grassy area in front of his house (an almost equally serious diversion for someone who earns his living working from home…).

But they are still a relatively rare creature – living and visible in small (but, thankfully, growing and overlapping) pockets of the country – and are nowhere near the ubiquity of pre-Tudor times, before ‘vermin laws’ introduced bounties for their deaths. Back then, they were seen as ill omens, as well as a competitive scavenger (as it appears they may be, still…): and it is no wonder, therefore, that Shakespeare used them as a strong term of abuse – for instance, in King Lear – and King James II of Scotland decreed that they should be “killed wherever possible”.

On a recent walk up to the windmill, I was therefore incredibly pleased to see one practising its acrobatics over the emerging oilseed rape – enjoying the challenges and opportunities that a strong, varying breeze presented. I wonder if it is the same one that I saw, a few days later, as I drove down the side of Broom Hill, past Compton Wynyates?

The Windhover (Gerard Manley Hopkins)

To Christ Our Lord

I caught this morning morning’s minion, king-

      dom of daylight’s dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding

      Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding

High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing

In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing,

      As a skate’s heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl and gliding

      Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding

Stirred for a bird, – the achieve of, the mastery of the thing.

Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here

      Buckle! AND the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion

Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier!

      No wonder of it: shéer plód makes plough down sillion

Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear,

      Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermilion.

Seeing a red kite, like this, calls to mind another unforgettable local encounter I had with a bird of prey: this time, a kestrel, a few months after we moved here – another raptor with such supreme mastery of the air, it is no wonder it was once christened ‘windhover’ – “No other hawk has so perfected the art of stationary flight…” – nor that Hopkins revelled ecstatically in its multitude of movements and meanings.

The garden has become eerily quiet: an absence of birds all the more marked by their earlier presence in the year. However, autumn is coming; they are stalking the stubble fields – especially the suicidal pheasants… – and mustering for migration.

I don’t know if pied wagtails emigrate [as a rule, they don’t – much…]: but I saw a large flock of them on my way over to Shipston, this morning – bouncing and hopping in the road; and then bobbing, out of the car’s way, in the air, to hide behind the hedges at the side of the road….

However, today, I witnessed one of my favourite birds, much closer ‘in the flesh’ than I would ever have thought possible. As I approached – slowing to a stop – at first, I thought it was an owl on the post by the side of the road: it was so very still. But, as soon as I got nearer, I realized it was an adult kestrel; and we spent all of ten to fifteen seconds (although, of course, it felt much longer…) staring at each other, before it gracefully (seemingly in slow motion…) ascended into the air, over the bonnet of the car….

Never before have I witnessed the exquisite face markings (strangely reminiscent of that rarity, now, the tree sparrow…); and the almost ermine-like, black flecking on the wings and body…. Stupendous…! (As a result, another close encounter, with a buzzard, on the return journey, seemed almost mundane.)

Kestrels are such magnificent birds: perfectly evolved for their purpose; a beauty to behold. Those gleaming eyes (in those yellow-lined sockets…) will stay with me for a very long time.

It seems that even the kestrel population is dwindling, though; and a recent study found that every kestrel sampled was contaminated with highly-toxic rat poisons, first introduced in the 1970s, called Second Generation Anticoagulant Rodenticides (SGARs). As many other raptors are affected, the Barn Owl Trust is running a petition to stop this poisoning.

I know that it is hard (although it would be wonderful…) to obtain an even balance between agriculture and caring for the environment: rather than it sometimes being seen as a competition – as symbolized by the recent badger culls. I also know (and understand – having once lived and worked on a mixed arable and dairy farm) the challenges our farmers face; the permanently increasing pressures on them to contribute to the required sufficiency in our domestic food production (whilst land is removed from their purview for the development of yet more subtopian housing); and yet how they tend to be more in touch with nature than most. But a part of me – the romantic idealist, perhaps… – wonders if a return to a less industrial approach to land management and productivity would have beneficial effects for everyone – and for every thing.

Maybe, then, red kites and kestrels, peregrines and sparrowhawks, goshawks and hen harriers will flourish – especially as birds of prey, at the top of the food chain, are such “valuable indicators of the health of the environment” – and seeing them will not be such a rare, and unexpected, pleasure.