Where I live
there's a small wood,
too small even to have a name.
But it has been here for a thousand years;
a place apart from the rest of the world,
with ancient trees and arching canopy.
It reminds me of a cathedral.
I find it unsettling
almost intimidating.
I used to walk here with my dog
all around us we heard the sounds of the wood
yet hardly saw a creature.
Then the old boy died.
Now, walking alone,
I sensed something had changed.
I began to glimpse creatures
that had always hidden from me.
Hardly a soul comes here,
it's been forgotten left undisturbed
and unmanaged for decades;
a wild wood.
The first time I visited the wood again,
it was winter.
In the top field I found an old buzzard,
I'd often seen him and his mate hunting here
but too frail to cope with this harsh season
I wondered what effect his death
would have on his mate in the wood.
And how life could ever spring from such a ghostly place
As I explored I recognised different neighbourhoods,
the most obvious landmark is The Great oak,
an ancient living building
that provides shelter and food for all sorts.
The wood is not more than five acres,
a small river borders its south side
but that doesn't stop animals
from coming and going to the bottom field.
I often came across the Roe deer feeding here,
venturing out of the shelter of the wood;
I think they live in a group of around five.
At the top of the wood
there's an old badger set
I'm sure a fox lives there now.
She hunts close by in the top field.
Above the badger set is the rookery.
There's nothing subtle about rooks,
I never liked them much,
they seem somehow vulgar,
but while other creatures hid
they didn't even notice me.
With spring a long way off
I was surprised at how early the older couples
had begun to build their nests.
Apparently rooks stay together for life.
Years of experience building nests together
show in the teamwork
- the finishing touches.
Some of the youngsters seemed desperate to make a start
but I suspect just nesting at all
would be an achievement for them.
The first twig¡­
where does it go?
I'd never really contemplated
where you start with a nest?
And it seems I wasn't the only one,
there were plenty less dedicated
but willing to learn by observation
A challenge, but to give up,
Under such scrutiny¡­never.
I could only guess at the insults and threats being exchanged
In spite of myself I began to find these birds irresistible.
I felt compelled to stay
There was lots of experimentation with size and shape of twig
And continued surveillance ¡­¡­.
¡­some so covert
it could be considered suspicious
As the morning passed a platform began to take shape
then the builders made a big mistake and left.
The stealth team came out of hiding
intent on redeploying each and every twig.
In the rookery,
your nest isn't safe even if you're sitting on it.
Imagine returning home to find your nest nicked.
As many nests were being built from stolen twigs
as from honest labour.
The wise couple would sit on guard all night.
As I headed home
I was accompanied by a robin
He seems to burn the candle at both ends.
He's the first up
beginning the dawn chorus
- before sunrise
As I came to listen more often
I realised that there is an order here,
each bird takes their turn.
One theory is that the insect eaters who need light to hunt
have less incentive to wake up early
but Robin, Song Thrush and Blackbird
must be up with the sun to catch the worm.
Each one is claiming territory
and hoping their intricate song will impress and win a female
The birds were keen to mate,
the changing light charging their hormones.
To me they seemed like a choir
worshipping the rising sun
as it transforms the wood
from winter to spring to summer
Light is the driving force for the wood,
it determines the structure of the place
and the rhythm of the day
and now as the sun moved closer
the days were beginning to get longer.
Throughout the wood I saw an increase in activity,
daily life suddenly had a new purpose.
One day the vixen and I caught sight of each other
just before she slipped underground.
I wondered whether she had any cubs
sheltered in the old badger set.
The squirrel seemed really irritated by the presence of the fox.
There's no time to stop
you can't ignore the nesting instinct.
The wood is like a city;
you can't always choose your neighbours.
And at the moment these are the noisiest.
A Great spotted woodpecker.
He was drilling every time I visited for a whole fortnight.
With a sharp beak
and a head designed to take the hammering shock
his aim is to build a home,
a deep wooden cave in the tree.
Other birds seem to prefer cosier nests,
outside the wood the Mistle thrush plunged into the grass
to get the softest moss;
her nest was in the V of a split tree.
The Great Spotted Woodpeckers didn't worry about me down below,
but to my surprise he would suddenly freeze
every time a green woodpecker visited.
I wondered what was going on.
Now the wood revealed movement with every glance,
on every trunk, in every niche
The tiniest bird, the Goldcrest weaves what must be the softest nest
of spider's webs and moss
The song thrush was sitting tight,
already on eggs
Some seemed to take longer than others
to choose the right place,
they were very picky.
The wren chose to become completely invisible
I had begun to worry that the blue tit might never commit,
until, I saw him gathering the softest things
which might line a nest.
I needn't have worried;
there was a female in charge.
The great spotted woodpecker was still being watched.
When eventually he had to leave to feed
I could see why he was so nervous.
Like a woman falling for a size 10 dress
when she's really a fourteen
the green woodpecker seemed convinced that,
that hole was a perfect fit.
I often saw a buzzard alone,
I assumed she was the mate of the male
that died in the winter,
amongst the frenzy of spring
she was conspicuous by her inactivity.
The season moved on.
The lush, growing grass
tempted the residents out into the open
Something about the vixen's appearance
suggested that I had been right
and that back in her den there were cubs.
She seemed to be busy pretending
that she hadn't noticed the rabbits
Until she caught one off guard.
Not this time.
I wondered how many other times she'd missed,
she was looking so thin
It can take as long as 3 minutes
to smash just one snail open,
yet such gourmet food is gone in as many seconds.
It was a sparrowhawk that I could hear
but what I found was a song thrush,
the woodland mimic.
Silly little bird,
his was a dangerous game;
deeper in the wood,
the real sparrowhawk male
was calling the female to him,
it was part of their courtship ritual.
The male wears blusher;
the peachy glow meant that I could always tell them apart.
He had a tasty morsel for the female
if only she would consent to his courtship.
The song thrush's joke was wearing thin
Didn't you know? Sparrowhawks eat other birds
The male, despite the distraction, persisted
It paid off.
High above the wood I saw a new buzzard.
I thought I noticed some interest stir in the widowed female
I wonder whether birds who mate for life
feel some kind grief or love.
I hoped so.
At the top of the wood
the rookery was alive with the sound of screaming gargoyles
Sometimes the assault on my ears made me think
that the rookery ruins the peace in the wood,
but it has its uses,
rooks bring nutrients into the wood,
droppings and food all fall to the floor
and become fertiliser.
Not even such a full crop was enough
To my surprise
I spotted a jackdaw prowling the tree tops
so similar to the rooks
it was as though he was in disguise,
sidling up to nests
he was on the look out for helpless babies home alone.
Although he was smaller than the rooks
he showed no fear
But then neither did the baby
and the jackdaw was told where to go
in no uncertain terms.
Safe again,
that baby already seemed able to look after himself
and yet rooks are said to be dependent on their parents for 5 months
Not all are so tough,
while I was walking through the wood one day
I spotted this little one,
who had fallen out of his nest,
for him, survival depended on getting back there.
I wasn't alone;
maybe the fox knew this to be a regular occurrence.
I was unsure whether I should rescue him,
yet reluctant to take him away from the wood.
He didn't seem to be weak
he hadn't given up.
His parents 30 feet above
ignored all his calls.
The fox didn't know he was there yet
if he could keep off the floor
then he might be safe.
Each leap was an incredible achievement.
But he just didn't have enough experience,
and maybe not even the right feathers.
It was heartbreaking.
I kept an eye on him
until it got too dark to see.
Outside the wood I saw the fox again
but for the very first time she was with her cub,
although he was begging frantically nothing was forth coming.
I was relieved for the bird
but felt for the hungry cub.
The next morning
there were just a few grisly signs
to show how it had all ended.
As Spring warmed up,
I noticed the wood was under attack.
Its fresh new green was irresistibly appetising
Caterpillars of all shapes and sizes
fed on leaves of all shapes and sizes.
The oak beauty;
not as glamorous as some but much more carefully camouflaged
to look like the part of the tree he was eating
The blue tit with a nest full of chicks to feed.
Even the most careful camouflage only works
if you remain perfectly still.
To cash in on such abundance
your timing has to be perfect.
And for this family
it has been
This nestful require a delivery every 2 to 3 minutes.
The Yaffle, traditional name for the green woodpecker
was also hard at work,
feeding an endlessly gaping glove puppet baby.
And as for the ousted great spotted woodpeckers
well they hadn't suffered too much
from having to build a new nest,
their family were thriving too.
Deep in the wood
I discovered what I think
are the most beautiful of chicks.
Three sparrowhawk babies
trying to make sense of the world around them.
Billy Biter is an old country name for the blue tit
because he's so feisty at defending his nest,
I could see why;
it's his investment into the future.
The sparrowhawk is the most skilled hunter in woodland
negotiating trees and branches at speed
to take other birds.
That blue tit was just a small meal
for the sparrowhawk chicks,
hardly the difference between life and death
- but for the blue tit chicks.
The sun had pulled the great oak to her limit
her leaves were stretched to their fullest.
But the summers influence extended beyond the wood
into the bottom field
the adult deer would graze during the day
whilst the fawn sheltered safe amongst the trees
I made another discovery deep in the wood.
The buzzard must have mated in spring after all
although she may have left it a little late
he was a very small baby late in the season
After I'd watched for a while
I saw that her baby was just big enough
to be getting a little adult plumage
and was flexing his wings to strengthen them.
Adult buzzards are big enough to hunt for rabbits,
and can spot one from two miles away,
but for now the baby was having trouble
enough contending with a small bird.
The Sparrowhawks had already lost their white fluff
and were much more advanced than the buzzard chick;
they'd made it out of the nest
though they were still having trouble
working out the complicated world around them
Life in the treetops revolves around balance
and surefootedness
- both take time to acquire.
A new sound invaded the wood,
the sound of mowing.
It frightened the fawn
There was no warning;
the machines just arrived one morning.
Without realising it
the farmer had split the doe from her fawn,
cut down the shelter of the long grass,
and changed the familiar into the unfamiliar.
The doe could still smell her baby
but had no idea whether he was lying injured in the grass.
For some the change provided an opportunity
mice without shelter are vulnerable and easy to spot.
I spotted the cub out alone,
he was growing so fast.
This was a great test for the hunter alone in the wilderness.
I couldn't decide whether he was still playing at hunting.
My feeling was that there would be a good meal at the den
when the vixen came home.
Hours later,
despite an accusing look in my direction,
I watched with joy
as a hungry baby was brave enough to leave shelter
and return to Mum.
Calm was restored,
summer was here.
Late summer brought a different kind of pressure,
low pressure.
No longer mimicking the thrush seemed to call a storm warning
Life was continuously testing in this wild cathedral
and although the wood provided shelter for some in a storm,
for others the buffeting
left little to hold on to.
I feared for the buzzard
he was unable to escape,
stuck in his nest in the full force of the storm
Would his late start mean that he might not survive?
First light revealed that the buzzard's home was indeed battered.
Damage wreaked by the wind
But overnight the chick seems to have grown
into an adult,
I found him sleek and confident
Since it began,
my pilgrimage to the wood
had never ceased to surprise
and inspire me
but nothing prepared me
for the glory of Autumn.
It was a time for closing down,
for drawing on survival skills learned
in the kinder season.
The saying goodbye to plenty.
I saw this winter in the wood
through new eyes
I felt attached to the creatures that live here.
had become so familiar with them.
I'd seen some of them grow up.
A new buzzard reigns.
Now an accomplished hunter
even in the harshest season.
I had even begun to love the rookery
although could still never work out
which nest belonged to which bird,
but then I don't think that ever bothered them
As the twigs moved around the rookery
the seasons moved around again,
spring arrived
But this spring everything changed once more
Last years fawn no longer lingers to watch me.
The woodpecker is no longer at home for my visits.
In fact no one is
The vixen finally got her rabbit
but I get just a glimpse
My journey through the wood
will never be the same
Because
I've found a new friend.
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