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| Blackbirds, Stretford |
The garden's entered that time of year where it would be deadly silent but for the existence of blackbirds and magpies. The young magpies are all excited because they have discovered the rowan berries, which aren't quite ripe yet. The blackbirds, however, have set about denuding the boysenberries and are fighting over the spoils. This morning the young bird spent an hour and a half alarm-calling without apparently drawing a breath. Every afternoon I see berries that will soon be ripe for picking then every morning I find the blackbirds have beaten me to it. Mind you, at least they let me see the fruit start to colour up and I usually get a handful of them for myself in the end. In twenty-five years I've had one pear off the tree, the squirrels eat them when they're about the size of a damson.
I was feeling low energy today, my own fault: I'd noticed the unlikely score line Argentina 1 : Cape Verde 1 and had to watch the match to the end. I needed some exercise, I'm getting lazy, so I got the train into Irlam, strolled past the allotments and had a wander round New Moss Wood then got back by walking into Cadishead via the path across the old railway line and getting the 67 to Irlam Station. A toddle round and six stops on the bus, I felt like I'd done a route march.
It's not just my back garden that's gone quiet. It wasn't until I passed the allotments and got to the stretch of path that runs by the railway that I first started hearing any birdsong, a blackcap singing in the trees. There were woodpigeons and house sparrows sat on rooftops, goldfinches and greenfinches flew between trees and swifts looked to have a nest in the eaves of a corner terrace but for once there was no sign of any blackbirds, robins or starlings. I picked a couple of blackberries from the brambles by the railway, by way of compensation for the boysenberries I've not been getting.
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| Turning the hay |
It was a heavy, grey day and despite a strong breeze the weather felt warm and clammy like the embrace of a sweaty armpit. The hay was being turned in the field by Moss Road, the tractor being followed by pheasants, of all things. A few lesser black-backs drifted over and floated low over the field before moving on, the process evidently wasn't disturbing out much insect life. Overhead squadrons of woodpigeons passed between fields and copses with no general overall pattern to their movements.
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| Entering New Moss Wood |
The whitethroats in the field leading into New Moss Wood seemed to be singing to meet contractual obligations rather than with any commitment to the song. They hurled three or four notes at each other from the high points of their bramble patches then retreated into cover before receiving an answer. The songscape was completed by the goldfinch singing in the hedge by the garden at the side.
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| New Moss Wood |
It wasn't a lot noisier in the wood. I counted four singing blackcaps and two singing wrens in the end. A chiffchaff could only be bothered with an occasional chiff. This time of year always reminds me how reliant I am on hearing the birds to spot them. The rustling of the wind in the trees muffled the contact calls of the blue tits, great tits and chaffinches. Any blackbirds, robins or song thrushes were silent and in deep cover. Perhaps the best illustration of the quiet of the post-breeding moult was the wren I disturbed as I walked up the central ride. It jumped out of the wayside bracken and sat on the lower branch of a birch tree furiously wagging its tail at me, completely silently. For fifty weeks of the year I'd have been on the receiving end of a very loud scolding.
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| Red admiral |
There were dozens of red admirals sunning themselves as best they could on the rides. There's plenty enough nettles for their caterpillars to feast on. Meadow browns and speckled woods fluttered about the bracken and long grasses, commas chased each other by the waysides and the excellent year for painted ladies extended its run. I thought it was too cool, grey and windy to expect to see anything on the little dragonfly pools and I proved right.
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| Comma |
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| New Moss Wood |
I emerged from the wood in time to see a swallow make a low pass over the turned hay before moving on. I moved on, too, walking back down Moss Road to the railway bridge and turning onto the path that runs alongside the railway, over the old Wigan to Stockport line then follows that line into Cadishead. Which sounds a long walk but is really barely quarter of a mile. A collared dove sang at the start of the path, a woodpigeon sang at the end and a blackcap sang about halfway down. Blackbirds, goldfinches, magpies and wrens rummaged about the hedgerows. Large whites and commas fluttered about the waysides. Once again I reminded myself that it looks like there's a good walk to be had along the old railway line.
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| The Wigan to Stockport railway line |
At the end of the path I saw the bus pass by, going to the end of the route a few streets away. That meant I had about three minutes to get to the bus stop to catch it on the way back. Which I did with time to spare. I had a five minute wait for the train back home, I'd timed it nicely for getting back directly without having to walk back from Urmston. A wedding party had booked the station bar, the smell of burgers on the barbecue reminded me it was teatime.
