Wellacre Country Park

Coots

It was day two of what will the third heatwave of the Summer so far and I decided to play it safe and wait until after teatime to go for a stroll. I got the 256 into Flixton and debated whether to go for a walk round Wellacre Country Park or walk down to Irlam Locks. On a whim I chose the former.

Painted lady, a little bedraggled after a dogfight with a red admiral.

I walked into Wellacre Wood from Town Gate, blackbirds, song thrushes and woodpigeons singing in the trees and butterflies knocking holes out of each other in the nettles.

Red admiral none the worse after a dogfight with the painted lady. Tough little buggers, red admirals. 

Wellacre Wood 

I've run out of ways of saying the wood was quiet but busy — hints of robins in shadows, ninja titmice, blackbirds melting into the undergrowth, all that sort of thing — and that the sense of tranquil mystery about this sort of scene doesn't really survive song thrushes furiously singing at each other. So I'll just say that it was a very gentle walk through the trees on the approach to the golden hour.

Wellacre Country Park 

I didn't walk over to Jack Lane, I was keeping an eye on getting the bus or train home and had decided I'd have a look at Dutton's Pond then walk to the station via Flixton Bridge and get the train home. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't also secretly hoping I might bump into the tawny owl again. (I didn't.)

The coots and moorhens pottered about on Dutton's Pond. The young coots are getting their white shields on their foreheads and are losing the last of their pale chest feathers. A dozen mallards were dozing at one side of the pond but floated over to have a look as an angler landed a large carp, took a photo and lowered it back into the water. Over the other side another angler stopped slinging out ground bait because a couple of black-headed gulls were getting to it quicker than the fish.

As I walked past Green Hill towards the Merseyview exit a mixed tit flock silently passed through the horse chestnuts and a Southern hawker zipped over to give me the eyeball.

Green Hill 

I didn't linger on Flixton Bridge, aside from the family of moorhens under the bank there was nothing on the river.

I got the train home from Flixton. As I left the station a couple of shapes shot across the road and over the school playing field and away. Kestrels don't often come this way, it's the first time I've seen one mobbed by a swift.