The Water Margin

There, I hear it again, the tap, tap, tapping. What is it, I ask myself, as I scan the nearby bank of the pond. The tapping continues and my ears home in on a clump of last year’s hogweed – just dishevelled remains after the snow crushed it like matchsticks. Tap, tap, tap and my eyes focus on a single wasp, its mandibles chomping away at the stem. I would rather have seen a bee getting material for a nest, but the buzz of a wasp is surprisingly comforting after the recent heavy rain and biting wind. I move further round the pond, fish fry are topping on the surface and I catch a fleeting glimpse of our very own Loch Ness Monster - the ghost carp. On the opposite bank I see bubbles on the surface: they must have come from a tench feeding off the bottom of the pond. All the while frogs are calling - since April their croaks have been like cicadas in Crete - just as loud, normal and annoying!

            The serenity is shattered: the fish dive as I here the ominous call of a heron. It lands on its chosen peg on the far side of the pond and then wades in - an expert fisherman. I watch it for 10 minutes before it decides to cast in, its snakelike neck striking the water and then getting a frog. Then, expertly balancing the prize in its bill, it throws it down its neck. I stand up and make my way back home. The heron sees me and flies away, but it’ll be back. The fish begin to top, the frog chorus returns and still – tap, tap, tap.....    

Let's go spy a kite

For years, I’ve looked forward to my sporadic journeys down the M40 for one reason only: kites. As the motorway cuts dramatically through the chalk near Stokenchurch, you can always see large numbers of them swooping overhead. On holidays in France, too, I’ve marvelled at them riding the currents of the gorges. But, despite living a stone's throw from a wood know as Kite’s Nest Plantation, I’ve never seen one at home. Last week I looked out the window, hardly registering the bird of prey, and looked again: ‘That’s a buzzard, I tell myself, no, a goshawk...a peregrine.’ It was none of the usual suspects. The red kite flew out of the sun like a spitfire pilot, its wide wings effortlessly gliding, soaring, turning. It was only when it turned to make for home that the distinct fan tail gave away its true identity. Now I’m waiting to see it again.....