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Ian Barthorpe
The latest diary entry from Hide Cleaning and Trail Maintenance Volunteer, Lou Goom
The verges change at every turn as I near the reserve; from pavement, to grass, to gorse, and finally, there are woods all around. I imagine this place at night. There would be the sharpened smell that comes with sunset - of leaves defrosting, composting, of Fox territory, of spring fungi colonizing broken branches.  Skeletal budded branches, bleached in the lunar light, would frame an awakening monochrome world of symbiosis and communication, of camouflage, and pursuit. Honeysuckle clings to the Birches, preparing to lure pollinating insects. Muntjacs bark to their cowering fawns, Tawny Owls preen invisible wings, and with the dawn, serpent season springs at the sanctuary. 
 
The Adder, long persecuted and misunderstood, takes a revered apex position here. The guides are ready to enthusiastically reassure visitors that these peaceable and timid creatures pose minimal threat if treated with a little caution. An ancient emblem of endurance, they now dwindle in pockets of habitat that can support them. Our primordial fear of snakes makes them a living link to our ancestors. The ouroboros - the circled snake symbol of infinity, was as familiar to the Victorian ladies who founded the RSPB as it was to the court of Tutankhamun. My visit today opens a circle of time that will not close for four years - it is the 29th of February.
 
To help survey nocturnal insects as the nights warm, my task for today is to reclaim a dilapidated observatory from brambles.  A quick tidy up outside the reception area first provides the opportunity to meet a few visitors and their dogs, which are welcome in the cafe. A fellow volunteer stops to show me photos of his gardening achievements. He tells me that he finds a camaraderie here that he misses in the wider world. On the other side of the glass wedding plans are being made [following a Leap Day proposal on the beach]. There's laughing and leaning; a group of workers taking a little bit of time out of the day share stories old and new. A guide points some new binoculars on a birdfeeder that is bristling with Blue Tits.
Lou cleared around this cage, where we'll set a moth trap for moth monitoring and public events later this year
 
Properly dressed to minimise the risk of an accidental snake strike, I head downhill with loppers and a barrow. A prehistoric Grey Heron in a tweed overcoat cartwheels into the marshes. I pass a fellow worker who is attaching plaques to bridge railings - he takes it well when my interruption causes him to drop a screw into the water below. By arrangement, ashes can be scattered on the reserve - the brass memorials are a reminder that this is a place to balance reflection with renewal. It is the perfect space to experience 'the swift uplifting rush of quiet birds in circled flight'.
 
My eyes must be properly focussed on my task, but the soundscape is panoramic. There's the staccato percussion of a woodpecker, the husky rusty-hinge call of a Bullfinch.  And there's a hint of green in the air, of warming vegetation underfoot. A visitor passes and asks me how I'm doing. I am picking a fallen ladybird out of the soil; I open my hand to show the little beetle struggling to its feet. I let it back into the Brambles so it can take its part in the intricate network of interweaving lives upon which we are all balanced. It is off, in a rush to create the little leaf monster larvae that will later control aphids in the greenery. The light is low. Clouds are converging. My work is done. And I am heading home.
A Hummingbird Hawkmoth, drawn by Lou Goom
If Lou's blog has inspired you and you'd like to see Minsmere after dark, then why not book onto our Women's Wildlife Walk Sunset Stroll on Friday evening to celebrate International Women's Day (sorry, women's only on this one, but there is another Sunset Stroll on 16 March for everyone).