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Ian Barthorpe
Guest Blog by our regular volunteer diarist Lou
Nearing Minsmere and speculating on what my day's challenge might be – I have been asked to bring thick gloves – I brake to take in a view I've anticipated for so long I thought it might not come. There are those who say that the purest and most perfect view is that of the uninterrupted sky directly above where you stand. Now, far be it for me to disagree with EM Forster's Emersons or indeed, the irreproachable Dante, but from the cornflower blue of a Florentine sky, to the twilight star-scape seen emerging from the underground, it seems to me that any aerial vista is a little bit better with a bird in the forefront.
Of course, the criss-cross of aeroplane contrails, and street-light pollution, did not dilute Dante's horizon; his stars were not spangled with satellites. And the telegraph pole was a relatively new invention when Forster sat to write A Room With a View; the first electricity line was yet to striate his stratosphere. The skyscape has changed in ways that were unimaginable in their times. But I find a dusky, sunset-tinged troupe of homeward bound gulls at bedtime the perfect accompaniment to the emergent Venus, and today, I have stopped to celebrate the sight of a pair of amiable twittering swallows, safely arrived perhaps from a six thousand mile Sub-Saharan Odyssey, perched on an overhead cable. Onwards.
Swallow by Jon Evans
There is a skittish Stoat that lives in the vicinity of a 'Welcome' sign on Minsmere's perimeter, so being ahead of schedule despite my first delay, I pull over and see if our timetables might align. Turning off my rattly diesel engine, it's only a couple of minutes until I'm rewarded. The rufous, bounding little killer prances past with a limp furry cargo and disappears into the undergrowth. The sun is out. I open the window. Immediately I hear a cuckoo. It's said to bring bad luck, to hear the first cuckoo before seeing the first swallow – so that was a close call. On to the reserve.
My day's task is trimming back Urtica dioica – the common stinging nettle. Being an exceptionally valuable native plant, nettles are welcomed at Minsmere, but their uses must be balanced against their outstanding ability to repel visitors' access to the pathways, and worse still, spoil a good rest by unexpectedly protruding through the slats in benches.
Vegetation encroaching a bench before Lou got to work (above) and job done: more comfortable now (below)
Urtica pilulifera, known as the Roman nettle, is just as acerbic and fascinatingly takes its common name from the belief that 'the climate of Britain was so cold that it was not to be endured' by the invaders unless they routinely flailed their bare skin with nettles, so brought them to the UK to ensure a constant supply. Fortunately for me, it is a mild forecast, so I minimise my contact as best I can.
Supporting over 40 insect species, which themselves found the pyramid upon which the ongoing food chain teeters, there is plenty of scope to see nettles in a favourable light. Studies suggest that nettles can help to relive joint pain, I remind myself, as I scythe through a patch of head-height stingers. There are ladybirds in there, making more ladybirds – it is the Spring after all. I take a minute to be entertained by their antics, and then lay the cut nettles safely aside so that their inhabitants can find a new residence nearby. Tools are down. Time for me, too, to find home.
Seven-spot Ladybirds making more Seven-spot Ladybirds 
Parents
  • Another well seen and recounted piece. Thank you.
    We've walked those lanes so many times over 40 years or so and never spied a stoat, if memory serves; a stag in the dark was easily the most scary coming through the hedge near Adam's house; the otter that crossed the North Wall just in front of us without a care in the world was amazing; the bittern that left the reeds and scared itself, as well as us and had us saying 'look right, then left, and right again'; also, 'was that a badger?' somewhere on Whin Hill, that'll stay with us as a magical moment. Funniest were the geese at sunset. They take off, circle and land where they started. And, no sooner, it repeats as a process. As for the geese, the bit I can't relate was my wife's hilarious commentary which we recite over and again, and though septuagenarians, keeps us giggling like the kids we remain. A fire on Westleton Heath caused such a ruckus, heard and later smelt so had to investigate. What fun!
    Again thank you to Lou, so many memories come out of reading her notes.
Comment
  • Another well seen and recounted piece. Thank you.
    We've walked those lanes so many times over 40 years or so and never spied a stoat, if memory serves; a stag in the dark was easily the most scary coming through the hedge near Adam's house; the otter that crossed the North Wall just in front of us without a care in the world was amazing; the bittern that left the reeds and scared itself, as well as us and had us saying 'look right, then left, and right again'; also, 'was that a badger?' somewhere on Whin Hill, that'll stay with us as a magical moment. Funniest were the geese at sunset. They take off, circle and land where they started. And, no sooner, it repeats as a process. As for the geese, the bit I can't relate was my wife's hilarious commentary which we recite over and again, and though septuagenarians, keeps us giggling like the kids we remain. A fire on Westleton Heath caused such a ruckus, heard and later smelt so had to investigate. What fun!
    Again thank you to Lou, so many memories come out of reading her notes.
Children