Thursday was our first day out this year and so the first of my retirement. Saltholme was the obvious choice but we didn’t want the obvious, so we had a little walk out in Richmond instead. We’ve walked into Billy Bank Woods before but not since our courting days, when we finished the stroll with blackcurrant cheesecake (yes, life really can be measured in cheesecakes). We’ve also walked from Round Howe a couple of times but despite the two woods being little over a mile apart we’ve never walked between them. This proved a very good choice, albeit a little trickier than imagined. It would appear that Fin McCool and Benandonner continued their spat into Richmond. At least that is the only explanation I can think of for how the causeway of giant stones along the river bank was put in place then bits of it ripped up (Ok the river might just have done the latter, but only Fin McCool could have put them there in the first place). Add to that an abundance of algae and a dressing of moss (a bit of which I still have in a bag to try and identify) and we did wonder if it might not end well. End well it did though. A Kingfisher flashed ahead of us and sat on a branch for a good 30 seconds, which is almost like being turned to stone for a Kingfisher. It was some way ahead but it still gave Janet her best ever view of one. Then, on an Alder tree, overhanging some rocks that were set at the angle of a rat trap, not one but three Marsh Tits were flitting about. (Kingfishers flashing and Tits flitting are of course clichés to be avoided, but it could have been worse). Marsh Tit numbers in the UK are now only half what they were 30 years ago and I often don’t see one from one year to the next, so I wasn’t completely confident that they weren’t the extremely similar Willow Tit, but then one called its Marsh Tit call to allow me to tick it off.
On almost any day these would be the wildlife highlights of a day out but then I’m not any wildlife enthusiast. Out of the woods we passed into some meadows owned by the National Trust and managed, according to the sign, by letting Highland Cattle eat them. No such cattle were to be seen and I assured Janet that the cow pats were quite old. She disagreed and it is with no small measure of embarrassment that I have to admit that my wife is better at ageing cow pats than I am. Shambling towards us, head to tail in single file were the bovine equivalent of mammoths. I suspect they were singing that song that the elephants in the “Jungle Book” cartoon sing but maybe in infrasound so that we couldn’t hear it. Now I know they are technically just cows but in this setting they seem as natural as Aurochs and their presence was enough to give the scene a touch of the Mesolithic. They do however have some big advantages over Aurochs in that they are smaller, slower and less likely to gore you to death. This latter point came in quite handy as they decided to park themselves on the path we were walking along. I didn’t think I was nervous, but I did feel the need to talk to them as we passed within a metre of a horn tip. Not a good idea according to Janet (I suspect she was right again).
Raven on the Wing 