April 1st 06

Coming back from the market spotted my first primrose over by Kate’s. In the hedgerow. Magnificent.

April 9th 06

There’s this awful hammering going on in the bird box which is now piling up with twigs. It’s a bit like living on a building site. Somethings wrong and Sheila figures that there isn’t enough depth inside for the jackdaw to sit easily on the nest, and they’re trying to break into the top storey. The old fachia would have had this angled roof space giving stretching capacity, the new space presented no such elasticity. I can do two things: I can get Ken to replicate the box, this time with more head space, and with all hands on deck, in a flash we could remove the old box, hammer in the new one and transfer all the sticks and bits into it. Or I can just leave it alone.

The starling, after a long absence, flew into his new nest today. Unlike the jackdaws who are constantly tooing and frowing (both of them) with building materials, the starlings seem lazy home providers. I never see a sprig or a twig collected and 2 years ago a egg fell out because there was no barrier provided to hold it in. I got Ken to put a fairly sizeable lip on the new box.

April 11th 06

It’s Tuesday. Holly and I went to the Small Wood and it is spectacular. Holly is running on following the stream which is trying to keep pace with her as I am, anxious she doesn’t disappear from view. But she’s there waiting for me in the clearing by the old wall and she dashes forward again determined to get there before I do. A few more twists and turns on muddy pathways, over rocks and fallen branches and there they are: the wood anemones. Hundred of them. Brilliant, glistening, glorious, cascading over the banks down to the waters edge, admiring their own reflection in the bright surface, laughing around the base of the trees, crossing my path and disappearing into secret crevices and undergrowth. I am surrounded, held captive and we have this silent paradise all to ourselves. Holly is poised for return, but I put her on the lead and she sits next to me, head raised for the scents that must be assailing her nostrils. She too is part of this gift, this glory – with her shimmering coat of grey and black and white and fawn, the sheen of her slender white paws caught by the sunlight.