Walk 9 - Root, branch and green canopy: Down Farm fields

This morning's problem is to find my way back to the point in Detcombe Woods where I finished the previous walk, via a footpath through Trillgate Farm which turns out to be easier to find on the ground than it is on the map.  It runs through the corner of a field full of red and white clover, dusted with a scattering of Meadow Brown butterflies.  Last week we had temperatures in the 30s, but today is slightly chill and altogether better for walking.

Green marquee

I can hear the stream even before I reach it, tumbling over a little waterfall before vanishing behind a curtain of undergrowth.  My aim now is to walk back upstream until I find the big fallen trees which mark the point where I finished the last walk.  As usual, the stream is wrapped in a protective shroud of trees and undergrowth.  An animal path gives me an entry point into a world made even more than usually secret by the steepness of the bank which means that the first branches of the trees growing out of it are on a level with the ground.  It's like being in a big green marquee, formed not only by the usual multi-stemmed hazels but also one or two really large trees, including beeches, which, so far, have been rare beside the stream.  The sun breaking through the clouds at this point carpets the ground with golden dapples. This closed-in area has the appeal of a child's den, and I'm tempted to stay a while, but I really need to get on because I'm not sure how much further up the stream I need to go to get to where I ought to be starting.

The boundary on the stream between the shooting consortium's land  and the land belonging to Down Farm, which I'll be walking through this morning. is easy to spot from this direction.  It's marked by another little waterfall, caused by the build-up of debris against the wire fence which runs right across the stream.  The stream above the fall is muddy and below the fall is quite clear and sandy as if the impromptu dam is acting as a filter.   This isn't where I left off, though, so I forge on through the trees, startling a deer which had been grazing on the edge of the meadow beyond.  It seems a shame that my first sight of wildlife on these walks is invariably the movement as the animal turns to flee, and I resolve to walk more quietly.  That's not so easy; I have the impression that humans don't take much interest in the stream along here - the banks are steep and littered with twigs and the stream itself is bridged by so many fallen branches so that just walking alongside it is a tricky exercise, never mind walking quietly.  I'm eventually forced out into the meadow beyond.  There are compensations - sunshine on dew-soaked grass picking out many spiders' webs in shining droplets; the occasional spotted orchid; a vociferous marsh tit bouncing about in the low-stooping branches of an ash tree.  I like marsh tits, with their neat black heads and dapper buff waistcoats, and the way they whisk to and fro with verve and confidence, like James Bond birds on a mission.

Spider's webs in the meadow

At the corner of the meadow I recognise the point where I climbed the hill away from the stream last time and after climbing through the fence to rejoin the stream, lapped about by the scent of wild garlic, I find the big fallen trees and know I've rejoined my previous path.

Heading downstream again, I decide to try and stick with the stream this time rather than climbing back up to the meadow.  The green marquee effect continues.  Along the banks, areas of dead leaf-litter with no sign of greenery alternate with areas thick with very-much-alive nettles and other colonising plants.  I guess it must be the amount of light penetration through the canopy that makes the difference.  Many of the trees are clad in a fretwork of ivy.  The stream itself is noisy with many little rivulets and mini-falls caused by the amount of fallen wood which has landed in it.  In spite of which, the water seems very clear.  I spend a little time looking hopefully for anything that might be living in it, but can't spot anything.  A fat bumble-bee drones around me and I wonder what he might be looking for, because so far I haven't seen a single flower down here under the shroud of trees, but perhaps he's just come down to drink.

My progress down the stream is slowed by fences which regularly veer right down to the water and force me to cross and re-cross it.  The fences are presumably to control the access that stock has to the water and walking along this part of the stream is obviously not normally on anyone's agenda.  This a problem I've encountered before with trying to walk through the valley on a route which doesn't correspond with human pathways or ways of thought.  Arriving at a particularly serious fence which coincides with a small, steep-sided tributary coming in from the hillside, I debate whether to cross the stream again or attempt to cross the fence.  Someone else has gone ahead of me; there are scrabble-marks in the soil of the steep bank below the fence and a fairly significant dint in the bottom of the wire where something largish has pushed its way underneath.  Badger, maybe?  No helpful hairs on the fence to tell me.  I consider trying to do the same, but decide that as I haven't got a thick fur coat and claws it might not be such a good idea.  Instead I wade through deepish mud, cross the stream with the aid of a discarded tyre and move on to a point where a semi-collapsed alder tree has helpfully pushed the fence down to a point where I can step over it.

Self-Heal (not vetch!)

There seem to be far fewer birds here than there were in Detcombe Woods - perhaps because it's basically an area of fields and the only trees are the ones along the stream.  It's very quiet, apart from my galumphing, twig-breaking steps, and very still, apart from the small, subtle movemenf of the stream.  After a while the green gloom gets a little oppressive and I take a detour into the adjoining meadow to recover the sun, marvelling afresh at how its corridor of trees effectively isolates the world of the stream from the valley around it.  It's a nice meadow, with buttercups and red clover and something small and purple which I feel should probably have the word 'vetch' attached to it.  (My knowledge of wildflowers, beyond the obvious ones, is incredibly hazy.  Like my mother before me, I go out on walks, spot flowers, wish I'd brought a spotter's guide with me, mean to look them up when I get home, and hardly ever do.)  Lots more spiders' webs amongst the grass, too.

I've now arrived back at the point where the path from Trillgate joins the stream.  Continuing on the eastern side of the stream through Down Farm land, I presently come across an old brick housing half-drowned in nettles and containing what looks to me like a non-operational ram.  The sound recorder and I can hear water trickling down inside the housing but there's no movement in the mechanism.  A brass plate attached to its corroded dome declares it to be a Blake's Hydram.  I wonder how old it is and whether it would have provided water for Trillgate Farmhouse, which is just visible from here, prettily framed by the trees.

Old ram mechanism

I'm now walking down a narrow field.  The stream here is a couple of feet wide, shallow and boggy-edged, and its cloak of trees has become ragged, with gaps.  In fact, the whole area is much more open than it was higher up.  As a result, the likes of thistles, nettles and bracken have managed to get their feet under the table, so to speak, and the stream is a good deal more overgrown.  It's also narrower and deeper, maybe half the width it was before.

Here's a spot where two alder trees growing opposite each other have forced it into a narrow squinch (is that a word?  If not, it ought to be) between their roots and created a rapid and a waterfall.  Further along is a major gap in the trees and the stream runs over what look like stone blocks.  It's obviously been a crossing point for animals for some time - the banks are well worn down - and I wonder if there used to be a bridge, or a ford, which would explain the stone in the stream bed and the lack of trees.

Further along, another gap in the trees reveals where the racehorses are today, viz, in this field, but on the far side of the stream.  Discretion being the better part of valour, I decide to walk further up the field in the hope that they won't notice me.  Not really out of non-valour (honest, guv) but because being surrounded by racehorses, or doing a fast dash to the edge of the field to avoid being surrounded, isn't going to help my powers of artistic observation.

The upside of being forced further up the slope to avoid the horses is that I get a broader perspective on the stream in its surroundings.  The fields on either side of the stream slope more gently from here on as the valley widens and I can see right up to the woods on the other side of the valley.  I've stepped out of the secret world of the stream and back into the human world, where the network of fences makes more sense and human sounds of chainsawing and general activity are carried up to me on the breeze.  Ahead of me, a rabbit's white scut vanishes into the hedge.  (Once again, I'm seeing the wildlife back end foremost.)  I can also hear the horses huffing and puffing on the far side of the stream; I suspect they know I'm here, but apparently I haven't done anything to arouse their curiosity.

The rest of the valley may be opening out but the stream is still running in a steep little gully and hanging onto its cloak of trees, only one tree deep on each side now, but still an effective screen so that unless I'm actually inside the line of trees I can't see what's happening by the stream at all.  When I walk back into the trees to check, I don't seem to have missed much.  The stream continues in its v-shaped gully, full of fallen wood, devoid of any sign of fish or other inhabitants.  To my eyes, anyway.  Something is happening in the trees at the end of the field, though - I can hear a lot of bird fussing noises, probably not caused by my approach because I'm still too far away, so possibly someone is trying to steal someone else's eggs or impinging on someone's territory.  We humans like to think of 'nature' as calm and peaceful but in the course of my walks there always seems to be something to remind me that for the non-human participants it frequently isn't.

When I reach the end of the field, and the end of today's section of stream, because here it stream vanishes into another chunk of woodland and is crossed by a fence marking the boundary between Down Farm land and the garden of the other half of Steanbridge Mill.   - which I have yet to get permission to enter. Before climbing over the gate back into Steanbridge Lane, I take a final sound recording.  Debris has gathered against the fence, where the stream goes under it, creating another dam-and-waterfall effect as the water forces its way round.

I think this is what I'll take away from this walk for future consideration and/or inspiration - the way in which trees shape the stream and give it voice.  Tree roots influence its route and its depth, forcing little meanders and narrow rapids; tree debris creates mini-dams, waterfalls and small pools; the thickness of the tree canopy dictates what can grow along its banks and (I guess) what can live in the water.  It strikes me that without all the small obstacles created by the trees, the stream would run smoothly and almost silently and there would be nothing in the way of noise for me to record.  As if to make the point, as I walk back through the section of woodland owned by the Fairgreaves', I'm struck afresh by how open and uncluttered their section of the stream seems compared with what I've seen elsewhere.  I think the Fairgreaves do regularly clear it and remove fallen wood, and I'm guessing that's why the stream is a more even width and seems stronger-flowing. Is that also why lampreys flourish here?

I'd assumed a tedious walk along the lanes and the main road to get back to the Bulls Cross layby, where I left the car, but I'd forgotten about King Charles Lane, an old sunken track which runs from close by the lake straight uphill to the main road.  I'm told it forms part of the route that the armies of Charles I took from Bisley to Painswick during the Civil War - hence the name. Today it's a demure tunnel of green, its steep banks overflowing full of ivy and wild garlic and mother-in-law's tongue and all manner of other things, the surface of the track faced with white stone.  Too pretty to have much military cred now, but a much more satisfactory way to finish my walk.

Google map of this walk

Walk 8 - Slad Brook rising: Detcombe Woods

7.45 and a beautiful morning.  The forecast is not so good for later on, which is why I'm up and about so early.  Having last week reached the point where the Dillay brook joins the Slad Brook, I'm now making a start on the Slad Brook itself and this morning I should find where it rises and trace it down as far as the end of a chunk of woodland variously known as Longridge Woods, Downwood and Detcombe Woods.  The woods belong to a shooting consortium and I have permission to walk in them once before the end of July and once after the end of January, so as not to impinge on the shooting season.  I'm starting right at the beginning of the valley, from the very top of the hill, where the lane which goes to Dillay Farm leaves the main road.

There are no public footpaths in this part of the valley until much lower down, and passing through three signs saying 'No Public Right of Way' and 'No Footpath' gives me a frisson even though I do have permission to be here.  I find myself walking very quietly and whispering into the tape recorder as I descend on a steep forestry track into a green tunnel of beech trees.  This has the advantage that I can hear the blackbirds who are shouting abuse at me for disturbing their morning. Apart from that, and the occasional noise from the road, it's surprisingly quiet.  I have the impression that the birds are taking it in turns to sing; the blackbirds are succeeded by wood pigeons, and then by a thrush. Individual sounds arise, crystal clear, like the purr of a bumble bee browsing amongst the nettles beside the path.   I catch sight of a deer running away into the trees.

The shape of the valley is very distinct here. It's satisfying to see it widening out from the lip of the hill into a textbook v-shaped valley.  Where three tracks meet, I choose the middle one, which is the only one heading downhill, at the point of the 'V'.  By now, the beeches have given way to a mixture of evergreens and other trees and the presence of the evergreens makes the valley feel a little steeper, a little darker.  I think they have a damping effect on sounds, too.  At the moment I feel very large, and very loud, clumping along like an elephant in a public library.

There are plenty of signs of this being a shooting wood - fenced-off areas, water dispensers for the birds (at least, I assume that's what they are) and various other bits of intriguing gamekeeper paraphernalia,  including wooden structures like miniature gibbets, which are slightly unnerving. All this, and the evergreens, and the quiet, make this part of the valley feel unfamiliar - not unwelcoming, but a little strange, and fascinating, a place where secrets might lurk.

The spring where the Slad Brook rises?

I'm scanning the ground, and the map, for signs of the stream, but there's nothing until I come to a small pool by the path.  It looks man-made - there's a board restricting the flow of water from the lower end - and is surrounded by lush undergrowth, flowering elder, and sprays of bramble flowers reaching down to touch the water.  A trickle of water emerges below the board and becomes a small but steady flow beside the path.  Casting around above the pool, I can't find any water source, so I'm guessing that this is the position of the spring marked on the map, in which case I think I have just located the beginning of the Slad Brook. It's a nice spot, but being by the track, and the pool obviously man-made, it's somehow a little more humdrum than the beginning of the Dillay with its romantic dome of hawthorns.  On the other hand, it's a very definite beginning, and to judge by the bubbles rising to the surface, it has things living in it.  And just like the Dillay, its rising makes no sound that the digital recorder can relate to.

Below the pool, the stream continues as a slow trickle in an incredibly overgrown ditch, winding through a confusion of long grass, cow parsley, buttercups, ragged robin and a dozen other things I can't put names to. Sometimes the water is visible, sometimes not.  I think the ragged robin will stay in my memory of this place, because it is such a jaunty plant and not so often seen, at least by me.

A little further on, an aggressive whistling at knee-height means I've disturbed a wren.  He comes closer and closer, making a noise considerably larger than he is, until he's just the other side of the stream from me, still loudly warning me off, which I think is very brave for such a tiny bird.  (Still, you know what they say about small men and small dogs, so probably it applies to birds too.)  I can see plenty of small birds, in fact, though none so close, all flitting around in the green canopy of the wood.  Perhaps it's the relative isolation, or the lushness of the undergrowth, but somehow this wood has a slightly exotic feel, as if it's great-great-grandmother was a rain forest.

The stream makes a brief appearance, flowing over a cross-track, and in the middle of it I find a swimming earthworm.  At least, it appears to be swimming, since it's making extraordinary writhing movements, curling like a sine wave.  Do earthworms swim?  This is one of many things I don't know about earthworms.  I wonder if I should be rescuing it.  Not waving but drowning?  Decide to be a proper naturalist and let nature take its course.

Presently the stream debouches (I like that word) into a little lake.  Checking with the map, I realise I've reached the point where the forest tracks join up with the footpath which comes down from Bulls Cross.  It's a pretty lake, there is sunshine, and I decide it's time for a drawing, and my somewhat delayed picnic breakfast.  Finding somewhere to sit is interesting; we've had a fair bit of rain in the last few days and all the ground around the lake has some level of wetness ranging from damp-ish to seriously soggy, with the added interest of waist-high nettles and shoulder-high bracken and brambles.  In my search for somewhere to sit which won't involve a short, sharp, prickly shower I come across a little clump of spotted orchids growing taller than I've seen them  elsewhere.

Following an animal path, a narrow gap in the greenery, I find my way down to a miniscule beach.  This is something I've learned - there are always animal paths, and they nearly always go down to the water.  That's not the only sign of life here - in a distinctly Jaws-like moment, a large fin scuds across the surface of the water, and I notice other large shadows moving slowly across the lake.  While I'm looking, one of the fish comes up quite close; he's about 10 inches long, largish, I would have thought, for this size of lake.  I wonder if the lake is lower than usual, and that's why the fish are so visible.  It's possible, because although we've had a fair amount of rain this month, the earlier part of the year was very dry, with hardly any rain at all in April.

After drawing the lake and its surroundings for about an hour, I tackle the final stretch of stream on the shooting consortium's land.  There is no track here, and to begin with the stream itself disappears underground, so all I can do is to try to follow the lowest point of the slope and wait for the stream to reappear. Not so easy, this, as I'm in woodland red in tooth and branch, a grand mixture of different trees, some of them hosting bizarre fungi, growing up amid a deep litter of fallen wood ranging from fine twigs up to whole trees.  I feel very definitely off-piste.  Quite quickly the bottom of the valley becomes a miniature gorge, clogged with debris, and the walk becomes a scramble.  Suddenly the ground beneath my boots is wet; retracing my steps I decide that the stream is seeping out of the ground somewhere beneath a fallen tree, but, frustratingly, I can't see exactly where.  Gradually, the seep becomes an extended puddle, but it isn't until the flow from another little spring joins in that it becomes a running stream again.  Now the banks are so steep and covered with fallen trees that I'm forced to walk, or rather stumble, in the stream itself.

Eventually this all becomes a little too outward-bound for me and I climb out of the stream and further up the slope in an effort to find a level at which walking is a bit easier.  As a result, I happen across two more tiny streams running towards the main one at an angle.  Investigating further up the second stream, I find a section of elderly paved stonework and a chunk of pipe, from which the stream emerges in a rush.  Now a new sound is making itself felt, literally - a steady thump, thump, which can only be a ram of some sort.  Following up the second stream, I find the ram, reposing in a brick-built hutch, from which a heavy pipe emerges, its lip stained orange by the water.  The action of the ram makes the pipe clank and jump so that all the plants growing around and over it quiver in unison with each thump.

Coming back to the main stream, a little further on from where I left it, I find it has doubled in size and now looks like something that might be big enough to have things (fish? lampreys?) living in it.  Now I seem to be hearing stereo thumps, and sure enough there's another ram, this one housed in concrete, which gives a gothic hollowness to its sound.  I wonder where the rams are pumping water to?

As I turn back to the stream, a bird whizzes through the wood quite close by and not much above head height, making that characteristic mewing cry of a buzzard. Inevitably, it's against the light and no more than a silhouette, but to me it looks too small for a buzzard.  Do buzzards fly through woods in this reckless fashion?  I know sparrowhawks do, and they are smaller, but consultation with my mobile bird-calls app tells me that sparrowhawks sound quite different.  So is this a young buzzard indulging in teenage dare-devilry (buzzing the tourist?) or what?  Another unanswered question.  My walks throw up dozens of them.  The next few yards add to the list.  What are these holes in the earth, about two inches across, and who dug them?  Are they for food, or to live in?  And here's a fallen tree, snugly lodged across the stream and making a perfect bridge which, by the look of it, has been there for some time, and here are deer slots in the mud beside the bank.  Do the deer use the tree as a bridge, I wonder?  And do other animals?  I picture a solemn procession of badgers making a slow and stately crossing while a traffic jam of voles, mice and other small fry fume impatiently behind them.  Ingrained anthropomorphism, I'm afraid.

Another small tributary joins the main stream, one of several streams rising from springs that are marked on the map.  Depending which one it is, I may or may not have reached the end of the consortium's land and be wandering into the sliver of the wood which belongs to Down Farm.  I've not yet hit a fence to say so, but I do cross the mental boundary of a pair of wrens who shoot out of the undergrowth to warn me away from their nest.

Presently I can see stronger light ahead; the end of the wood is looming on this, eastern side of the stream, so I now know where I am and where the end of the shooting consortium's land is.  Hunkering down to take a final recording of the stream, a flicker of movement in the water catches my eye; a minute fish, not much bigger than my little fingernail.  I wonder how, if at all, it's related to the monsters I saw in the lake earlier. Downstream of me are two massive fallen trees bisecting the stream and making a landmark for when I come back to this point from the other direction to start the next walk.

For speed of exit (it's now very much lunchtime) I climb straight up the hill following the line of the field (surprisingly hard work) to rejoin the footpath to Bulls Cross.  I've walked this path before, but not previously noticed how striking are the huge beech trees which line it.  Just now, they are trailing many thin strands of ivy, as though they had run straight through the Christmas decorations without looking, and they make an imposing guard of honour for the end of the path and of this walk.

Google map of this walk

Walk 7 - A good place for kingfishers: from Steanbridge Mill to the village pond

A breezy afternoon, with rain forecast for later.  The hot dry spell of early spring is only a distant memory now.  I'm under the impression that this is going to be short walk.  It is short in distance, being about 100 yards of the Dillay that runs through the garden of Steanbridge Mill and along Steanbridge Lane but significant because it includes the point where the Dillay meets the Slad brook.

The owners of Steanbridge Mill, Dr and Mrs Fairgrieve, have not only agreed to let me walk through their garden, but Mrs Fairgrieve is to give me a guided tour of their section of the stream.  The first thing she does is to point out, from the vantage point of their back fence, a large flattened sunken area between big banks in the field behind.  This used to be the holding pond for the mill, apparently, and still fills up with water during wet winters. I missed it entirely when I was walking in that field, partly because was distracted by the attentions of the horses and partly because I didn't know I should be looking for it.  Now that it's pointed out to me, the feature is very obvious, and I probably ought to have spotted it because we have something similar behind own cottage, which served the old Vatch Mill.  There were many mills in this valley in the past, of course, making use of the two streams, but so far their traces, if any, haven't been obvious to me on the ground.  The garden of Steanbridge Mill is the far side of one of the banks that encloses the old pond and Mrs Fairgrieve admits to some nervousness about the bank eventually giving way.

We follow the stream down through the upper part of the garden, where its banks are thickly grown with trees and plants, some woodland invaders, some more exotic garden plants, which gives this section an almost tropical feel as the sunshine filters down through leaves, lighting up the water.  The stream emerges alongside an open lawn and runs down through the vegetable plot.  I'm shown the point where the Dillay and Slad brooks join, via a culvert under the lane, and it's a bit of an anti-climax, really, the Dillay seeping into the Slad brook through a narrow opening without fanfare or fuss.   The stream, now officially the Slad brook, runs on out of the garden and under a narrow lane which runs up the hill towards Catswood.

The lane is carried on what Mrs Fairgrieve says is a 13th century bridge.  It's not so easy to see just now, because of the summer growth around it, but I catch a glimpse of a stone arch, low to the water, and several layers of stone above.  In shape, it's not unlike the 'Roman' bridge.  Just beyond the bridge, Mrs Fairgrieve points out where there used to be an old sheep dip, which would be formed by pushing a big stone across the stream to make the water level rise, then the sheep driven through it.  Apparently in winter you can see the slots which the stone would have gone into, so I must come back and take a look when it's all less overgrown.  Mrs Fairgrieve was shown this feature by Laurie Lee, who of course remembered seeing it in use.  It's clear that at this point the stream was once walled in stone, and a small rivulet that runs down the track from the hill above runs into the stream over an area of exposed wall, making a pleasantly trickly, recordable noise.

The main stream now runs through a narrow ribbon of woodland which the Fairgrieves own, flanked by farmland on one side and Steanbridge Lane on the other.  We follow a path through the wood to reach the small lake at the far end which all Slad thinks of as the village pond.  Here, after proudly pointing out a clutch of teenage mallard ducklings which she has been keeping an eye on, and a fox in the field opposite which she accuses of taking one of them, Mrs Fairgrieve leaves me to my own devices.   I'm already delighted by this little section of stream and woodland so I retrace my steps, more slowly, to get to know it better.

I can see quite a change in the stream here.  It's no wider, I think, than it was when it was flowing through the Down Farm fields, but it does seem deeper, clearer and faster-flowing.    I think this is the first section of stream since the upper Dillay valley where it's been easy to approach the stream closely and walk along its banks.  This is partly because this area is flattish and partly because the Fairgrieves have kept it generally free of fallen wood and the worst of the undergrowth.  Pausing on a projecting mudbank to peer into the water, I'm astonished to spot something alive and moving.  Closer inspection reveals it to be a lamprey.  Now see how serendipity works - I wouldn't have the first clue what a lamprey looked like if I hadn't happened to watch an episode of 'Halcyon River Diaries' the other day which featured close-ups of young lampreys.  This one has attached himself to a stone.  Rather unkindly, I use a stalk to detach him gently from his stone, in order to see him better.  He wiggles energetically, swimming determinedly against the current to re-attach himself to his chosen stone.  I'm enchanted.  This is first living beast I've seen actually in the stream.  Mrs Fairgrieve tells me there is plenty of life in this section though, not only lampreys but small crayfish, brown trout and minnows.  I can't help wondering if this is so in the whole length of the stream, or if this bit is specially favoured because it is kept clear and there's more light because less undergrowth.  As if to prove the point, a little further along the stream I spot a minute fish (minnow?) darting to and fro.

After trying to take pictures and videos of the lamprey (with indifferent success) and making a quick sketch, I leave him to his stone and settle down against a tree to do some drawing of the area itself.  The word 'secret' has kept coming into my head to describe this stream, and on the last walk I found myself talking about children's dens and that sense of being pleasurably hidden from the outside world.  It's even more so here, because the fields and the road are very close by, and there's a fair amount of traffic, but the road is hidden from me by a steep bank, and I can catch only glimpses of the fields through the trees, so that I have a sense of being in my own little bubble of watery beauty while the rest of the world passes close by, but unaware.

The trees here are tall and wrapped in trails of ivy.  There is meadowsweet growing in the stream, the banks of which are slightly undercut and look as though something should definitely be living in them.  There is a strong smell of wild garlic.  Once again the mental stillness induced by drawing works its magic on the local wildlife.  A wren perches quite close by; a mallard with seven very small ducklings passes me, unconcerned by my presence, the ducklings being pushed all over the stream by the strong current.  For some reason I feel convinced that this particular spot should be a good place for kingfishers.  Cue for an electric blue flash?  Alas, no, though according to Mrs Fairgrieve they have been seen on occasion.

Walking back up the stream towards the pond, I find several interesting holes in banks and ground.  Holes fascinate me nearly as much as animal footprints.  I feel I should be able to tell who dug them, and why.  I always hope they are signs of small mammals (or even large ones) and not merely dog-scrapes.   These are smallish and might belong to voles or similar.  Or not.

The pond is a genuine duckpond and I've been here when there have been 50 or more ducks on it, but today it's less busy.  The teenage mallard ducklings have moved off, but I can hear a young moorhen peeting softly from her perch on a stick in the middle of the pond.  The pond is looking very lovely in the sunshine, with trees trailing swathes of leaf into the water and its edges bright with blue comfrey and bluer irises and laced with cow parsley.  At the further end, where the stream leaves it, is a sluice which Mrs Fairgrieve says takes some keeping clear of debris.  The stream runs under the footpath, via another little arched bridge which isn't visible except from stream level.  It doesn't look nearly as old as the 13th century one but it's nicely shaped.  It also marks the end of today's walk, because beyond here the stream runs into the land belonging to Steanbridge House.  Looking at my watch, I see with astonishment that this supposedly short walk has taken me a good three hours.  Which just goes to show that, like all really pleasurable activities, walking the Slad brook expands to fill the time available.  The more you look, the more there is to see.

Google map of this walk

Walk 6 - Up hummock and down cleft: Dillay through Down Farm

It's a blustery, damp morning and I'm once more starting off from the path by Snows Farm, but this time to go south from the nature reserve, through fields belonging to the racing stables at Down Farm, courtesy of the owner.  Down Farm's ownership extends right across the valley at this point, taking in sections of both Slad and Dillay brooks, but I'm sticking with the Dillay today.  The BBC forecast promises 'a light shower' at 10.00 am and by the look of it, it's on its way.  One of the things I like about this valley is the way you can generally see the weather approaching, especially if it comes from the south west.  From the lane to Snows Farm, I can see the fields I'm about to walk, and it looks like it's going to be a very up and down business, the land sloping steeply down to the brook.

What I can't see from here is whether I will have racehorses for company or not.  I've been given a mobile number to call if the horses should decide to bother me but I'm not unduly worried at this stage and remark insouciantly to my sound recorder that they couldn't be more bothering than the ponies who interrupted my drawing in the nature reserve last time.

One thing about wet weather; it makes you realise how lush all the foliage is.  After rain, every leaf and branch leans down towards you, heavy with a load of raindrops to shed.  We've now definitively moved away from the neat, new leaves of spring and into the extravagance of summer greenery.  In other ways, it's still spring-like, though - this showery weather feels more like spring than spring itself did, this year, and also there are any amount of baby birds about.  I can hear them cheeping unwarily from hedgerows and trees.

The promised shower arrives ten minutes early and I take shelter under the trees below the 'Roman' bridge.  The ground here is boggy and sodden and sports several spotted orchids, which is good to see as apparently it's supposed to be a bad year for orchids - wrong combination of weather conditions or something.  There are plenty of other interesting plants down here in this damp bit under the trees, none of which I can name, but once again I'm impressed by the sheer numbers.

Entering the first of the Down Farm fields, I find the brook very thoroughly fenced off, both by barbed wire and undergrowth, which is frustrating.  The fences thing is interesting: I must admit that I find fences a little intimidating because they so obviously say 'keep out' even when, as now, what they are intended to keep out is not me, as such, but livestock. They very clearly define what's 'in' and what's 'outside'.  But for other animals in the valley, our boundaries have no significance and, presumably, a fence is only a barrier if they are too big to get through, over or under it.  Which means that if I'm considering the valley from their point of view too, it's no good always staying this side of the fence.

So I start looking for a way over it, which is not so easy. Lots of nettles by the fence, too, grown to summer height, i.e. you don't want to tangle with them.  Meanwhile, the green meadow I'm walking through provides lots of incidental entertainment of its own, such as a hawthorn tree gloriously covered in wild honeysuckle, a scattering of wildflowers among the wet grass, a handsomely striped snail and a juicy selection of fat slugs of various colours, brought out by the rain.  I don't object to slugs in principle, though I do object to them eating my pansies, which of course is not really their fault.  How far, I wonder, do slugs travel?  Has anyone bothered to find out?  What is the world, to a slug?  This field?  This section of this field?  Do they stay put so long as there's plenty of food, or do they wander about all the time?  Do they have territories, and notional fences, of their own?

I debated whether or not to come out this morning, because it looked as though it was going to chuck it down, but decided that it was no good only seeing the valley in bright sunshine - I need to see it in all sorts of weathers if possible.  As it turns out, the shower was only brief and I've now not only got sunshine, but also a myriad raindrops for it to sparkle off in the grass and trees.  Plus plenty of slugs and snails of all descriptions, not to mention a few dusty-looking moths.  The stream is deeply hidden by a cloak of trees all the way along this field, just audible, barely visible.  I follow a faint animal path through the wet grass and it leads me to a point where the fence has, inexplicably, moved to the far side of the stream.  It's clear that other largish animals regularly come down to the water here.

Out comes the sound recorder to capture the delicate glooping of the stream finding its way around and underneath a fallen tree and other obstacles.  It strikes me that if it wasn't for these obstacles - either tree roots or fallen wood collecting debris - there wouldn't be any noise for me to record.  Where there's nothing in its way, the water flow is almost completely silent.  I try to make a drawing of one of the more intricate accumulations of wood and debris.  Not so good, except as an exercise in looking.  To me, drawing detail is never easy.  My mind seems to shy away from getting to grips with it.  I'm happier trying to sketch the sream itself, in its tunnel of trees.  While I work, I can hear various baby birds somewhere overhead, demanding to be fed.

In this area, it's even more obvious than usual how the land has been shaped by water running through it.  I am walking through a series of fields which are like the sections of a mattress, bulging grassy hummocks separated by sharp clefts, in each of which is a tiny stream, or the signs of a stream (i.e. boggy ground), flowing down the hill to the main brook.  It's as if the stream and its tributaries formed were a wire grid and the land was flesh being pressed up against the grid, and bulging through the gaps.

Trees also follow the water.  The main stream is shrouded in trees all along its length, and you can spot the smaller streams by looking for lines of trees running up the hill.  Under the trees, there are drifts of nettles and not much else.  I find a stretch of the stream where there are no trees on this side, and here, even though the ground is chopped up by animals coming down to the water, there are water forget-me-nots and buttercups taking advantage of the extra light.  Then the trees close in around the stream again, and the fences (and the nettles) return.

The field gates are mostly at the top of the hill, not down by the stream, so to follow the stream I am forced to zigzag up and down a series of fields from top to bottom, up hummock and down cleft, changing my viewpoint all the time. From one of these higher vantage points I see that the next field is frosted with a golden haze of buttercups.  Why, I wonder, is there an EU butter-mountain of buttercups in that field, and none in this one?  Just one more question to which I don't have an answer.

I get a glimpse of civilisation here; across the stream, framed by a gap in the trees, is the grassy hump of Down Hill and peering over the edge of it is Down Farmhouse.  Beyond here is a track which crosses from this field into the one on the other side of the stream, and to my surprise it's being carried on another ancient-looking arched stone bridge, very similar, to my eyes anyway, to the 'Roman' bridge up by Snow's Farm.  I fantasise about some ancient Roman student engineer making these bridges as apprentice pieces before going on to (literally) higher things.

As I approach the next field, a strong smell of horse floats down the wind to me so I'm not surprised to find a group of seven or eight young horses regarding me with deep interest.  One of them is having his hooves seen to by a competent-looking person who pays me no attention whatsoever.  The same cannot be said for the rest of the horses, who come hurrying over to see what I'm about.  I make the mistake of talking aimiably to them, with the intention of showing them that I'm (a) not scared and (b) not scary, but this immediately convinces them that I'm a person of goodwill who can be relied upon to produce something interesting out of my pockets.  Thereafter they stick to me so closely all the way down the field that I begin to fear I shall end up taking them home with me.  Too late, I remember that horses are like dogs and the thing to do, if you don't want their attentions, is ignore them.  There is an exciting moment when one decides he's being left behind and sets off towards me at a straight gallop, but nothing untoward happens and I reach the edge of the field quite untrampled, at which point all the horses finally lose interest.

This field is skirted by a sunken lane, and beyond here, the stream flows into the grounds of Steanbridge Mill.  So this is the furthest point of this morning's walk, but not the end of it, as I now have to retrace my steps, hopefully without re-acquiring my entourage of horses. Walking back along the higher edge of the fields, instead of by the stream, now looks attractive.

From the top of the field, under the eaves of the woods which rim the valley, it's even clearer how tiny streams have cut into the land to create a series of humps and clefts all the way up the valley to the nature reserve. This 'mattress' terrain makes it much harder work than walking along the flat bit by the stream, but it's worth it for the lovely and unusual views. Halfway along the field, the horses down by the stream finally realise where I am, visibly consider playing grandmother's footsteps with me, but decide that it's all too much effort.  Still, I'm not short of company; climbing out of one cleft, I come upon a handsome full-grown fox moseying about, presumably in search of small prey. He gives me a sharp look and, unlike the cubs I saw in the nature reserve, doesn't hang about to ask questions.  He looks in pretty good condition, so presumably the hunting is good just now.

The next field boundary is along a damp bit of nearly-stream and here I find a particularly dense patch of stinging nettles which is home to all sorts of mini-beasts.  There are lots of ladybirds, mostly, I think, of the non-native harlequin variety, but I do see a normal two-spot as well.  I know I should disapprove of the invading harlequins but (speak it softly) they are rather pretty...  There are also snails, and a whole series of interesting bugs.


There are also a lot of rooks up here by the woods and every now and then a flurry of them whirl up into the sky like bits of ash blown on the southwesterly breeze.  Visually, it's a splendid day, because the wind is moving the weather on so fast that you get constant changes of light and shade.

This particular damp gully is populated by elder trees covered in blossom, but a little further on is a wonderful old oak tree, rugged and spreading, the sort a king could hide in, even quite a small and unathletic king, since the lowest branches aren't more than about five feet off the ground.  Such trees aren't all that common in the valley. I hunker down underneath it to try to take a photo of as much of the spread of branches as I can, and it occurs to me to wonder how small beasts, such as voles, perceive trees, so much more massive then they are. Are they aware of them, except as an obstruction in their path?  Do they look up? I lie on my back and look up, to get a sort of vole's-eye view, and find that I can now only see a small part of the canopy.  For a vole who did look up, I imagine, a tree like this would fill the whole sky, perhaps the whole world.  So, to a vole, is a tree just a vast pattern of light and shade, or do they perhaps smell them and sense them in more complex ways than we do?  Or are voles more likely to be aware of the roots of the tree, which might perhaps provide runways, or hiding places, for small animals?

Looking up at the tree from this angle, I can also see lots of spiders webs in the hollows and holes in the trunk and between the branches, which reminds me that a tree this size is likely to be home to all sorts of beasts. And I become aware of something unusual about this particular tree: as well as the normal leaves growing out of the branches, it has leaves on slender stems growing directly out of the main trunk in dozens of places, even right down by the ground, so that it looks as though it's covered in soft green fur.

Emerging from my tree-reverie, I realise I've disturbed a deer, a female, by the look of it, or a youngster, which was couched in the long grass a stone's throw from me, quite invisible until she stuck her head up to look about. I can see her head and ears triangulating, knowing that something is amiss, but not yet sure whether it's necessary to move.  I sit still and try to draw her, or at least the bits I can see above the grass.  A couple of quick sketches, and then, as I look down to add something to the last one, she slips away; I look up, and she's gone, as silently as the shadow of the clouds racing across the sky.

It's time I was gone too, peaceful and lovely though it is under this tree.  Climbing up to the top of the field, I can see even more clearly how the slope of the land, smooth at the top, breaks into a sort of bugs-in-the-bolster topography (that may not be a geographical term of art) further down the slope, defined by the many small streams running down towards the brook.  From here I can look downstream and see the whole of the rest of the Slad valley opening out in front of me, or I can look upstream to the shoulders of the nature reserve and the Scrubs.  I think this is the first walk where I've had a really good, panoramic view of how a large part of the valley works.  It's sunny now, but still briskly breezy.  Above the sound of the wind the chirr of a grasshopper is just audible, a definite sound of summer. I also find a pathetic pile of pigeon feathers (possibly courtesy of the fox I met earlier) to remind me that life round here isn't necessarily that peaceful.

There is an official footpath crossing the last (or first) field diagonally from Catswood and leading me back towards Snows Farm via a plank bridge over yet another small tributary stream.  Back up the main stream, I come to the boundary of the nature reserve where a fence crosses the stream.  The stream has deposited a lot of debris against the fence, which has created a small lip and mini-waterfall.  In front of this, it looks as though a couple of beavers have been at work.  Someone has been piling big branches and chunks of tree trunk across the stream like the beginnings of a dam.

Retracing my steps over the 'Roman' bridge and up the lane, that's the end of one of my longest walks (time-wise) so far.  There seemed to be a great deal to see and think about today.

Google map of this walk

Walk 5 - A wildlife experience: Snows Farm Reserve 2

A warm and sunny afternoon in early June.  After the last walk, I have a strong feeling that perhaps I'm doing too much walking and not enough sitting still, too much looking at everything through the eye of the camera instead of my own eyes.  So today I've come back to the Snow's Farm Reserve with only my sketchbook and drawing kit and (of course) the sound recorder.  I start by drawing the ivy-wrapped trees I noticed last time not far from the Reserve entrance.  All goes well until I hear heavy footsteps behind me and realise that I have an audience.

The resident group of ponies were on the far side of the stream when I was last here, but this afternoon they are on this side, and evidently bored.  Feeling that I offer possibilities for entertainment, they have crept up on me, and having got my attention, they proceed to do everything possible to keep it, beginning with huffing on the back of my neck and working up to making a grab for my sketchbook and lipping the end of my pencil. When I remonstrate with the would-be pencil-biter he shows his teeth in what may or may not be an ingratiating grin. I retaliate by trying to record their heavy breathing, and the microphone gives them pause for thought.  Feeling that this should perhaps be the end of this particular sketch, I get up to move away, and as I do, I spot movement further up the valley.  Orange specks bouncing about on the sunlit grass.  Fox cubs, I think, and curse myself for not bringing my binoculars.  This was supposed to be purely a sketching trip, you see, and other sources of visual temptation, such as cameras and binoculars, have been left behind.  Damn.

I decide that in the circumstances, I've nothing to lose by simply trying to get closer.  So I start to walk slowly up the valley towards the distant foxes. The ponies follow, still clustering about me hopefully.  At first I am annoyed, assuming that this lumbering group will cause the foxes to flee, but it soon becomes clear that the cubs aren't bothered by the sight of a bunch of ponies.  I wonder whether that's because they are just used to seeing the ponies about and haven't spotted me amongst them, or whether it's sheer lack of experience of ponies and humans as sources of danger.  Either way, I succeed in getting within about 20 yards of where I last saw them.  At first, I think they've gone, but then one small cub trots out of the undergrowth almost next to me, and I realise that the others are lying down under a nearby tree.  Slowly and cautiously, I move into a patch of shade and sit down, and the ponies wander off a little way, seeking their own shade.

It's a group of 5 cubs, of varying sizes, so I suppose different ages and different parents.  No sign of an adult fox, so this lot are evidently home alone.  They play under the tree, smaller cubs bouncing on the older ones just like small children and occasionally provoking a yarring protest.  Sometimes they venture out into the open and wander about a bit before returning to the group.  I dare not open my bag and fish for my large sketchbook for fear of making a noise and scaring them off, but I do manage to get a hand to the tiny sketchbook and pen I always carry in a pocket, and I sit making scribbly drawings of them.

Presently one cub, braver or just more curious than the rest, spots me and decides to take a closer look.  He begins to stalk me, edging closer under cover of the undergrowth, popping up to peer at me, round-eyed, from behind a bush.  I try not to look directly at him, and concentrate on trying to make my presence as small and unthreatening as possible.  He gets quite close before running out of courage or interest and trotting back to the group.

I stay with the cubs for over an hour.  An extraordinary experience - it feels as though they, and I, and the horses, are all part of the landscape, everybody relaxing in this beautiful hot afternoon. Eventually, I can't resist the temptation to try and record the little nattering barks they are making to each other.  With infinite care, I extract the sound recorder from my pocket and slowly edge closer to them.  To my astonishment, they ignore me and carry on playing.  At this point the ponies wander back on to the scene, perhaps attracted by my movement.  Some of them come to investigate me, and some amble towards the cubs.  In the end, they get a little too close to everyone for comfort.  The foxes retreat further into the trees and out of sight, and I decide that it might be safer not to be at the level of a pony's heels, so I get up return the way I came, marvelling.

From the other side of the stile, a field's length away, I pause and look back.  I can still see the ponies, and after a moment or two, a cub reappears, trotting onto the grass, then running back to the trees.  So my leaving doesn't appear to have spooked them any more than my arrival did.  I feel immensely privileged, though when you think about it, in the world of a fox cub, I'm just another large animal, like the ponies, of which they (so far) know no ill.  If only it could stay like that.

Somehow I feel it might be significant that I didn't have the camera with me today, as if because I came intending to look properly, and not through a lens, I was granted sight of something special.  There's no logic to that thought, of course, but it stays in my mind.

Back on the road, I can hear the cheerful human sounds of people relaxing in their gardens.  And I think to myself that less than half a mile away are foxes doing pretty much the same thing - neither group aware of the other.