The countryside in May
Sarah Ryan spies nesting herons and darting tadpoles while taking in the beauty of a scented woodland carpet
ACROSS THE WATER is a woodland of larches, bright with fresh, young needles. The lake ripples with the mingled colours of the sky and the trees at the shore as a pale grey bird flies in from the west. Though distant, it is unmistakable, and I lift my binoculars to my eyes to trace its flight; twisting the ridged dial with my forefinger until the blur of blue and green, and the pale speck moving across it sharpen into focus.
The heron’s neck is crooked, its wings bent to catch the lift of the air, and long legs trail behind it like ribbons. I follow its flight as it glides over the trees and, with a couple of awkward flaps, lands in a messy nest among the highest spindly branches.
Knowing how pliable larch branches are, I am astonished at how they can hold the weight of a nest, chicks and two adult birds. A Grey heron, Ardea cinerea, stands up to 40in (1m) tall and has a wingspan of up to 6ft 4in (1.95m). Yet, there they are, and not just one: the treetops bristle with nests, some of which have been crafted over years; each a platform of larger sticks and smaller twigs. Even with my binoculars, the birds are too far away for me to see any of the younger, scruffier inhabitants, but every few minutes, one of the colony takes off and flaps away or returns, dipping down to the nests.
I might be able to see a bit more if I can get a little closer, so I pick my way down the bank until muddy water swills around the soles of my boots. There is a tiny, dark dash in the murk, and I crouch down, letting my eyes look past the water’s bright reflection to see that the shallows are flickering with tadpoles. Tiny and black as droplets of ink in clear water, no legs yet, they dart for the cover of foliage and stones. For those that grow into frogs at the foot of the heronry, that instinct is going to be essential.
Familiar fragrance
I cannot access the woods on the other side of the lake, where the birds are, but there is a large woodland climbing up towards moorland behind me, so I leave the busy parents and walk towards it. Gravel crunches under my boots, and a light wind shakes the trees. Somewhere in there, a Great tit, Parus major, is cheeping. Lifted on that breeze is a rich perfume, as unmistakable as the heron’s silhouette, and I round the bend to see crowds of indigo flowers beneath the trees. It is bluebell season: the slender, nodding blooms vivid with colour and
“Hang-head Bluebell, Bending like Moses’ sister over Moses, Full of a secret that thou dar’st not tell”
George MacDonald, ‘Wild Flowers’
throwing out an intense fragrance. One bumblebee, lured in, hangs from a flower by its forelegs, pushing its face and proboscis deep into the pipe. Then, it lets go and buzzes to another, and still another.
Woken by the sun
Wood sorrel, Oxalis acetosella, is also in bloom, each flower bearing five wide, white petals lined with purple veins. In the heart, around the ovary and anthers, are yellow markings like a five-pointed star. I pick a few of the trefoil leaves and bite one of the stems between my teeth. It is as sweetly sour as a lemon. At night, both flower and leaves will fold up until the sun rises again in a process that I have just learned is called nyctinasty: the movement of plants in response to darkness. It is from the Greek ‘nux’ or ‘nukt’, meaning ‘night’, and nastos, ‘pressed’.
Almost everything is in flower up on the moor. Tufty white heads bounce on the end of the stalks of bog cotton, and round flowers dangle from the bilberry bushes; the colour and shape of tiny apples. Back down by the lake shore, I pause again to watch the herons. As I turn for home, another takes off from its nest and flies away, continuing a work that will last all spring.