lighten the load and enable the tree to photosynthesise more easily, giving it a new lease of life. Whilst the beech tree would need no more than a few branches to be removed for safety and aesthetics, he also pointed out considerable damage to one of the main branches that I hadn’t previously spotted, which had been caused by those naughty grey squirrels’ unfortunate habit of bark-stripping.
Agreeing that the central rowan had always had insufficient space to flourish and did look in poor condition, Rob said that he would do his best to avoid too much damage to my newly demarked meadow whilst bringing it down. His chainsaw, we agreed, would also be taken to the huge rotten pergola in the centre of the lawn, which would have the dual benefit of both removing the garden’s biggest eyesore and opening up the meadow to a splash more of sunshine. I love it when a plan comes together!
As I was spending the following week away filming in Scotland, Christina had agreed to take a day’s holiday on the Friday to be both tea provider and photographer when Rob returned, this time with both chainsaw and colleagues to carry out the work. Catching the last flight back to Bristol, I arrived too late to see all the changes before nightfall and so had a frustrating wait until the following day before I was able to assess their handiwork.
Rushing out at first light with a coffee to inspect their efforts, I was flabbergasted at the difference. Just the removal of the rowan and the pergola alone had transformed the would-be meadow into one where light could penetrate. Apparently working from the top down to minimise damage to the ground flora, the rowan had been dismantled in less than an hour and had transmogrified into a neat pile of logs. Likewise the monstrous carbuncle that was the pergola had been turned into a neatly stacked pile of weathered timber – surely I would be able to find a multitude of uses for all that lovely wood? Other features permanently erased from the garden included the small birch tree cowering behind its bigger brother in the corner by the playing field and one of the two terribly disfigured cherry trees. Showing some artistic licence with the chainsaw, the other cherry tree had been thoughtfully converted to a bird table, with the table top having been fashioned out of a spliced section of the rowan’s trunk.
By systematically severing all the huge climbing stems and stripping the majority of the foliage out of the canopy, the oak was finally free of the ivy’s suffocating grip, and looked like it would now be able to breathe properly for the first time in a couple of decades. The beech had also been carefully pruned to both give it a good shape and to ensure not too many branches would fall into Marjory and Dennis’s garden. Finally, Rob had made sure that, wherever possible, trampling of all the lovely spring bulbs had been kept to a minimum – spring could now commence!
One of the little treats that we had long been planning, but until now had not found the time to carry out, was a mini-investigation of the surrounding land both upstream and downstream of our section of the brook. So, donning our wellingtons, Christina and I slithered down the bank and into the water for our very first exploratory paddle. As the water tinkled around our boots at a depth of no more than six inches, the first impression we were able to gain from this totally different perspective was how much lower the level of the water actually was below the bottom of the garden. Being a full three yards below the meadow meant that a storm of biblical proportions would have to occur before our property was in any danger of flooding. The downside of this disparity in height, however, also meant that, as the bank faced north, natural light would always be thin on the ground. It wasn’t until we were able to stand back and inspect the bank from this hitherto unseen angle that we realised how dark and dingy our little wood really was.
In fact, so dark was the steepest section of the bank below the oak tree that the only vibrant sign of life emanating from the gloom was provided by discrete clusters of the shade-loving hart’s-tongue fern, arising out of the bare earth like resplendent green shuttlecocks. With their strap-shaped leaves, which supposedly resemble a female deer’s tongue, this perennial evergreen is one of those plants that is always capable of brightening up the shadiest of woodland floors, so we were delighted it had chosen to take up residence on our bank too.
Being south-facing, the opposite bank, albeit distinctly shaded by the trees and shrubs from our bank, inevitably had more floral potential. In addition to the hart’s-tongue fern and the ubiquitous groundcover of ivy, I was a touch envious to encounter the first leaves of ramsons, or wild garlic, beginning to emerge above ground. Immediately recognisable in early spring by the sweet-and-sour cloying smell of its leaves and then later in the season by the drifts of white flowers as the plant monopolises huge areas, this was one woodland specialist I was hoping would also grace our side of the bank too.
Electing to explore downstream first, we had barely walked past the bottom of Marjory and Dennis’s garden before we heard a bird call we knew instantly. ‘Kingfisher!’ we both shouted in unison, as our ears caught its shrill characteristic whistle.
Aware of my interest in birds, I have lost track of the number of times that novice birdwatchers have asked me for any tips or advice as to how they might finally track down a sighting of a kingfisher. My response to this question is always the same; learning and recognising the call of this noisy and pugnacious little bird means it will often telegraph its arrival, giving you a moment’s preparation time to catch a glimpse as it whizzes past.
Sure enough, no more than a second after hearing the call, Christina spotted a blue bullet powering upstream towards us. Shocked at seeing our two huge looming presences standing in the middle of the brook, or its flight path, the bird veered away and took a short cut across the inner bend of the meander. Going at such speed, the kingfisher had to bank to make the turning, meaning we were treated to the most wonderful sighting of its orange underside before it righted itself and joined the brook again some 10 yards further upstream.
It was a thrilling encounter and an exciting moment as we realised that not only could we add kingfisher to our garden list, but having survived the harsh winter it might well be here all season. Breeding kingfishers at the bottom of our ex-council house garden – how good did that sound? I don’t mind telling you that at that moment I also performed a little spontaneous and aquatic jig of delight!
Buoyed by this wonderful find, we were soon brought back down to earth further downstream by the realisation that the brook, in addition to great wildlife, contained a disturbingly large amount of rubbish, both snagged in the water and littering the banks. Everything from plastic bottles to a fly-tipped pram and a bus-stop sign had somehow managed to find their way into the brook. Another job had just been added to our to-do list.
In some spots the brook was much more sluggish and deeper than at the bottom of our garden and so we had to either take a detour along the bank or move through the water very slowly to ensure it didn’t breach our wellington tops. Large sections of both banks seemed to be either attached to gardens or were just a tangled mess without an immediately identifiable owner. Scrambling up one area of bank, no more than a hundred yards from our garden, was a section dominated by alder trees at the water’s edge, where we were delighted to find a large and obviously very active badger sett. Occupying a little ridge which ran parallel with the stream, the sett consisted of at least half a dozen entrances, most of which were devoid of leaf litter, a sure-fire sign of recent use. Additionally, two of these entrances were so large that Christina could probably have joined the badgers down below, had she felt that way inclined, and there was evidence of fresh digging within the last 24 hours. Obviously the incumbents had just carried out their spring clean!
Retracing our steps back to the house and following the brook upstream, the bank on the south side soon flattened out to a small, wooded plateau littered with beer cans. Wondering how these had found their way here, it was not until a quick scout around that we realised that the playing field, which partly ran adjacent to our garden, also had a gate in the 6-foot-high fence, giving quick and easy access to the river bank – so this was where the local adolescents came for a clandestine lager or two! On the opposite side of the brook, the water had gouged out a steep sandy bank some 6 feet high, which seemed perfect for a nesting kingfisher. On closer inspection, my instinct had patently been