These short pieces were originally written for my WAYLA? (What are you looking at?) nature-writing newsletter.

Three Course Dinner

I had not seen Mrs Fox for a while. Yet I suppose it was no surprise that during the very cold weather, when the ground was hard with frost, she appeared at the kitchen door one night. Of course I opened a tin of sardines for her. Only half the tin in one go mind!

The next day I was tidying the fridge and disposing of a few ancient jars that had got hidden and now contained little more than mould. I also found some old, unsalted butter, well past its use by date but seemingly intact. I must have bought it for cake-making. In fact I would only have bought it for that because unsalted butter is a sin against toast. Anyway, I was debating what to do with it when Nick suggested I put it out for the fox.

“Do you think she’ll really go for it?” I asked him.
“Oh yes, she’ll need the fat!” he replied enthusiastically.

I let it warm up a bit before cutting it into cubes to make it easier to eat, then put it outside the back door in the same mushroom tray the sardines had gone into the night before. Not much time went by before Nick said he’d got some chicken bits for her too. Skin and such, that we weren’t going to eat and that don’t work too well in stock (which he was making). I said I’d put them on the butter, but when I went out the butter was already gone!

I called into Nick about this occurrence, remarking that surely it can’t have been a cat that took it. Then I said quite loudly into the night, “If there are any foxes close by there’s a little bit of chicken here too.”

Ten minutes or so later, I decided it was time for a beer, which requires a trip out to the fridge in the garage. When I came out a second later, a bottle of Gadds’ Black Pearl Stout in hand, a familiar foxy face greeted me. The appearance of which suggested that she probably thought a bit more grub wouldn’t go amiss, since it was so cold and all.

Being soft (of which more later) I agreed with her. I told her gently that I would need to get past her into the house to get to the rest of the sardines. She backed up obligingly but didn’t scarper. I brought the rest of the sardines forth and plopped them into the mushroom tray. She began a tentative approach so I quickly went inside and closed the door. A little while later I peeped out to see if she’d gone. Both she and the sardines were nowhere in sight, and that is the story of how I served a three course dinner to a fox.The beach in winter

The smell of cannabis and thuddingly bassy tones were jarring. Nick braved asking the man and woman who were behind the stench and the noise if they could turn it down a bit, as you could hear it even from the street above the beach. The man giggled inanely. The woman remained on her folding chair, but turned away from their fire to glare at us. Nevertheless they turned the music down. It and the odour receded further as we began to walk away, but it seems there is more than one kind of wildlife on the beach.

Still, the gently incoming tide lulled us with its calming, hypnotic noise. Damp seaweed presented delicious shades of green as it clung to rocks. The comings and goings of cormorants distracted us and prompted us to wonder just why it is they seem to be heading off somewhere, only to suddenly turn round and go back the way the came. “Cormorant commutes,” remarked Nick.

Seeing the small waves begin break a little more enthusiastically against some rocks at the water’s edge, I raised my bins in the hope there might be some purple sandpipers. There were! Or were there? There were. Definitely more than one, but at gone 3pm the light wasn’t the best. One flew up to find a better rock, but I could still see another where I’d spotted them. A curlew stalked past haughtily. Ok, not haughtily, but being so tall next to the dumpy little sandpipers it gave an impression of trying to remain aloof. Dropping my bins back down to my chest I realised Nick had advanced some way up the beach and thought I’d better get a wriggle on.

In any case there were more birds further up. More purple sandpipers, looking momentarily like large chestnut mushrooms, until they lift their heads showing a beak which distinguished them from an edible fungus. Oystercatchers and curlews stood out more because of their size, but in between small, pale sanderlings and the odd turnstone dashed about. Then Nick performed one of his best tricks. Not exactly a minor miracle, more a nonchalant unveiling of a prize. Being ahead, and also being a good spotter, he’s seen a group of birds swimming in the shallows and queries what the clearly ‘not waders’ are. They are brent geese. Compact, black geese, almost more duck-like in shape, with a few white markings on their necks and bodies and obvious white bums once they are in flight.

I see them in flight, passing by here, most winters but I have never had the pleasure of seeing them swimming and feeding so close to the shore. At first it seems there are only two or three, but once we get our eye in we count six. We walk on and leave them to it, enjoying the colourful sunset show that’s starting. Light in the Turneresque skies, changing from flaming, bright peach and slowly darkening to a soulful pink, which combines perfectly with the blue-grey sea and cloud and makes the sort of reflections which shows Mother Nature is one of, if not the, greatest artists.

Then we spot more geese. Lots more geese. Is there ten? No, eleven. Are the other six still there? Yes! Not eleven. Twelve, thirteen, fourteen and more. Eventually we settle on a figure of ‘around 30’ because it’s hard to keep track as they float on the water and bend their heads to feed. The light will be gone soon, so we turn and head for home, passing our original six geese even closer to shore on the rising tide as we go.

You’re soft!

“You’re soft!” Nick shouted gleefully out of the window at me, as I bent over and encouraged the creature out of the pot. It took a little persuading but soon plopped out and was hopefully reunited with what I thought might be one of its offspring.

The creatures in question are naughty woodlice, which somehow seem to find their way into our front room now and again. One day we will find their entry point and thwart them! Until then, on evenings when the windows are damp and need a wipe, I chase the little blighters into one of the pots I keep for ‘mothing’ and take them outside. Hence the cries of “You’re soft!”.