An early morning Moment

 The warm early Spring weekend just past has lulled me into a false sense of security. This early Monday morning is barely above freezing. I regret my choice of light-weight walking trousers rather than fleeced-lined ones. And that just last evening, sorting clothes from laundry activities, I’d put away gloves and scarves for two seasons. I tut and remind myself of “Cast ne’er a clout til the may is out”. It’s only just March, for goodness sake. (Although ‘may’ in the old adage refers to the flowering may blossom of the hawthorn tree, which can appear at the end of April.)

But even though it’s colder than I expected, or like, I love it that I’m not only actually up, dressed, and walking about outside at 6.30am, but I’m probably the first and only person on the reserve. The vehicle gate is not yet unlocked, but I can access via the small pedestrian opening and meander down the wide lane that over both weekend days was car-lined all the way. This morning, criss-crossing from the reedbeds on one side and the woodland-edged lake on the other, it’s just me and what I call the ‘little birds’. 

little bird, loud noise. Wren, courtesy of Liz Newton

On the few hundred yards walk down car-park lane - without counting the waterfowl I can hear but not see through the early morning mist - I clock twenty species. Many are ‘ordinary’ (though is there such a thing?) garden birds such as robins, dunnocks, blackbirds, tits and finches etc, but there are some specialities like the reed bunting - the males sporting their new breeding plumage - and the Cetti’s warbler: like the wren, small in size but loud in voice. 

To reach twenty species, I have to cheat slightly to count two birds that aren’t in my ‘little’ category, but their crossing of the lane is quantitatively and qualitatively significant. Numbers-wise (and noise-wise!) it’s the black-headed gulls making their harsh karring and kekking sounds - both as they fly above me and on the breeding rafts on the lake. The breeding rafts are supposed to be for terns, but the gulls didn’t get the memo, and anyway, the terns aren’t back yet from wintering in Africa. 

Black-headed gulls prospecting for nesting spaces

As ever on my nature wanders, the whole experience is enjoyable, the whole event an adventure, but often there are special moments. And today, the moment - the qualitative experience - is a two-heron event. Having just found the first blackthorn blossom of the year, and taken a photo, I’m standing close to the hedge, sniffing the delicate blackthorn flowers, when I hear and feel the air displacement of wings: a heron crosses low over the hedgetops from the reedbed to the lake - and very low over my head. It was probably unaware of my presence. 

early morning mist, early blackthorn blossom

As I remain there - shocked into immobility by such a close encounter - another heron follows. So low I could reach up and touch it. I love birds so much I can enjoy watching them perched high up in trees, flying far away in the sky, or bobbing on distant stretches of water, but there is nothing to beat proximity: so rarely achieved with birds, and usually - even when it happens - like this event, so brief.

Perhaps that’s one of the reasons for my attraction to nature’s fauna: in most cases, if a species is truly wild, proximity is hard to achieve. And certainly the opportunity for easy proximity is one of the reasons for my attraction to nature’s flora: I love getting down and dirty for a close inspection of tiny plants; or smelling blossom, nibbling berries, or running my hands over the bark of trees. Climbing high into the branches of trees too, hiding among the leaves, though I rather think those days are behind me now. 

But even with the just-out-of-reachness of most birds and beasties, there’s still plenty to enjoy in the nemeta of the natural world: so my wanders and adventures will continue. Hopefully, too, those moments.

Widening Emotional Resilience: experiencing Abundance

A current project as part of my wider Nemetona work is facilitating a group of women looking at ways to widen their emotional resilience - particularly in the current chaotic environmental and political times in which we live. 

Something that I learned very early on in my facilitation career (useful in life generally too, I think) was to never ask participants to do an activity I had not done myself. So, as my plan was to encourage an 'audit' of how they experienced their current state of 'tools in the emotional resilience toolbox' to be - with a view to setting goals and intentions for gaining new ones, should they wish to -  I recently completed an audit for myself.

I use a two part structure for this: the first to include the emotional resilience skills we might call inherent... ie, those we believe ourselves to hold already - whether via nature or nurture, genetic predisposition, or simply learning from the accumulation of life experiences. As Friedrich Nietzsche said way back in 1888, "Out of life's school of war - what doesn't kill me, makes me stronger".  Telling others what doesn't kill them makes them stronger has become a bit of cliche, and can appear to be dismissive of truly challenging situations, but some recent psychological research has proved that many people do indeed feel "stronger", "inspired" or more "spiritual" after experiencing traumatic events. 

The second part of the audit is to consider what proven 'tips, tricks and handy hints' exist for gaining more emotional resilience. These might be activities I have never even thought about trying; or I might be aware of but not tried for various reasons; or I've tried and found helpful but use infrequently. The idea being that we need to increase, both quantitively and qualitatively, those activities we find helpful, and to experiment with those we've yet to try.

One of my personal favourites is to ensure that I feel resourced as much as I can be, as often as I can be, and one way to do that for me is via reading... I taught myself to read (apparently) before I went to school and have always read voraciously. Studying for a degree in English Literature helps you learn to read quickly too! I read books and journals relevant to my areas of interest, and nowadays of course enjoy the resources of the Internet too. I subscribe to many blogs, newsletters etc and Positive News is one of them. This week, there's a brilliant article about Abundance and they are asking for readers' experience of how abundance comes into their lives. I found this wonderful to muse on this morning during my abundance of proper coffee and toast (proper marmalade too - no orange-flavoured goo for me, thank you very much), and decided to write a short response. This is it:

We hear constantly about losses in the natural world, especially reduction in or total extinction of species. I do not want to minimise this real and dangerous situation - I have a lived experience of being a child, in the 1950's, out on my own, always wandering lanes, woodlands, and river banks and now, wandering those places again, weeping for the differences I see.

AND YET... I experience abundance most easily and most often in my life when I connect to the natural world, depleted as it may be. In the wilder places we do have left, and in places protected by appropriate agencies, there is a richness of habitats and species to wonder at and to enjoy, as well as plenty of clean fresh air to breathe. And even in the busiest, most overcrowded, most polluted places, nature survives, or attempts to. A bee collects nectar from a dandelion growing through a crack in the pavement. Peregrines nest and successfully breed in tall city structures. Across the globe, myriad insects, birds and many mammals survive - even thrive - on human detritus. The other-than-human has an abundant capacity for endurance, whatever we humans do to endanger that. Such 'endurance abundance' enables me to survive - even thrive - also. 

An Abundance of Sweet Honesty: zoom in - each black dot is the seed of a new plant

I hope you can enjoy reflecting on your own experiences of Abundance. I really think it deserves a capital letter.

A favourite kind of Abundance

Imbolc, 2025

In the island nemeton that is Albion (the ancient name for the landmass of Scotland, Wales and England), we’re lucky to have seasons: and I love them all. But I have to admit I do struggle a little sometimes with the colder and shorter days of winter. And by now, the end of January, I’ve had enough, and search for signs of Spring. 

hazel catkins, North Cave Wetlands

But Imbolc (the ancient Celtic celebration heralding the Spring) is upon us, and the hazel catkins are beginning to flower: one of the key phenological markers for the citizen science project, Nature’s Calendar. 

I walked the reserve at North Cave Wetlands today, in glorious sunshine, looking for signs of Spring. It was wonderful to see that all the ice has melted - even with a previous night’s light frost - and to see and hear so many busy birds. During the very cold spell, the partially frozen lakes and frosted vegetation at the reserve were a beautiful sight

but it was discomforting to see so few waterfowl - and those that were there, struggling to break through ice, and find food. On one very open lake, completely frozen, there were no birds at all except a single pied wagtail walking about on the ice, no doubt thinking he’d found a new car park.

My interest is in all of nature, not just birds, and I’ve never been a serious ‘lister’, but now, given my proximity and regular visits to the reserve, one of my fun 2025 projects is to see as many of its birds as I can. There is an all-time list of species for the reserve, starting from when it first became a reserve from the leavings of the quarry industry, and this list contains every species ever seen there, even if only once, or only passing through. There are 250 on the list, which given the full British list is 640, is a good percentage - and will be a challenge for me with my limited ID skills and even more limited vision! 

But even though it feels a little nerdy and train spotter-y to be ticking birds off a list, I will not be forgetting the more significant reasons that I’m visiting the reserve. And indeed, not forgetting the importance of the birds themselves: for what they bring us homo sapiens and what their presence (or sadly, increasing absence) means for the wider environment.

So, on this beautiful cold, sunny day I added three birds to my NCW list: common gull, oystercatcher, and a type of duck called a shoveler. Common gull not particularly so - one of several misnomers in the ‘birding industry’! - but none of the three are classed as rarities or are red-listed. The rarity label I do not care about. I’m not a ‘twitcher’, chasing rarities - birds that often shouldn’t be where they are and may not be able to survive -  but I do want to acknowledge more formally my wonderful experiences of seeing the species of my personal nemeton, as well as the nemeton of Albion generally.

This photograph is not the bird I saw at the Wetlands, but my ‘lifer’ (the birders’ word for the first time to see that species anywhere, ever) which was on a wildlife holiday trip to the fabulous Shetland Islands.

courtesy of islamacleod.com

But back to Imbolc: I love the four ancient Celtic festivals (Imbolc, Beltane, Lughnassa, Samhain) and the solstices and equinoxes between them as a way of marking, celebrating, and giving thanks for special times, and changing seasons… a process both sacred and pragmatic to the early Britons. Together, these eight special times form what contemporary celebrants call the Celtic Wheel of the Year and although I’ve marked those festivals in some way for several years now, I’m emphasising them more this year, as part of my environmental ‘innervism’, as well as my celebration of sacred spaces and sacred times.

An owlsome experience at North Cave Wetlands: a very special Nemeton

I’ve written blogposts for the Yorkshire Wildlife Trust about their reserves at Askham Bog and Spurn Point, but now, recently moved to North Cave, I’ll be focusing my writing around their North Cave Wetlands site.

In preparation, today, I was lucky enough to meet up with Paul, the Reserve Assistant at the Wetlands, to discover more about his work there - especially his owl-monitoring procedures. Not least of which includes checking out the nest boxes for tawny, barn and little owls: a fantastic opportunity for me!

The Little Owls will let you in...

I was very excited: not only do I love owls, but since moving to the village I’ve seen little owls on the reserve, and I’ve heard tawny owls calling several times now. Once, when watching from the open window of my flat with all the lights off, I was lucky enough to spot two dark shapes flying between the trees. It’s been just too cold recently to be watching from open windows, but I still love to lie in bed listening to their calls as they stake out their territories.

First up, Paul showed me around his ‘den’: actually the site maintenance building where all the reserve’s equipment is stored: not least all the techy gizmos required for watching activity from the nest box cameras. It all looked very impressive, but as a non-techy person, I won’t attempt to describe it. In any case, I put all the successful little videos down to owl magic. Courtesy of those magic owls, you can see footage of the little owl pair here and footage of the tawny pair here (do have your sound on - such cute little noises from the tawnies: they’re not just horror film tuwit-tuwoo-ers).

Paul’s list of jobs to do, whether related to surveying and monitoring, or to general maintenance on the reserve, seemed endless, and we discussed the need for more volunteers: more about that in a later blog. For today, we at last set off for our walk round the reserve, including into areas off-limits to ordinary visitors. More excitement for me: love a little light transgression on a Tuesday morning.

First, we headed for where the tawny boxes are hidden in a wooded clearing well off the beaten track. On the way, we passed through a tree-shrouded pond area where Paul has seen a female kingfisher investigating a small bank: a future possible kingfisher breeding area? Yes please, Mrs Kingfisher.

At the tawny owl box area we were rewarded with a sighting: the owl sat in a nearby tree, motionless, in full view, facing towards us, checking us out. Paul believes the pair is acclimatised to him, as they allow him to get quite close before flying off. Apparently, today, I was allowed too, as the owl didn’t move, even as we moved closer. When I looked at the owl through my binoculars, I was shocked by its size. I appreciate that the point of bins is to make creatures look bigger, and I know from bird books that tawny owls can be up to 40 cms tall, but having only ever seen them with my naked eye and in dusky light, I was surprised by both its height, and its beautiful sun-flecked plumage. 

Tawny Owl, North Cave Wetlands

We went to the tree where the box is sited so that Paul could check inside (via one of those owl-magic little mobile screens he plugged into leads dangling down the tree trunk). As the inside of the box appeared on the screen, Paul was not happy to see two squirrel eyes looking up at him. 

“I’ll have to come back later and clear it out again,” he grumbled. “They fill the box full of leaves and food items and there’s no room for the tawny to nest build and lay eggs…” He explained later that once the owl has ‘taken possession’, squirrels won’t enter the box, but at this early stage of the breeding process, it’s first come, first served.

As we headed off to the little owl nest box area, Paul noticed a heap of earth he hadn’t seen before. We investigated. There were signs of fresh digging around a too-big-for-a-rabbit hole in the bank, with broken vegetation indicating the recent presence of something. Most exciting of all: fresh animal footprints in the newly dug out earth. Paul said he’d install a monitoring camera, and took a photo of the prints for checking out later, but we were both thinking the same… badger?

Near the little owl box tree, Paul checked inside via his mobile screen: no-one at home. This particular box is visible to visitors on the reserve, many of them know where it is and have seen the little owl pair,  and many of the photographers who post on the NCW’s facebook page have taken wonderful shots of the owls who love to perch on or around their box, especially when the sun is shining. I’ve even found one of them myself, perusing me from a fork in the nearby oak tree, and I’m not known for my spotting skills. Paul soon found one of them in another nearby tree and we spent a few moments watching it, watching us. This time, looking through my bins, I was shocked by how small the bird was! Clue in its title, of course (a mere 23 cms) but such a stark difference in both height and bulk between the two birds. I was also struck once more by the similarity of owls and cats: both species seem able to sit, motionless, for hours: sometimes eyes open, sometimes eyes closed, but otherwise, zero going on. Apparently. Maybe there’s a lesson for our frantic species to learn there?

So, finally, before Paul had to return to his million-and-one tasks, he showed me where the barn owl box was placed. Brand new, and as yet, no apparent activity, inside or out, but barnies are seen frequently (not by me, but hopefully also ‘as yet’) around the reserve and are known to breed in nearby farm buildings, so there is every chance they might take occupation of the box.

Beautiful Barnie (with lunch)

But the barn owl non-sighting wasn’t quite my final experience after all: in a downstairs window of the old farm house building, newly acquired by the Yorkshire Wildlife Trust, sits a stuffed toy barn owl. It’s an ancient trick known as ‘sympathetic magic’ - don’t say I didn’t warn you…

Thank you Paul Wray, North Cave Wetlands Reserve Assistant, for photos and videos.

A New Nemeton

We’re very close now to the Winter Solstice, and my winter-dark reflection time, so here I go…

Another few months, another move: this time to the little east(ish) Yorkshire village of North Cave. The main ‘reason’ for this move was because the flat available was so close to the Yorkshire Wildlife Trust’s nature reserve of North Cave Wetlands.

I’ve loved this place for years, and on and off have watched it grow from the bleak left-overs of the quarrying industry to the amazing place it is now… and it’s still developing, with all sorts of plans now the Trust has acquired the empty farmhouse and its buildings, situated right in the centre of the reserve. 

Over the years I’ve visited, I’ve had some wonderful nature moments: mostly alone, sometimes with a variety of my special people (even if one or two of them have needed more persuading than others!).

My recent visits though have taken on a whole new significance. Primarily because I feel now a deep connection with this place, rather than it being simply another lovely wild(er) space to visit. Even when I am not there, but sat here at the laptop, or reading on my sofa, I feel its existence just a one minute drive or a ten minute walk away. I open my window and love just knowing it’s there. At night, especially, when human activity is reduced, I can hear and even smell it. And in the daylight I see many of its other-than-human residents and visitors too, passing my window. 

Hobby: a beautiful summer visitor

I’m loving it that I have a new and rather special nemeton. I’ve created my sacred indoor space, as I always do, wherever my current four walls are, but to have an outdoor nemeton so close by, and to feel its existence so intimately - even when I’m not in it - is a new and wonderful shift for me. I’m planning on facilitating some wellbeing walks there in the new year, so let’s see how that goes…

I’m also planning on another blog, dedicated to the reserve, though with more focus on and detail about the species I encounter there, but for now here’s one small but amazing event from yesterday’s visit:

Lapwing for Lunch?

To see a peregrine is a wonderful thing. To see a peregrine in a stoop dropping down at speed onto its prey - even better. To see a peregrine ‘contour flying’, trying for a kill at a wetland, putting up hundreds of waterfowl in its wake - better still. 

And this is just what happened - repeatedly - at North Cave Wetlands this morning. I was chatting with a friend, a fellow regular visitor (with better eyesight than me) who drew my attention to an approaching peregrine. 

It was wonderful to get a closer look at its beautiful markings through my binoculars, but as the lapwings, gulls and a variety of other birds took to the air, and the peregrine came at them from another direction, I decided the action was a big enough picture - and close enough -  to watch with the naked eye. Always my preference if possible: the least encumbrance twixt me and the action.

Over and over again the peregrine made unsuccessful forays, from different approaches, over the lake, putting up the resident ducks, lapwings, gulls and even the cormorants. Over and over again the peregrine disappeared briefly into the trees and bushes surrounding the lake and the water birds returned to their feeding and grooming. But the peregrine maintained its repeated attacks. Once, so low over the water even the dabbling ducks became divers, and disappeared underwater rather than attempting to rise from it.

It was one of those moments - in this case, a long-lasting moment - I love so much when out and about in nature: an event giving me that absolute sense of what I call the ‘otherness of nature’. The sense that nothing else was happening in my life - or indeed the world at large - apart from witnessing this hungry peregrine trying to get food, and its prey trying to avoid becoming food. The primal struggle of eat or be eaten playing out right in front of my eyes. We are being reminded repeatedly these days (and rightly so) that we homo sapiens are nature too, but this small vignette of that ‘otherness’ of the natural world made me reflect on how much we have removed ourselves from it. Or tried to.

Then, suddenly, my reverie was interrupted. 

“It’s got something!” my friend shouted. This I thought I wouldn’t see properly without my binoculars, but then realised the ‘something’ must be big, as even without bins I could see it hanging from the peregrine’s talons. The something was soon identified as a lapwing: quite a good sized lunch for the peregrine. 

I grieved momentarily for the lapwing, but was pleased the peregrine’s persistence had paid off.