It is so lovely to have all the birds singing again, the garden is full of sound and activity. The Blackbirds and Jackdaws are gorging themselves on Rowan berries, whilst the Squirrels are obsessively burying nuts. The crop of nuts and berries seems prolific this year so their is a lot to 'squirrel' away.
A very energetic Robin has claimed the garden as his/her exclusive domain and endeavours usually unsuccessfully to repel all interlopers. Both male and female set up winter territories and both sing about it. Ours holds conversations everyday with another across the road which in all probability is its mate.
It is very nice to be owned and as Simon King says in his new book 'Nature Watch', I have my own 'ITS HER' call that goes out around the neighbourhood each time I venture into the garden, because everything small and large appears from everywhere and nowhere.
In the early morning dew the shrubs shimmer with the intense activity of millions of spiders cobweb constructions made the night before. As you walk down the garden they waft and stick to your face as the lace floats across from one side to the other.
The White Poplar is an exceptional tree as the pale undersides of the leaves appear like a dusting of snow over the tops of the trees when the wind tips them over. Originally accepted as a non native tree it is now discovered to have been around a lot longer than was thought and is now consider native. Usually planted as wind breaks, together they look like a distant hill top covered in snow.
The rest of the trees and shrubs are having a sedate autumnal transition from verdant green to mottled yellows, burnt umber, yellow ochre and russet reds. We have had no gales thus far which have cut short autumns in the past. Where I sit now the sun shimmers and glows through the beech leaves as they rustle in a gentle breeze. If only photograhy could capture the full ethereal light to take away with you to open up again on a dull dreary day in January. We have such short memories and forget oh so quickly those special moments of a season. Already the wildflowers of the meadow have become a distant shadow memory of the summer.