RUMBLINGS…

A flurry of feathers floated past the window this morning as I worked on a pile of features and projects which currently seems to have no end.

At first it had me flummoxed – feathers falling from the sky? But it took no more than a couple of seconds for me to work out what must have happened – sparrowhawk kill!

Sure enough, I looked out of the office window on to next door’s lawn to see the village sparrowhawk stood in one corner, eyes narrowed, talons firmly clamped around the carcass of a pigeon from which he was already tearing lumps of red flesh.

What a glorious sight! What a glorious moment in the harsh reality that is wild nature! What a glorious excuse to abandon the computer and with it the work, grab the camera, attach my new zoom lens and fire of a few shots of this barred hunter.

I’ve seen him often enough before, making futile bids to grasp the blackbirds, chaffinch and goldcrest that visit the garden every day, but until today it’s never been more than a fleeting glance.

Now, I watched him for ten minutes or more - and he knew that I was watching. Those constantly alert eyes… he sensed the window open, heard the shutter click, saw the flash fire (must learn to switch that off…) - you can even see the flash reflect off his eyes in some of the photos I managed to snatch.

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This is Sierra Jane Manning, born on Monday, March 16. This is supposed to be a (rare, occasional) outdoor blog but I suppose her name is as good as an excuse as any!

The birth was perfect and very swift. As Sierra was two weeks overdue, Steph was due to be induced but there wasn’t even time for that; less than four hours after contractions began, Sierra was delivered in the induction suite before there’d even been chance to get to the labour room.

In fact, Sierra was very nearly born on the ward’s bathroom floor. Steph delivered with only the lightest gasp of gazanairre – there wasn’t time for anything such as proper pain killers. Thankfully she didn’t need stitches afterwards either. Mother and baby came home yesterday and are doing perfectly; Sierra’s feeding well. No doubt I’ll get a hunger for outdoorsy again soon but for now every thing’s family flavoured and it tastes great.

Sierra’s name, of course, refers to the Sierra Nevada in California, the “range of light”. Steph and I hiked there along the John Muir Trail a couple of years ago. It’s one of the most beautiful places on Earth, and a place that holds special memories. Sierra is a fairly popular name in the US – and it’s also a very beautiful name! Ron “Pathfinder” Strickland who I met on the Pacific Crest Trail in 2004 suggested it a few weeks ago during a Skype chat we had… to him we say a very grateful “thank you” for such a beautiful suggestion. We owe you a pork pie Ron – it’s on its way, also via Skype!

And congrats to the wags at TGO who correctly predicted that Sierra’s name might have a PCT connection – by the way, the fluffy rabbit’s great folks!

To everyone who’s sent messages and presents, Sierra says “thank you - see you at the bar!”

Just for fun this one, seeing as how I’m stuck indoors writing about gear, when I should be out there using it.

Not sure what Brock’s doing in the clip… fortunately there’s strategically placed foliage in the way!

Courtesy of BBC’s Breathing Spaces newsletter (cheers Angie). It’s not terribly clear in the final frame of the video but the fox is urging you to go to the BBC’s Breathing Spaces site and pick up some tips about how to help wildlife over the Christmas period.

By the way, if you fancy some graft and a bit of a physical workout this weekend, villagers in Stainforth are going to be “excavating” the old pinfold by the vicarage. Folk who are strong i’ th’ arm are welcome to come along and help chuck boulders out of the pinfold and into a skip.

Pinfolds were pens in which stray animals (sheep mainly, round here I’d guess) were placed until they were claimed by the shepherd or farmer who’d misplaced them.

The pinfold in Stainforth appears to have been filled with boulders, soil and all sorts over the years, so the village’s environment group is going to have a weekend clearing it out and eventually hopes to restore it.

No doubt it will find fresh purpose as somewhere to pen-in those folks who insist on walking around the village with the trouser legs tucked into their red rambling socks and asking for directions to Catrigg Force!

Work starts at 10am tomorrow and Sunday, whatever the weather! You’ll need gloves and wellies, preferably with toecaps, and a bit of muscle.

Saturday turned into one of the best Dales days I’ve ever enjoyed. 

The plan had been to tackle the Three Peaks walk but reasonably heavy snows late in the week put paid to that and instead, with great friend Dave, his colleague Paul and neighbour Ken, I walked out of Stainforth and over the moors to Pen y Ghent. 

The conditions were stunning. The snow made the little scramble to the summit easier than usual and from the top of the hill the landscape was white from horizon to horizon and the clarity was mind-blowing. 

The Howgills looked almost close enough to reach out and touch, and west of them the eastern and central Lakeland fells were better defined than I’ve ever seen them from any Dales peak. 

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Yesterday’s walk finished well after dark - though admittedly that’s not hard at the moment; it wasn’t really much after 5.30pm and though the snow was still falling much of it was then coming as sleet and the stuff on the road was as slushy as a not-very-slushy Slush Puppy. 

A nice walk, though, primarily for the birdlife. Flocks of goldfinch were feeding on frozen seedheads up at Winskills and just beyond the quarry cliff face a couple of ravens – an uncommon sight still round here – were delighting in the cold air, barrel-rolling above the whitened fields. 

Nearer Langcliffe fieldfare, the winter-visiting thrush, were flitting from tree-to-tree ahead of me. 

Best “spot” though was a kestrel, flying low and fast across fields with a weighty little lump in its talons.

Its flight was being paralleled across the fields by a magpie and as they reached a clump of leafless sycamore the magpie swerved closer, harrying the kestrel which cried out in distress.

Just before it flew up into the branches the kestrel dropped its burden and flapped around mewing terribly for a minute or two; another magpie hopped across the ground but didn’t find what the kestrel had dropped, then all the birds withdrew – I think they’d sensed me watching. 

It didn’t take me long to find the kestrel’s loss – a headless starling flopped on the snow just beyond the cover of the tree’s canopy. 

Just as entertaining, and far more amusing, was bumping into “Pet Shop” Bob, “Elbow” John and Benji hours later, as they slipped and slid their way back to Giggleswick from the Helwith Bridge Inn. I don’t know whether the slipperying and sliddering was due to the thickening snow on the road or the Celebration ale they’d been sampling; Benji appeared lucid so we’ll put it down to the snow. 

I’d covered some similar ground the previous day, also finishing in the evening after dark.

I encountered two characters that day too though I didn’t see them – I just heard one of them call, an awful, alarming, heart-tearing bark that sounds like someone’s soul is being violated.

 Yesterday morning I found their tracks marked down in the snow register: roe deer.

The register also recorded many foxes, where they’d trotted through the fields, and where they’d scraped away at the ground, presumably looking for shrews or voles to snack on.  

I didn’t get my beer at the Craven Heifer in the end but spending a day observing wildlife in this wonderful part of the Dales should be refreshing enough for anyone.