Happy New Year to you all. I hope you had a pleasant transition from 2015 to 2016 and that you’ve made a list of resolutions which you might have some remote chance of maintaining. As with most years, we were sound asleep and no doubt snoring vigorously when midnight arrived in Moreton Pinkney but it was New Year’s somewhere and that’s good enough for me.
I had an e-mail from a friend on Thursday and, amongst other things, she mentioned that she and her family had recently been to see the starling murmuration at Otmoor, just near Oxford. She also said that it had been rumoured that Penny had an excellent recipe for pecan pie and, if that were true, could she please have a copy. Naturally, I forwarded the message on to Ms Playchute. That was my first mistake.
The day was bright and sunny with a clear blue sky. Not surprisingly, therefore, Ms Playchute, while ignoring the request for a pecan pie recipe, suggested that we trek down to Oxford to see the starlings for ourselves. Unfortunately, I wasn’t quick enough to come up with a convincing excuse so off we went.
As we neared Oxford the skies grew darker and increasingly ominous and as we parked by the Otmoor nature reserve, it started spitting with rain. From the car park we trudged through the muddy paths for about 1.5 miles until we reached the first of three observation points just by the reed beds in which the starlings come down to roost each night. I don’t know how they counted but they reckon there are about 75,000 starlings that swoop about each night and come down to roost in the reeds. I could only count about four before I got confused each time as to which four I had already counted.
As we reached the hide we joined a handful of proper “twitchers” who knew lots more than we could ever hope to know about birds and starlings in particular. One of them kindly pointed out the Marsh Harrier who was patrolling the skies, waiting for the starlings to gather so that he could hopefully grab his evening’s supper. As dusk approached, the starlings began accumulating in the sky and although their display was not as great as some we have seen on television or video, it was still pretty impressive. Not surprisingly, it reminded us of the Chapman School swifts which Susie took us to a few years back. While the swifts flew round and round before shooting down the chimney, rather like a vortex, I guess, the starlings swoop about seemingly randomly in the sky, flying in a large mass in one direction and then another. I’m sure you’ve all seen videos showing a somewhat more impressive display than we saw – my photos and video don’t do it justice.
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It was dusk, remember and I was shooting this on my phone so please forgive the lack of quality. I stitched together a couple of video clips I shot and in the final few seconds you can see them swooping down into the reeds to roost for the night. According to the professional “twitchers” they cling to the reeds sometimes three or four to a stalk. I don’t know that I’d get much rest holding on for dear life to a reed!
After the aerial displays, we started back to the car and that’s when the heavens essentially decided to open – the rain came sheeting down with a cold, cold wind. I was soaked through to the skin within a matter of moments – even my underwear was soaked! The soaking even penetrated Penelope’s allegedly water-proof coat. I have not been that wet whilst fully clothed ever before, I don’t think. Still, like jumping into the ice-strewn Mascoma River, that’s one of life’s great adventures we do not need to do again (unless the weather happens to be very, very good, I suspect).
New Year, no new memory! We went up to town yesterday to meet up with friends Sue & Stuart and Dave & Sue for a performance of As You Like It at the National Theatre followed by dinner – our first cultural excursion of the new year. Typically, our collective memories being what they are, we almost messed up. Although the date had been in our diaries for months, Stuart thankfully telephoned earlier in the week to remind us. This prompted us to actually make some arrangements, i.e., ask the young girl next door if she could pop in to check on Molly a few times, encourage her to embark on a quick stroll around the Upper Green and give her dinner at the appropriate time in the evening. Sorted.
By Friday we had both forgotten we were going out. Pen rang Nick and Lucy to fix up when they might call in for a visit – “Saturday or Sunday, either day will be fine – we’re not doing anything.” Meanwhile, I started off my sourdough production so that it would be ready for a loaf to bake on Saturday! Oops. Fortunately, by the time Nick rang to confirm when they were coming I had somehow remembered and was able to inform him that it had to be Sunday and the sourdough starter, which is fizzing away nicely, had to go in the refrigerator to slow it down for 24 hours. What’s that expression – the more things change . . . ?
Finally, some excellent photographs in this collection from the Guardian – their 20 photographs of the year.
Love to you all,
Greg