Colour scene

What a difference a month makes. Way back in (warm, dry) October I took this picture of my walnut tree with the idea that I was going to post it here. The yellow of the leaves was so intense - somewhere between lemon or butter.
The tree is a slow-grower, but is coming along. I can't remember exactly when it went in, but it was probably the winter of 2002/3. More than 10 years ago anyway, and what was a stick is now two hand-spans around at the base.
Since the walnut picture was taken there have been weeks of rain and wind, and I never got around to taking the other leaf-colour pictures I'd intended to post with the walnut ones. Today was brighter though, so I went out with the camera.
The walnut is now completely stripped and bare, and most of the ash trees are too. But where it's more sheltered in the hedge some leaves are hanging on in there.
My watched tree, an oak sapling, is green and gold. The beeches that I used to plug a gap have grown quite well and their leaves are now crisp and brown, but for me its the field maples that are the most eye-catching.

Going strong

Me and my followed tree haven't go together that much over recent weeks. I blame the good weather (before Hurricane Bertha, that is) because I've been celebrating the sun by letting it get to my legs.

And wearing shorts doesn't mix well with nettles, does it?

The problem is that my little oak has disappeared behind a wall of big, tall stingers, so I've not been able to see it. But today I've put the legs away and fought my way through to  my tree.

Suprisingly, it looks as though it's doing really well. Its leaves are robust and it looks like its grown to nearly double its height, despite being shaded out by the opposition. Young oaks are clearly tougher than they look.

Crash landing

I didn't notice it on the way to the dustbin, just walked straight by. But on the way back to the house I couldn't miss the swift that was flattened face down on the concrete drive.
With plumage that was a dusty sort of grey I assumed it was a fledgling whose maiden flight had ended badly. It was about 9pm, so I guessed it had plucked up courage to leave the nest, but then failed its first (and last) flying test.

I decided to put the bin back in the kitchen before clearing away the body. Heading to the backdoor I spotted our cat watching from a distance and couldn't help thinking he had some part in it all.
But yes, you've guessed it - when I did pick the swift up it was far from dead. It's struggling took me completely by surprise and, as I straightened up, it wriggled from between my hands.
It crashed to the ground, but its flapping feet got it a few vital inches back up into the air. With its wings going at double quick time that was enough to get it off over the pond and away down the valley.
Our cat looked as surprised by the outcome as I was, but a little disappointed too. I'm sure he would have loved to have got to the downed flier first.
And half an hour later the little screaming party of swifts that have been out each night were doing their thing again, racing up and down over the houses for the sheer hell of it. This year I've only seen four each evening, but last night there were seven - hopefully my fledgling was one of them.

Tree following

I love the tree-following concept, as invented by Loose and Leafy, but have come to a following very late this year. It's not that I didn't know which tree I was going for, but that I haven't been able to get a decent photo.

This one isn't great, but it gives an idea; the problem is that my oak is more a sapling than a tree. Just a twig really.
It doesn't really register on my camera's auto focus and becomes bashful when faced with a camera - seemingly disappearing into its surroundings. But now it has tiny, new copper-coloured leaves and looks a bit more like a tree-in-the-making.
One boundary of our garden is a proper Pembrokeshire hedge, which I'd guess dates back to a time when it surrounded a field and there were no houses in the area. It's an earth bank that's about waist height into which hedge shrubs were planted, in the Pembs way.
Those shrubs (or their offspring) are now massive, contorted old ashes and the hedge is full of gaps. With ash dieback in mind I've been putting new plants into the gaps using any self-seeds I can find - a mix of hazel, holly and blackthorn.
And, since February, my tiny oak. I came across it last summer growing in the middle of a patch of grass that was growing long and spared it from the strimmer.

Their are no oak trees close to us, so how my little tree got where it was is a bit of a mystery. Perhaps the acorn was part of a food cache hidden away by a squirrel or a jay. 
Oaks are great trees for earls (or oligarchs), but I don't really have the acreage for one, so it had to move. Then it occurred to me that an oak can be cut and re-grow just like any other hedgrow plant. It now sits in place up on the hedge bank and is a 'followed' tree. And, so far, it seems to enjoy the attention.     

Away days

April seems to gone by in a blur. I've had so much to do away from home that I haven't been able to spend much time in the garden. And it's changing so quickly this year - it's as though spring is happening on fast-forward.

I'm just back from a trip to Snowdonia with photographer Drew Buckley for a book-in-the-making for the publisher Graffeg. We went to the mountains to the east of Harlech, known as the Rhinogydd or Rhinogs, which I reckon is the most exhilarating bit of National Park. 
We needed pictures of feral goats. So far, they've eluded us but this time the visit didn’t end up as another wild goose chase and Drew managed to get a first-class set of images of billy goats in the setting of the range’s peaks and lakes.
My camera wasn't up to getting a good goat picture, but I like this one of Drew closing in on his 'prey'. It gives a feel of how unforgiving the countryside the goats live in really is.
What made the outing that bit better was that down in Cwm Bychan, where we left our cars, a cuckoo was calling. Sunshine, the oaks in new leaf, lambs everywhere and a cuckoo - it couldn't have been better.

One swallow

Doesn't make a summer, I know. But it does make my weekend. I've just been out to the garage and though it's dark, cold and rainy now there is good news - a single swallow roofing in the roof beams.

Fur's fair

Still no sign of swallows here, although we saw them at the coast at the weekend. Someone told me that they move along the coast and then head inland along rivers, so they should turn up soon.

In the garden, there's a sudden interest in our rabbits. The hutch and run collects their fine hair, which catches in the wire mesh and on spider's web, and at this time of year it becomes a valuable commodity. Sparrows have been dropping by to collect a little, but the most persistent fur-gatherers are the great tits that I think are using the nestbox on the old apple tree. Each morning they are at the hutch, one going inside to collect fur while the other keeps watch nearby.

That nest should be especially soft and warm.  It's amazing just how much material the bird manages to pack into its beak; quite a feat. I'm reminded of those pictures of puffins holding half a dozen fish at a time.   

Song time

At last there's just the beginnings of spring here. For the first time today there's a chaffinch singing in the garden and the snowdrops in the hedge are in bloom.
It has been a strange, bird-less winter in our garden. I reckon we've only had a frost three or four times and I've given up feeding the birds because the uneaten dregs were sitting around for days.
I suppose the winter has been windy and rainy, but fairly mild. Our birds have been able to find the energy they need without coming to my garden feeders.
My gauge of bird hungriness over the last couple of years has been the firethorn that I put in when our neighbour had her new fence  built. It's close to one of our windows and just a couple of steps from their backdoor.
That's too close to us humans for comfort for most birds. They only come for the berries when they get really hungry, which has been around Christmas. Last year a couple of blackbirds stripped all the berries over a couple of icy days.
But this year we're all the way to late February and the lion's share of the berries are still in place. Seems a waste; I'm thinking I should do something with them - firethorn gin, maybe?

Light relief

Not much sign here of the early-early spring heralded by The Guardian. Certainly it's proving to be a weird winter, but I wouldn't write it off yet.
Over the last week I've been doing hedge surgery. Any bit of ash that's big enough will be dried and end up in the wood-burning stove, but there's still a mountain of brash to deal with.
And it has been growing as blackthorn and hawthorn has been added to the pile. It is a job that has been done in half hours now and again between showers, when there have been showers.
I can't say I've seen any evidence of buds swelling and there aren't snowdrops showing yet. Too cold and too wet here.
This afternoon a brighter spell tempted me out to the hedge to carry on with the project, only for the rain to come back with a vengeance. But along with it came an incredible rainbow, lifting a day that has otherwise been devoted to completing my tax self-assessment form (which is a barrel of laughs).
Of course, by the time I'd got my phone out of my pocket and turned it on the moment had passed; the rainbow was fading rapidly. I might have been better off looking for its end - a crock of gold would help with the tax bill.