A Hundon Summer

Fledgling

It was a week for nature study. At the weekend, a fledgling Blackbird left its nest in the tree behind us, and flew into the patio window. It was so small and light and uncertain in its flight that it struck without much force (unlike the unfortunate Woodpecker of an earlier blog), and landed on its feet where it was hopping about, clearly wondering what it was supposed to do next. The mother flew down and chivied it into the bushes, and was seen over the next few days continuing to fly behind the bushes with a variety of food in its bill. Finally, we were rewarded by seeing the new fledgling take to the air; a short flight onto the gate and the table outside our window, a victory for maternal strength and patience. Though still without its tail feathers, it is now mobile enough to fend for itself, and hopefully evade the many vicious cats that lie in wait for these beautiful creatures.

Here in Hundon we have a surfeit of wildlife, with hares in the field, swallows darting above, and then at dusk a colony of bats swooping low for their insect feast over the gardens front and back. I look across the fields, laid out with ripening corn, and imagine how they have not changed much in a hundred years. In 1919, they would have had steam-powered threshers and harvest power, and perhaps Suffolk Punches to pull the ploughs; and a hundred years before that, in 1819, still the same fields and hedgerows, but harvested by hand by huge gangs of men who lived in the tithed cottages now developed for wealthy London commuters.  Yet despite all this wealth of nature, I feel that it is slowly being depleted. It is just an impression that there are fewer insects now spattering the windscreen of the car; fewer swallows and bats; hedgehogs are scarcer, and the bird song more muted, apart from the populous pigeons that fill every tree and mess every surface. But we all remember more favourable older times, when the world was less populous, and nature more abundant. It is felt by every age, and its sadness and sense of loss grows more intense each year.

On Sunday, we were invited to Rae and Malcolm's for a take-away Chinese. They live an an idyllic bungalow off the High Street of Haverhill, and just a short walk to all the fascilities of that town. Despite the convenience of their location, the house is silent, and sitting in the large conservatory in the warm evening, with its open door, we were in a secluded walled garden, once part of the estate of Anne of Cleves house,  which was built for her in 1540 by Henry the VIII, but is now the town's only remaining ancient building after the great fire of Haverhill in the 17th Century. They often see an urban fox slinking along the wall in the twilight, but tonight we looked in vain.