Still waiting …

I plunge into the rain armed with not one, but two, dogs. I’d already told Mr H that we were going to pick up his friend, Ms T, so he is not surprised at the slight change of direction. Since she doesn’t like our usual walk, we head for the woods. If I was worried about the lack of precipitation throughout most of the winter, then I’m not worried any more – a mallard couple seem to have set up home in a large puddle. They don’t quite know what to do with our approach off to their left, but in the end settle for some squawking and fluttering, then stay exactly where they were.

The dogs have found their own sticks and, despite being best pals indoors, steadfastly ignore each other when there’s throwing to be fixated upon. As a Border collie too, Ms T has her own foibles, living up to the breed’s reputation for being thrawn. If she doesn’t like something, she really doesn’t like it. If she likes something, she absolutely loves it. But she has learned, for all her feistiness, that it is probably best a) not to go anywhere near Mr H’s stick and b) to put up with it if he nicks hers.

Because the path undulates up and down, it’s not so bad for old bones or, as I prefer to view it, middle-aged impatience with bending down every other second. The burn is driving down hard in slick muddiness and I would prefer Mr H to stay out of it, so I must capture his attention by throwing his stick way away. I don’t really mind, since there’s nothing much happening on the wildlife front.

Indeed, this past week, I’ve had the distinct impression that all the usual creatures are avoiding me. Even the little deer hasn’t been seen since the weekend. The little birds, to judge by the sound of them, are definitely busy and I’ve seen plenty of nests growing to an extravagant size in the bare trees. Whatever they’re up to, though, they clearly would rather do it in private.

But not all trees are bare. Leaves are sprouting or budding at the very least, though we don’t usually green up properly until May. I’m certainly not complaining and I doubt the wildlife is either. It’s warm, even if it’s wet.

Ideal conditions for fungi and I am brought up short in the little clearing where the fox (probably) killed the pigeon a few weeks ago. There, nestled in some fallen birch branches, is a little bit of bright red brilliance. Sarcoscypha austriaca is its Sunday name, but I much prefer its common name. What’s not to like about Scarlet Elfcup and I’m happy to imagine that one of the ‘small folk,’ as they were once known, has inadvertently left his or her headgear behind. I apologise for the quality of the picture – with two dogs in tow, I didn’t think I’d have time to bother with my proper camera.

 

Speaking of dogs, Ms T wasn’t amused by the fact that I was spending so much time oohing and aahing over a stupid fungus. There’s only so much waiting a dog can take. She gave me a good old telling off and pushed her newest, oversized stick in my direction. Okay, okay, I say, having finally got my snap. We head up the little hill onto the track that Mr H and I usually take every morning and turn right to head back home.

The pregnant ewes in the first fields on the final strait look as if they’ve had enough of waiting. They’ve got to the ‘this is never going to end’ phase, which I still remember sixteen years on. Further down the track, I am very glad to see that a lapwing pair are nesting in their usual field. They shriek at us like a pair of rusty gates, presumably because we’re just a little too close. Once they think they’ve successfully marshalled us off the premises, one of them flits over to the field on the other side of the track, no doubt to see what he/she can find in the way of lovely worms and insects.

As for Brexit, we’re still waiting too. And I really don’t believe it’ll ever end.