A Country Diary for Chidham and Hambrook

Chidham and Hambrook - Our Environment - A Country Diary

The Chidham and Hambrook Country Diary:

A monthly record of the changing seasons, farming activities, and wildlife sightings

Lambing in the snow at Cobnor..	Diana Beale reports
At Cobnor, four of our ewes had already lambed over the last 10 days, and we have 7 gorgeous black lambs as a result.
This morning, before breakfast, I saw the skies getting greyer and rushed out to feed the flock and check for new lambs before the weather broke ... too late! By the time I got out of the door it was first freezing sleet, then fine hail, then snow ... all whipping horizontally under the fresh Northerly. One ewe had gone off on her own and was clearly close to giving birth, but, thankfully, no tiny lambs had come yet.
	The blizzard has subsided and the ewes are glum and puzzled about the disappearance of all that nice green grass...

An hour later the first lamb has been born, straight into the snow!	Just as I am standing there with my camera, and while the mother is licking the first lamb clean, the second lamb is born!
Both are good-sized ewe-lambs and within a short period of time they are both cleaned up by their mother and are on their feet and feeding. I return with hay (to make a warm covering over the snow) and to dip the twins' umbilical cords in iodine to prevent infection. Later, we'll put them in a cosy pen to keep them warm, and safe for a couple of days, specially with this cold weather.
...
Trees and flowers in the snow....

Magnolia	Camelia

Gorse

Walnut tree	White cherry blossom laden with snow

MIDWINTER SONG A Country Diary poem to bring you all cheer through the gloom, rainy days and grey skies of January ...
Grey day lowers down formless ragged clouds, Reaching to merge with the breathing air. Grey-green shades of wet tree-shapes loom and fade in the drifting mist. Damp black dog slow and plodding, Debouches from dripping tunnel track, To moist wet steaming tarmac lane. Enveloping gloom here and ahead, How much longer to endure? And then, Blatting the dampening film of shrouded stillness, A vital voice of life shouting, Yes, shouting at me,
So fast and furious a cascading code, In urgent passion to relay the word. There he is - it must be he, With his bumptious bounce and flicking tail, A ball of brown life perched on a rail. Looking at me and looking bright, Head to left, bounce to right, Along , along and flick about. "I'll say it again you slow stupid lout!" So small and so big in life, A wren. Then off he whirrs, next please, job done,
But silence does not close down. A new rally call high to the left, Chink clinks through the tree weft, Specially for me and I know , Who has put on this show, A tom-tit titting in a bare-branched tree. Chink-a-chink-a- chink, Bobbing about this way that way, Peering at me looking at him Or her, Making me laugh on this cold grey day.
What was the message in the bright bird-song? I thought I knew as we plodded on, Along the track by the deep ditch, Roaring storm-water tumbling through. Care now, slow along sloppy-slip stretch, But springy-step Scipio trotted right through; He'd got the message and picked up pace , Life is much brighter in this soaking wet place. Up the slide slope - a special nook,
Where wooden homes of little horned beasts, Lie piled in a stook. Swing along the ploughed field edge, Beside the flailed bramble hedge, Where fat black berries sat in late summer. Fine vista of Downland hidden today, By curtains of greyness drifting away, To south-east and followed by more, From north-west - the outlook is poor.
But we are buoyed up by our little friends song,
And hum my own tune as we swing along. Then stop as we climb down to the lane, 'Cause the wonderful message is repeated again! The king of the song-birds really let go, Yellow-fluting along in melodious flow. Oh blackbird, brave blackbird, what a wonderful thing, To deal with life-problems and still laugh and sing.
John Cummins

Country Diary on a frosty morning at the turning of the year ... with warm wishes to all in Chidham and Hambrook and beyond....

Chilly Cobnor Point

Frosted sea-spinach on the sea-bank	Frosty mole-hills

Brambles and bracken	The Jacobs sheep with Victor, the white ram

	Peace and hope to you all for the New Year

A Country Diary Poem

PIGGY LANE In autumn sunshine Up into the soft green tunnel I tread; Black van guard with brown-eyed glance back goes ahead, To sun-light shimmering with white-bright specks, Of buzzing life which makes me check, To focus, and pick from lifted paw a thorn; Then on we go as to the manner born, But slowly too, Gently and to see and smell whatever is new. A speckled wood flitting, then posing on hawthorn spray, “Touch me if you can , it's a game we play! This is where I live - it's all mine, And I'll see you through, just fine.” Skull ground-mass thrusting through dewy green spears, A new-born giant puff-ball sphere, Waiting to be plucked. Nettle ranks green and thick, Stand by the sides and bend to my swishing stick. Black-purple bullous balls droop down from tall trees, Through yellow-green light-bright leaves, Waiting to be plucked; Or slouch In squidgy heaps upon the ground Among green apples which roll around, Slowly, softly when toe-touched, Along the mossy path. I see through dark hedge trellis strands, The bright green meadow land, Where strutted cock-curlew for his dames last spring; And floated through in clever swaying flight, A rare ring-tailed raptor, who caught not a thing, About a year since now, in morning light. And now, now a new sense gains, Sweet smell of berries black, Sun-warmed and fat, From long summer rains, Waiting to be plucked. What wine tastes like this? Memorable moment, special bliss! Mass upon masses piled high on the bushes, Gleaming and glistening in great black flushes. Who will do the plucking, Who will have the time free? Perhaps this band of sparrows, Twitching and flitting from bush to tree; A bird-brown cavalcade singing for tomorrow, An avian ode to a precious day.

Piggy Lane looking east	Piggy Lane, looking west
"Piggy Lane " explained ..... Where is it? It runs East - West, starting by the telephone kiosk on the bend of Chidham Lane, and finishing beside Woodstock Farmhouse, just north of Chidmere. Is that its real name? No, someone called it that because it ran alongside a smallholding where Vera and Rosemary raised pigs for many years after the second world war. The pigsties have long since disappeared, though are still visible on aerial survey according to the Ordinance Survey. I take Scipio along the lane as part of a routine walk. Like all dogs, he likes new exciting places to explore, but also enjoys regular walks in his ‘patch', where everything is carefully inspected and markings renewed. Yes he is black, has brown eyes, and goes ahead when let off the lead. "Speckled wood" is a pretty brown and white butterfly which displays in its territory. The narrow lane is hedged on the south from the meadow where many birds can be seen including, memorably, a young hen-harrier - the rare ring-tailed raptor - which visited briefly last year. The north side of the lane has tall apple and wild plum trees [bullous], up which grow brambles laden with fat blackberries this summer. And bands of sparrows and finches along the hedges after the breeding season, in autumn. So this short straight track contains much magic of the country side if one takes the time to linger , look and listen. John Cummins From Steve Tanner Hi Guys, I like the article and poem about Piggy Lane by John Cummins (Seasonal Greetings from the Country Diary Team). You may be interested to know that the Piggy Lane is actually called "The Twitten". Maps dating from the first quarter of the 19th century, held in the County Record Office, give the names of many of the old lanes and tracks in the parish, including Calloways Lane and the now defunct Kitty's Lane. Twitten is an old Sussex name for a path or alleyway.

A BRIEF ENCOUNTER. The desperate cry cut through my preoccupation, bringing me back to the world of 'now'. 'oh, no, no, NO !', I thought it screeched. Then I realised that the voice was not human but avian, and very close. There on the ground outside the morning-room window was a scene of intimate savagery. Crouched with brown wings and tail fanned out in an umbrella, feather-tips lightly feeling the ground, was a young female sparrow-hawk. Her yellow talons gripped a starling, lying on his back and head jerking with each strident cry. The hawk shifted to get a better grip, one talon across throat and breast, the other clutching the lower body and pinioning the legs. The victim wriggled and struggled in short bursts but the hawk responded by bowing her head closer and spreading her wings forward and round to complete the circle. She seemed to be cradling the starling and even comforting it. .'Hush little bird', it seemed to mime as it gently rocked - in fact gripping rhythmically with those terrible talons, her creamy barred breast puffing over the gaping orange uplifted bill of the dying bird.
			Then she looked up and around with great glowing eyes, checking and challenging the world - more apparent mime - 'This is how I live and why not? Who are you to question my ways?'
The starling became quiet, the hawk observed and a stillness descended. I thought how small the group was and yet the scene was big, drawing in the eye and the imagination. Here was a metaphor for survival, life and death, stripped of philosophical frills.
The hawk looked down and inspected her prey carefully, almost lovingly like a mother contemplating her child. She nudged the gleaming black breast gently with her curved yellow bill and, getting only a faint response, began to pluck away the downy feathers very carefully, revealing purple-pink heaving flesh.
She relaxed her grip in the process and the starling half woke-up. He lifted his head to see what was happening, and then began to assist in the plucking of his own breast. This was a new meaning to collaboration! I was reminded of reports that some victims of torture allegedly assisted their aggressors upon reaching a certain state of subjugation and this is used to gain information. Apparently most of us have a breaking point.
Now at last the starling's head fell back and all movement diminished to a final quiver. The sparrow-hawk began to nibble quickly but delicately at the breast meat, spilling not a morsel or a drop of blood. Suddenly, for no apparent reason, she raised her head and stretched her neck to gaze at the sky, adjusted her feet close together and with a spread and clap of wings, lifted vertically to fly away in a flash, carrying the limp body half as big as herself. Never have I seen such strength so deftly demonstrated by such a small creature; a female sparrow-hawk measures twelve inches, a starling eight and a half. All that was left was a tiny pile of curly charcoal feathers. They had lost all gloss. They twitched in the fitful breeze and twirled away one by one. Soon nothing was left in evidence of this brief encounter, which separated being from non-being for one creature, and ensured the continuing existence of another, at least for another day.
I wrote the notes above some time ago and was reminded of that happening by a similar event which Penny and I witnessed a few days ago. We were returning home down a narrow drive with dark woods all around when I spotted a tableau in the centre of the road ahead. Another very fierce looking female sparrow-hawk was standing with talons gripping in the breast of a large wood-pigeon. There was no struggle, the pigeon being minus a head, knocked off in the strike which must have just occurred. The drama was in what the hawk would do next. She was obviously reluctant to abandon such a great prize. I stopped the car and we waited. The hawk waited too, very still and sizing up the situation. Birds of prey often take advantage of road kills and some have learnt to drag these offerings, when large, into the verges and so away from the passing traffic. Incredibly, after one false effort, this bird managed to airlift the pigeon which looked twice its size, over the hedge and into the bushes for a leisurely lunch.

Do I approve of these savage creatures? Absolutely - they have a very important role in the balance of nature, truly helping to keep it in balance, and they are interesting intelligent creatures, and they are just sublimely beautiful. I hope you agree	.
Thanks to John Cummins

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