snowfall and survey.

Every year for the past four years, I've been lucky enough to have a whole swathe of MOD land to explore for a few days. In the heart of Goshawk country, a stretch of the Wissey and the gradual roll of copse-covered farmland to the east, it's always a delight.

This year it was doubly delightful, as I timed my visit to coincide with the snow. I was greeted with warm pink sunlight shining on the snow covered fields, wandered through a soft blizzard that blanked out the whole landscape, and was dazzled by sharp shadows formed by the ruts and divots.

As always, the birdlife is tremendous - and a real contrast to that of the Fens. Goshawks are there but elusive, but red kites wheel overhead almost constantly. This year, at the end of the first day, I was lucky enough to watch one float towards a solitary Ash, and once perched, tore at a rat it had found somewhere. I didn't have camera or sketch boook, so i settled for some awkwardly scribbled notes in the little notebook I use to record the birds. A quick watercolour sketch to solidify the image will have to do for now, but the proud bird posed as if demanding its portrait painted large as life.

The woodland, especially along the river valley, is dominated by Alder and Ash - and holds a diverse array of birds not seen often at home. Big flocks of Siskin whisper in pendulous groups on the Alder bows, only to suddenly shoot off and crash onto another branch like a breaking wave. Nuthatches, and Treecreepers climb hte trunks and Coal Tits mingle with their more familiar cousins.

Every now and again, the sharp sneeze of a Marsh Tit betrays their presence. 

These less flamboyantly marked birds are nevertheless beautifully clothed in creamy browns, subtle tans and all set off by a glossy black crown. Willlow Tits used to occur along the river, but their population has shrunk to the point where old haunts are now deserted.

Woodcock erupt from the tangled debris from time to time,

always with the feeling that somehow they could have been spotted if only 

each dark shadow had been scanned more thoroughly.

One bird sprang up from within a thick hedge, only to thrash against the thick bramble stems for a few seconds. Its way was blocked, and so it had no choice but to turn and proudly walk into a clear patch as if it hadn't just failed to do what birds have been doing for millions of years. once in the open, it jumped and silently rowed past me with deep wingbeats that revealed its chestnut grace.

The early morning sun scattered blue shadows across the snow-frozen field. The open land is perfect for Hares, and everywhere you look, their dark forms stood out against the white. While standning in one particular maize stand, a Hare loped along an adjacent row. Just five paces away, it stopped, and reaching up on its hindlegs, started nibbling a cob. 

The next day, as I wandered along a scant cover strip, three Roe Deer trotted nonchalantly through a gap in the hedge in front of me - two bucks and a doe. The two bucks faced each other as if sizing up the impressive antlers that sprang from their crowns like gnarled branches of old hawthorn. One turned away, and as he slowly walked off, he noticed me. Only ten metres away, I had been frozen for the whole time, knowing that any movement would surely send the deer into a rout. He stopped, staring curiously for a few seconds, and then carried on his way. The other buck followed, barely glancing at me, and, as if feeling suddenly insulted at being ignored, the doe made off after them.

It seemed that in any tree or bush or field corner, a new vision of nature revealed itself. A huge flock of Linnets - 800 strong raided a big patch of sunflower and millet. Backlit silhouettes streaming out of the hedge and down and then up again - a rolling applause of wings and dry calls. Lapwing and snipe gathered at the edge of the frozen marsh, between the snow and the icy mud. Meadow Pipits poked around the legs of sheep and cattle in muddy pens. The odd Redpoll feeding amongst the Goldfinches, scarlet caps dark against the golden weeds. 

But this year, the one memory that will last longest was the briefest of brief encounters, in the last moments of the survey. I had been creeping through a broom thicket, hoping beyond hope to see the woodcock before they saw me, for once. Two had flushed already, as well as a couple of pheasants and rabbits, and as I stood contemplating my route through the thinning bushes, the air ripped suddenly as if a firework had been set off. Twisting to my left, I was just in time to see the unmistakable shape of a Peregrine. It was momentarily frozen in space, wings and tail spread after pulling out of a rapid stoop. It was below the treeline. I could see each individual tract of streaking on its breast. Time started again, and the young falcon eased into a straight flight down towards the river. 

And it was all over. An intense three days of thousands of birds. I got home, made a few watercolour sketches -'aides memoires' to spark future projects, collated the numbers and settled back with a renewed desire for the beauty of the Brecks.