The leaves on the hazel hedge are drooping, presaging the approach of Autumn. Deep red hawthorn haws clamber out towards the light between the hazels, and fading bracken fills the hedge-bottom with yellowing brown.
The campsite stretches out before me dotted with white vans and cowering tents. A small colony of rose-bay willow herb on the far headland shimmers misty pink below the darknesses of the outgrown borders of trees. The ground rises to the near horizon, through a small field with two foot-ball goal nets in its centre, to another hedge and a pale field with dark green woodland rolling over the hill-brow. It is mid-day and after a wet night the sky is a subdued white.
This is Broadstone Park in the Royal Forest of Dean. It nestles in its own valley above Monmouth on the Staunton road. The camping grounds are dotted with mature 300 year old oaks, often growing beside massive conglomerate rocks left after glaciation. This could be a Druid’s paradise . . .!
THE FOLLOWING DAY:
Last evening I walked down to the farmstead with my bat detector. Three fishponds surround the old house, a haven for several Daubenton’s bats feeding close to the water. Their staccato calls rattled out of the Batbox, and in the fading light I could see them skimming over the ponds, sometimes dipping into the water to catch their prey.
I sat with Ralph who had been mopping the cafe floor, and he told me they had a regular badger visiting for scraps, barn owls nesting in one of the oak trees, and wild boar inhabiting the woods on the ridge beyond the farm.
I walked back in the dark by the gnarled oaks, pipistrelles quartering the canopies, finding plenty of food.
LATER THAT DAY:
Walking past the farm I entered the wood by a well-worn stile. As I turned lot into the mixed woodland it began to rain and I sheltered under the tree canopy for a while, before heading up a path towards the wooded ridge. Several bridle-paths traversed the wood, but I carried on and found a tall redwood to sit under and listen to the forest. I hoped I might just see a family of wild boar wander into view, but no: all was quiet and peaceful under the leaves and needles. A lone horse-rider galloped up the track, her bright yellow jerkin flickering amongst the trees.
About an hour passed; then I heard a screeching like an irate jay to my left down the slope. It was a large grey squirrel, tail quivering as it squawked and barked vociferously at nothing I could see.
Gold crests sizzled in the treetops as other squirrels searched the branches around me. The double Klaxon grog of a raven came from my right, then all was quiet once again. The forest returned to its afternoon stillness.
THE SAME EVENING:
After a few short showers the sun broke through the clouds and summer returned for a while. I went down to the little cafe and ate a good meal while talking to the owner of the Park. He told me the farm is mentioned in the Domesday book, but not Staunton, the village close by. One of the giant boulders near the entrance has a groove, seemingly cut into it by the hand of Man (the New-age Druids think it was a sacrificial altar with a blood channel).
I sat by the nearest fishpond and was treated to a veritable feast of bat sound! It seemed like 20 or so Daubenton’s bats were circling the water, endlessly feeding! I felt I was in the middle of a war zone with machine-guns crackling in all directions.
Slowly I retraced my steps to my camper van at 9.30pm to the sound of pipistrelles circling the old oaks.
It is a fine, unspoilt valley with just the right balance of amenities on the campsite. I shall come here again.
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