Monday 6 June 2016
6.30 am.
Berkeley Vale is shrouded in a grey haze, softening my view across the Severn towards the Forest of Dean. The low hills behind Lydney are just a faint bluish line on the horizon, almost the same hue as the faded sky. There is a high bank of cloud hanging over the valley, but clear cerulean blue is breaking through in places. The sun is creeping up with strength, lifting the early morning mist, catching the fields down towards Coaley with brightness.
Sounds of the morning are all around me: sheep bleating, rooks cawing, pigeons calling, and songbirds along the wooded ridge herald a perfect day.
It is still quite cool by the trees, but the East wind has dropped and the leaves are motionless
A bank of tall greater willowherb, stinging nettles and low ash saplings flank the near hillside before me, then the slope falls away to beech hanger and taller ash trees.
Behind me the Uley road is starting to get busy with early morning commuters navigating the slow climb of Crawley hill. The swish of the cars disturb the natural soundscape, but not as much as a sudden loud gunshot in the middle distance by the flat woodclad ridge of Cam Long Down.
Gulls mew and cackle, then a green woodpecker yaffles to my left on the ancient prehistoric promontory hillfort of Uley Bury. Imperceptably, the tranquil vista before me is coming into focus as the sun rises over the hill behind me.
There is a hollow lane running down the slope to my left, dark, geen and mysterious in the semi-darkness. Something is rustling in the undergrowth there, unseen. Maybe a blackbird foraging or even a squirrel digging at his cache.
More gunshots, this time muffled and far away explode over the vale, close to the grey band of the River Severn. A chiff chaff calls to my right along the wooded pathway to the abandoned quarries towards Hetty Pegler’s Tump.
Although the valley is somewhat brighter, the Forest of Dean hills have faded into mist and I can no longer detect the ridge.
Again a double-barrelled gun disturbs the quietude, and alarm is raised across the patchwork of fields.
Bright Phoebus is almost clearing the treetops at my back, sparkling through the leafy branches, but the air is still cool, gently circulating round me as I sit on this bench and watch the seven o’clock morning enfold.
Down on the plain the hedgerows strand horizontally across the terrain, bordering treelined fields, mostly light green, but Naples yellow where the first crop of silage has been taken.
The fog lifts as the sun rises over my viewpoint. This space has been cleared by the Woodland Trust for the wanderer to sit, ponder and take in the view across the Severn vale. Some years ago I saw pearl-bordered fritillaries feeding on hemp agrimony by the path to my right – a special treat.
7.30 am. I’ve moved on to the Bury proper and come out into the sunshine. It is already very warm up here, sitting among the tall grasses, clover and rock roses: a classic limestone meadow. A robin sings for the bright day on the edge of the steep scarp falling to Uley village.
A large rabbit sits by the Iron Age trackway round the camp, then bobs into the undergrowth. Dew is still clinging to the small leaves of bedstraw and a bee buzzes over the cloverheads. There is a flourishing stand of hawksbeard on this sward, bright lemon yellow, rising above the greenness, its multiple heads shining like little beacons among the meadow grasses.
A gull glides over and a magpie chatters in the dense woodland below me, then all returns to tranquillity. As I sit and listen, there are strange slitherings in the grasses around me. Here and there – not in one place. My first thought is of grass snakes, or even adders. I search, but find nothing. I shall never know.
As I get up to make my way back to the gated entrance to the Bury, a brightly coloured jay alights on a fencepost on the field border, his feathers sunwashed and sparkling blue and white. He flits from post to post, aware of me, and finally flies off into the wood.
The morning rises to the day . . .
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