Sat. 6 July 2013. North Newnton. The weather is set fine, a few clouds in an otherwise blue sky. Evening falls, warm and humid.
I’m sitting in my motorhome, parked in the campsite of the Woodbridge Inn, the grounds of which run down to the Wiltshire Avon, here a small stream about ten yards wide. I can see the river across the well-trimmed grass of the site, meandering through greater reed mace, flag iris and willow-herb, overhung on the far bank by a willow thicket, some small, others towering over the water. Looking North towards the Vale of Pewsey, I can just glimpse through the trees, the rise of the chalk hills by Pewsey itself, a white field slashing the chalk down.
Long shadows are casting across the campsite the shapes of igloo type tents and the perimeter hedge, where the van is pulled-up. The greens are darkening under the willows and the evening light is crisp and highly-focussed.
Chaffinches, chiffchaffs and a wren call in the trees, with the occasional quak of a waterhen from the river.
There are about four vans parked here, several caravans and a bevy of tents with cars parked by them. A plane drones West over me, quite high; otherwise the quietness of the evening is drawing-in.
The pub appears to be well-managed. I ate a large ploughman’s lunch earlier, with a pint of Wadworth’s 6X, and it went down very well.
The elder is in full bloom. I can see one down by the stream. Just right to make elderflower champagne!
This hot spell is said to last a few days. It must have been 23C today and getting warmer tomorrow. It’s still sweltering now (8.20pm). A slight cooling breeze has just sprung up, blowing from the West through the hedge behind me. The tops of the tall willows are audibly shivering their leaves, shimmering like a swarm of bees silver bees.
The air is filled with minute seed heads, floating white and blowing on the breeze across the field. As I write, they have virtually ceased their diaspora.
Sun. 7 July – morning 9.45am. Seedheads flying again, willow seeds. A chiffchaff is calling its simple refrain, but slightly varied, by the river – ‘chiff-chaff-chivee’, over and over. Last night I went down to record bat calls by the Avon, 10.00pm. Under a stand of alders fringing the stream, the moonlight reflecting off the stream, a Daubenton bat was barely skimming the surface, foraging at 51kcs.
Also, a fleeting noctule passed by and a pipistrelle flying with the Daubenton’s ( in all, about five).
Slept a peaceful night, woke up at 9am.I’m sitting in the shade of the campervan, having a coffee while writing this. The day is heating up again, a little breeze wafting around, but it promises to be another scorcher.
1.30pm. Travelled up from the Woodbridge to Woodborough and through to Alton Barnes, over the chalk hills and on towards Marlborough, then back through Pewsey and all the little villages with thatched cottages.
Up again to a good vantage point looking toward Milk Hill and the rolling downland dotted with woodland. Skylarks singing in front of me as I sit in the lee of the van and look over acres of green wheat stretching out to the smooth grassy pillowing hills. A few outgrown hedgerows lead the eye up to the downs, but most have been grubbed out for this vast expanse of cereal crops.
There is an optical illusion effect here. The hills are quite low and and do not cover a lot of ground, yet they appear immense and ranging. Being grassy, they show up the cloud shadow well. The day is cloudy but bright, a South-East wind blowing the high cloud in ever-varying shadows over the landscape. A pair of skylarks are exploring the ground in front of me. It is still warm now, an occasional pheasant squawk breaking the silence. I can just hear the wind rushing in the wheatfield, like the sea on shingle.
The campsite is somewhat empty now – just me, a tent next door, another tourer and a few static vans. It is very quiet. Hose matins are flitting around the top of the big willow to my left, chattering away. The chiffchaff is still hanging round by the river. The Wiltshire Avon eventually flows out near Southampton, cutting past Upavon to Amesbury, Salisbury, Fordingbridge and out into the Solent. It appears to rise in the Pewsey Downs.
The evening is settling down to be a carbon-copy of yesterday’s. A duck is quacking on the river to my left. Last evening I saw a female mallard on the water in front of me shepherding four small ducklings up and down the stream. There’s plenty of trout in the river. Behind the screen of trees on the opposite riverbank is a fishery hut where one can obtain a fishing permit, but I have observed no fishermen at work hereabouts.
The six martins are flying over me towards the Inn, then over towards the river. I saw a kestrel over the field this morning, and a ponderous heron last evening. The river looks to be a good haunt for otters, but I was told in the pub that none have been seen: but a lot of mink frequent the Avon here. Perhaps that’s what is keeping the otters away.
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