The Edge Lands of our Waterways
I awake early as the day dawns and the morning bright. Woven between dew laden brambles sparkling in the sun was the hoariest grey and white of the spider’s web telling me the promise of a lovely day. They are nature’s weather forecasters, for if she sits in the centre of her web with her eyes downcast, the day will be clear and bright.
As I begin my journey on this beautiful morning a skylark lifts its wings and ascends to fetch a song from heaven singing so blissfully high above the fields of swaying barley and growing wheat, but the sounds from his throat strings stops me in my tracks. I then notice a cock pheasant approaching from a small wooded copse, closely followed by a male hare, a jack. This wonderful sight is one that I have encountered on several occasions. It would appear that they have formed a partnership to protect one another from predation. Most birds have splendid eyesight, whilst many animals have keen noses and quick ears. I rest a while and marvel at this magical scene as the pheasant carries on feeding whilst the hare goes on a rampage. He was relentless in his pursuit of fun, leaping and scampering about, then suddenly he decides to show me what speed really meant, his prowess and enthusiasm inspires me.
As I amble along the edge land of the canal a male mute swan a cob, glides across the water towards me with ruthless elegance driven by his large webbed feet. As I watch the ripples revolving, shrinking and weakening, he drifts lazily over, stops and looks down his bill at me. The female, the Pen and her three cygnets begin to beat the water with colossal wings driving a bow wave that slaps against the bank where many kinds of wildfowl flapped and quacked. These wonderful semi-wild creatures are so endearing with their proud confident demeanour and are the quietest of all the swans, hence their name ‘mute’. Swans feed mainly on aquatic plants, if however they predominantly feed off acidic plants they tend to develop brown markings on their feathers. All swans are protected by law; however, our native swans belong to the sovereign and are protected by the crown. They are also a true symbol of love in many cultures around the world.
As I rest a while, hovering overhead with rapid beating wings with its tail spread far apart was a kestrel hunting for meadow voles but the peace and silence doesn’t last. A portly man approaches with a mobile phone clamped to his ear; he was vigorously vocal in a tongue I didn’t want to understand. He burbles a few platitudes and disperses the joy we have tasted. The stranger passes by but sadly he misses all. It would seem some people carry their own storm wherever they go. Perhaps he may lack the understanding that the happiness of our lives depends on the quality of our thoughts.
As his voice fades into the distance and the peace returns I hear the tell tale buzzing of a wasp inside a discarded ripe apple. As I approached and crouched down I watched him stagger from the apple having become intoxicated on the fermenting juice, alerting me that this is now the time to take my leave before he becomes aggressive. As I slowly rise a female pheasant breaks through the undergrowth allowing me to observe and admire her beautiful feather patterns, they remind me so much of the patterns of the changing seasons, but I also observe the complexity of the fern fronds from which she appeared. As I continued on my journey, there ahead of me was the sun like an immense dandelion looking over an old humpback bridge. The old sandstone bridge dated back to a time when goods were carried on barges pulled along by heavy horses. These once bustling canals are steeped in history but now only frequented by fishermen, pleasure boats and ramblers, but it is a fine place to stop and observe the life of the canal.
As I pass under the bridge there was a man with strongly marked features sitting on a bench soaking up the sun, his eyes were dark blue and steady, his voice was soft and he spoke as though he had come straight from Oxbridge. We chatted for a while about this beautiful place, sharing a growing sympathy towards landscape and nature and of times gone by. He then enthusiastically shows me the rope marks on the bridge created by the ropes of the heavy horses that towed the barges and as I run my fingertips along the deep grooves I am immediately taken back to that time where I visualise the horse moving with a stately clumping gait, bringing memories of my own beloved horse Rocky to the forefront of my mind, which crowded me and left me with a sadness in my heart having recently lost him.
On the far bank of the canal is the stately butterbur plant, a shady retreat impervious to the eye, a plant often used to protect food whilst cooking in times gone by – nature’s cling film. Under the large shady leaves is where the little water shrew resides. His favourite food is the whirly-gig beetle which has eyes that can look two ways at once, down in the water below and also straight ahead along the surface of the water, but the shrew watches diligently, then suddenly with his venomous bite, the mighty atom strikes and the whirly-gig beetle whirls no more. By the entrance to an old lock gate now overgrown and barely visible is where the mayflies dance with their gauzy wings and where I watch a lovely scene of rising fish with the spreading circles of their rise, and where luminous bubbles go sailing by.
I then spot one of the most handsome waterside plants comfrey, this stately plant also known as knit bone, could be used as a soak to soothe tired aching feet, along with ephemeral plants such as chickweed, groundsel and the pimpernels, which was widely used by the village nurse in the process of fomentation for the treatment of sprains and cuts, also used in poultices to draw infected wounds in people and animals. Another important plant used in these times was tansy; it was used to ward off the many flies along the waterways from meat and wild game stored inside the larder but also used to cover and protect their lost loved ones on their long journey back home. They would also harvest the large leaves of coltsfoot which was then dried and smoked by the men and women in their clay pipes, known as ‘bargee baccy’. I feel we should all be indebted to the gypsies of the waterways for the wealth of knowledge they have left behind.
In the distance I can see the creamy coloured blossoms of the meadow sweet, and on the far bank swathes of reed mace rustles in the breeze where reed buntings gather the floss from the plumes to line their nests. Purple loosestrife grows in abundance here due to its ability to be pollinated in many more ways than any other plants thus ensuring its survival.
As I make my way home, a mist was forming and a barn owl was flying low towards the bridge on broad soft wings. It wafted along as light as the mist itself, but I must now pay my thanks to the little fanged monster, the spider for her weather forecast for the day had been glorious. But now the dusk is longing for the night and I must make my way home before the blue velvet night falls. Here the agrestic edge land and the canal have settled together like an old couple in the hollow of a mattress.
I will now take a respectful leave of you and natural history together but I hope by following my little breadcrumb trails may enable you to develop a new faith into the sensuous enjoyment of the natural world, but also to the intimacy, wonder and respect in the observation of creation.
Image courtesy of Duncan Prescott
