A Dull Woman's Van Life

I’ve been singing Autumn’s praises in recent posts, but this past 2 weeks have certainly tested my affection for the season. Fierce winds and relentless rain have been battering Helmshore, making it feel more like survival than celebration. Between recovering from a lingering Norovirus and the dreary weather, I’ve barely ventured out, my enthusiasm well and truly dampened.

On Wednesday, though, I managed my first proper walk in days, up on Musbury Heights. The season is shifting quickly now, and September is already painting the landscape with its first strokes of colour. The leaves have begun their slow transformation, with hints of yellow breaking through. Each morning I pass a small woodland I’ve come to call Woodpecker Wood—home to the Great Spotted Woodpecker and, if you’re lucky, the shy green woodpecker. For now, the yellows glimmer softly among the branches, but it won’t be long before the woods are ablaze with the fiery reds and oranges that make this time of year so spectacular.

The wildlife seemed just as bedraggled as I felt—several very soggy roe deer crossed my path, looking every bit as miserable in the downpour as I must have done. As Pepper and I wandered down the valley, we found the deer gathered right on the footpath. The mature ones barely flinched at our approach, but this year’s calves were far less comfortable with our presence and quickly bolted. I managed to catch one mid-flight with the camera—though, frustratingly, the perfect leaping shot was spoiled by the grass sneaking into the frame!

None of the pictures I took came out particularly well; the persistent rain managed to steal the focus from all the subjects, and the outcome was grainy and badly lit!

Further down the valley, one of the farms boasts a rather eclectic menagerie of exotic birds. The peacock, though, was clearly unimpressed with the Helmshore weather—trudging about like a grumpy aristocrat at a rained-off garden party. His normally dazzling blue feathers were plastered flat and soggy, leaving him looking more sulky than splendid.

Osprey!

The birding community has been in a flutter of excitement at the somewhat late arrival of an Osprey to our humble village. For days it’s been reported hunting and feasting around the three reservoirs, with local twitchers out in force capturing breathtaking images of this magnificent predator — many proudly shared on our community group.

I, of course, wanted my own moment of birding glory. Attempts one and two were… less than glorious. On Wednesday evening I took a long run up the old quarry road to the chimney, along the winding cliff paths above all three reservoirs, and back down via Calf Hay.

A hairy sort of run — not least because strapping a camera to your back is neither comfortable nor elegant — but I figured if the Osprey was around, I’d have the vantage point. It wasn’t.

Still, the sunset was stunning.

Friday’s repeat attempt fared no better.

Saturday? Biblical rain. Poor Pepper and I sploshed around Reservoir 1 and trudged soggily up to number 2.

The Osprey was sensibly absent, but a kingfisher posed for me. Sadly, my rain-battered camera fogged up so badly the viewfinder looked like a bathroom mirror after a shower. The result is less than crisp.

Sunday dawned gloriously bright, so I tried again. Mid-morning saw me prowling the banks of Reservoir 1 with a handful of cheery camera & binocular-toting companions. Osprey? Still playing hard to get. But I did capture a chiffchaff, happily feasting on hawthorn berries.

And then came Monday. The valley’s first frost had silvered the ground, the water lay still under drifting mist, and the sunrise was worth the walk alone.

From the wooden bridge Pepper and I watched roe deer, Canada geese, and cormorants emerge ghostlike from the haze.

A willow tree hosted a flurry of long-tailed and blue tits, glowing in the morning light. Magical.

As time moved on and I had to get to work, I wandered back along the bank towards home. Still hopeful… Then fate intervened. Distracted by a rather handsome mushroom, I paused to admire its pale gills and (naturally) take a few photos. I turned towards the gate — and there it was. Like a phoenix from the mist, the Osprey rose, wheeled overhead, and flew towards Hutch Bank, feathers blazing in the golden sun. My camera went into overdrive. Hundreds of shots! Triumph at last!

Back home, I sat down, glasses on, ready to savour the fruits of my labour. Disaster. Every single Osprey photo was shot on macro mode. For the mushroom.

Instead of a majestic raptor, I have a collection of blurry, indistinguishable smudges. You can just about tell it’s… something.

I’ve included one for your amusement. I am not amused. I am weeping inside. And, for the record, I am now officially off mushrooms.