hornets and a heron

The RSPB reserve at Fowlmere on a sunny September morning – a heron stalks the reeds – a kingfisher darts across the water – teal fly in – a cetti's warbler gives a sudden burst of song –

wild clematis – old man's beard – in the shade

Roger Deakin once said that hornets should be credited with the invention of paper – further along the path – above the chalk stream where water dropwort grows – a hornet's nest – made of regurgitated dead wood – a swollen papier-maché type object under the bark of a dead tree - 

– teeming with hornets – buzzing busily – a rare sight – 

Our life, like a bird, has escaped the snare of the fowler
Psalm 123

a nature reserve in the making

here in a remote spot in the Essex countryside a 5-acre field has been bought from a local farmer by people who want to turn it into a nature reserve 

right now it is a ploughed field

watch this space for the next few years as it develops into a managed space for wildlife

harebell

William Blake wrote of 'the holiness of the minute particular' – a delicate harebell – the stunning greater knapweed – and the flower below which is so tiny you could easily miss it – as beautiful as any orchid, it is about the size of a small toenail – I don't know its name, but I don't care.

greater knapweed

…and later that afternoon

the water gardens at Gooderstone restore the soul – the solace of green places – silence broken only by the the sound of running water and birdsong – beautiful close-up view of a willow warbler – and a kingfisher perching on a weeping willow – finally streaking away into the rushes like a Red Arrow – late summer flowers: evening primrose, sedums, michaelmas daisies – in a Monet landscape – this is the Giverny of East Anglia

All the world's ills stem from the inability of humans to sit quietly in a room

Pascal, Pensées

early one morning

Walking before breakfast on Dersingham Common in Norfolk – Sunday morning – sunlight filtering through oak and silver birch leaves on to bracken just turning to bronze –

My questioning with the heavens and the earth was my thought, and their answer was their beauty
St Augustine, Confessions