Not My President

Four years ago, I awoke in Vermont to the news that the President of the United States of America was Donald Trump. I am not American, but my heart sank. I walked the streets of Burlington confused about how it had come to this. The Clinton signs were everywhere. But, I was in Vermont. It was a false sense of security. A few days later we were due to drive to New York City, for our 'might not get a chance to visit again' weekend away. It inspired this piece of writing, which I now want to share as we wait for the results of the 2020 election. Good luck, USA.

The Village is Alive

“It’ll be a nightmare in the summer…”

Moving to the main road in a popular holiday village seemed like a good idea back in the winter. I was excited but knew I would be muttering by Easter. The busy times would be worth it for the quiet colder months and having a castle at the end of the road. I was mentally prepared for a chaotic Easter weekend. Every year, bank holiday traffic snarls around the bottom of the castle, backing up at the traffic lights when kids hit the button and run on to catch up with their families. Apologetic parents wave a ‘sorry’ to the drivers without making eye contact. Sweaty cyclists and grannies with ice-creams crowd outside the bakery, seeming not to notice that the tarmac they are standing on is actually a road. Sun-creamed bodies decorate the steps of the memorial, waiting for friends and relatives to come out of the National Trust shop with bags of sweets and postcards. The beer garden at The Greyhound is full, and confused punters saunter out in front of vehicles to try the Bankes Arms opposite. The garden there is nicer, if they can find a space, with views of steaming engines pulled up at the station on the heritage railway line. We all complain about the grockles, but we’d miss them if they didn’t come. During the sunny months, their pocket money keeps the village alive.

That’s how Corfe Castle should be on a warm Easter weekend. The village needs it, and looks forward to it, with a dreaded fondness. This year it is not to be. Along with the rest of the country we are in lockdown. There are reports of second homeowners coming to the area for the weekend, but most are keeping a low profile, trying to avoid the wrath of scared locals on social media. Purbeck Police upload daily photos of deserted beauty spots, having waved stern fingers at anyone thinking that tourist hotspots would be good places to socially distance in.

I sit on the balcony at the back of my flat and listen. There should be noises from the ruined castle. Jousting displays, children dressed up in medieval outfits, “Look Dad! I’m at the top!”. But the only moving objects are the Herdwick sheep, pottering quietly on the hillside. In front of the castle is the church. It should be full of Easter song, “Christ the Lord is risen today!”, but St Edward’s stands empty. The pennant of St George hangs limply in the breeze, as two jackdaws jostle on the flagpole. A sign on the door reads “All services are suspended”.

This is the best viewpoint to watch dogs on their walks, window shopping for a moment in the future when I can have one of my own. There are almost as many dogs as villagers, and they bound across the field in pursuit of tennis balls all day. There’s a morning labradoodle, a pair of lunchtime terriers and a willowy afternoon whippet. But even dogs are in short supply. Many of them have vulnerable humans trying to stay at home, fearful of the awful virus that’s causing this period of springtime hibernation. Creaky swing chains normally interrupt my quiet time, but not now. The playpark is padlocked. No fun to be had today.

I am lucky though. Despite everything, I have company. Starlings have been making a nest in our roof, and one will not shut up from his perch on top of the telegraph pole. He’s not the only one. His call joins that of a great tit, and a song thrush on the other side of the playing field. Someone provides percussion with a drill in their back garden. A wood pigeon hoos its breathy vocals, but I can’t spot it, nor the owner of a soft voice on the phone to a relative, somewhere through an open window to my right. I hope the lady downstairs is alright, but she seemed nervous of me last time I checked. Two weeks ago, she held a strong opinion that “it’s only a flu”. They weren’t going to stop her going out to the Co-op. I suspect that may have changed now, as the daily press conferences on Radio 4 seep up to us through the floor, their urgent messages muffled by carpet. Food deliveries have started to appear, and visitors have stopped. The birds are still invited though, and she keeps her feeders topped up. I watch a young blue tit as it clings to the mesh, pecking crumbs of peanuts whilst ignoring the sparrow on the other side. I hope they bring as much comfort to her as they do to me.

It’s hard to avoid seeing images of busy hospital wards, and exhausted nursing staff in inadequate protective equipment. My anxiety rises with the death toll, accompanied by upset and frustration at not being able to visit friends and family. Vulnerable friends are at the forefront of my mind. Staring at the news on my phone screen makes it worse, so I’m replacing it with staring out at the village. A bumblebee detours past the balcony before dipping back down to something tastier in someone’s garden. The more I look, the more there is to see, and it’s clear that although the grockles may not be here for Easter, the village is still very much alive.

First Published in The Thinking Pen

Oystercatchers at Middle Beach

A dozen birds potter on the shoreline. Their piercing calls give them away, as a group of five split off and fly over the water towards the carpark and dunes behind the beach. The others stay put. One stands upright, his rusty feet leaving impressions on a carpet of damp seaweed, cushioning the boulder that raises him up above the water. If it wasn’t for the white feathers on his belly reflecting from the sea, it would be difficult to spot his black shape in the shadows of the cliff. The waves lose their force by the time they lap at the base of the rock, but they’re enough to make him teeter backwards when the bubbles come towards him. Their feet can stand the cold water, but it’s winter and it’s chilly, even on the south coast.


More of his companions take to the air, on the same route as the first flock, but he stays behind with one other bird. He peers at her, but she pays no attention, not yet ready to depart. The rocks are sheltered at the end of the beach, where trees lean over to watch them feed from above. The high tide forms a slither of calm, cutting them off from the hubbub of half term children, the sand and the café. The oystercatcher isn’t on holiday, he’s a resident, and humans trampling his lunch spots make it harder to have a good meal. He probes at the ground with his beak, trying several places before he finds what he’s looking for. The cold morning breeze is starting to pick up causing the rockpool to ripple. His feathers react excitedly.


A cue, imperceptible to me, causes him to leave. Perhaps an offensive splash, perhaps fed up of the early chiff-chaff’s chatter, or perhaps he just has somewhere else to be. His friend follows suit, smart black and white wings cutting through the milky sky, orange beaks ‘meeping’ their way over oblivious humans.

Puffin on the Edge

Spreading his wings to stabilise himself, the persistent wind tries to prise their bold black tips from the cliff-face. Wrenching grass from the ledge on this sheer drop, the gannet collects precious nesting material.

For another, it’s time to go. Pushing off from the rock, wings spread, she seems to have no fear of falling as she slides through the snowstorm of seabirds without hitting a drop.

The puffin perches nearby. Her wings must beat 400 times per minute to fly. Goodness knows how she got up here, but here she stands in her orange wellies. Her nearest companions are two razorbills who converse loudly, seeming not to have noticed her. With no other puffins to chat with, she calmly surveys the ruckus, preening a silky black wing with her striking beak.

A less respectful razorbill flies up to land on her narrow ledge. Her five minutes of peace are over, and she launches down into the wind, as the newcomer makes himself at home.

A slightly larger puffin spots a friend on an exposed outcrop and decides to join them. Waddle, waddle, hop. Over the shrubbery. He stabilises himself above her and they both look out to sea. She leans forward, just a fraction, then springboards away from the cliff-city. Flap, flap, flapping over the waves. Unperturbed, he stays where he is. His colourful beak stands out amongst the razorbills. In a few minutes she returns, landing with her feet flat against the rock. It was a lot of effort just to land a little higher up, but her flat feet aren’t well designed for scaling a cliff face.

Happier now with her position, she begins to preen. Head nuzzling under her wing, she curves her neck impossibly back to reach her tail feathers. She raises her wings up and gives them a quick shake before resuming the plump puffin on a rock position. It suits her well, and there she stays as a squadron of gannets flies past the abandoned site of RAF Bempton.

Chiffchaff

The path is empty as I leave the village. Walking away from ‘the virus’, socially distancing myself, searching for the sanity of nature.

Great tits cover feeders, undisturbed by visitors in the carless castle carpark. Standing in the stillness, I breathe. Surrounded by branches draped in lime lichens, anxiety sinks into the mud with my boots.

“Chiff chaff, chiff chaff, chiff chaff!”

There it is! The world stops as spring completes its arrival. No matter that crinkled leaves still cling to the stubborn oak, unbothered by our increasingly mild winters. I catch a glimpse of the bird in question as its silhouette flits above. Its needlepoint beak stands out against the steamy sky. It leaves me here alone. The year is moving on.

As first published in: Writes of Spring

Wildcat

I saw a human today. He must have been at least a deer and a half tall. I don’t think he was carrying a Bang, but I couldn’t be sure. I don’t trust them either way. I remember a story my brother told me, about the time he watched one take down a stag. We were still kittens. His pale eyes widened as his breath warmed my ear against the night chill. He told me not to tell mum, as he’d snuck out further than the fallen tree. It was out of sight of the den, something we weren’t to do until we’d grown up enough to hunt for ourselves. He may have made it up completely, but I believed him. I knew he’d be a powerful cat when we were older. I haven’t seen him for a while. Watching the human rummage in his pack took me back to the den. Memories of family security crept out of my present anxieties. It ended with us both being washed, forcibly, with mum ignoring my insistence that I prefer my ears dirty.

It makes you think though. Humans fight without a struggle. They just lift up the Bang and with a bone-jolting crack, they win. You never see them hungry, but you never see them eat their catch either. In all the seasons I’ve pawed this land, I’ve never seen a human wet his canines with a kill. They must have a cache of uneaten remains to come back to later. They surely wouldn’t waste anything. I’ve seen skinny ones, but never one that is starving or sick. They’re always in their prime, even the old ones. It defies all natural logic.

The one I saw this evening wasn’t hunting. He was sat on a rock at the forest’s edge, doing nothing useful. He wasn’t asleep, but almost stationary. In his hand was pre-packaged prey, but it had halted half-way to his mouth. He seemed distracted, his eyes not quite focussed, gazing back towards the mountain. He’d left it behind earlier in the day, like most of them do when they visit these parts. But unlike the others, there was no urgency to leave, despite dusk falling. Most vanish before this hour, I assume heading back to the warmth of their dens. A pang of hunger shot through my belly as the breeze carried teasing particles of the pseudo-hunt’s prize, which landed all around me, tickling the inside of my nose. Or it may have been the midges. It’s hard to tell some days.

He couldn’t see me from where I crouched. Fur on end, rock still, muscles taut. He showed no interest in anything nearby, myself included. But although I sensed the danger was low, I remained ready to dart at the first sign of trouble. The evening was progressing, and although I ached to hunt for myself, I daren’t risk being spotted. I had to wait him out. I’ve never been noticed, and I intend to keep it that way. I had considered patrolling the other side of my range tonight, and I cursed myself for coming this way. There’s good rabbiting over to the east, towards the loch. It’s never as fruitful here, amongst the trees.

Their trunks stood guard in the summer duskiness. It’s unusual to see a human at this hour. You can usually smell them before you see them, particularly after the sun’s peak, whilst they’re busy descending from that of the mountain. Their scent triggers something different inside me. It’s not like picking up a scat, an indicator of a friend or foe that I might know. In their case, the message is always to be wary. Their scent marking is at its weakest on the way up, and more pungent on the descent. Something must change in them, up there in the sky. Perhaps it’s the something that draws them upwards. There must be good hunting up there. But it’s not for me, there’s far too many open stretches.

The new generation’s opinions are split. There are some with their heads screwed on the right way around, who keep their distance from anything that lacks the appropriate number of legs. It’s the wisest way to be, if you ask me. Not that anyone often does. You can observe them to your heart’s content, but keep out of their way. There are rumours circulating that they are doing their best to bring civilisation to an end. As far as I’m concerned, if it’s just theirs, then it’s no problem. But leave the rest of us out of it. We’re doing just fine. I’ve seen the wreckage they leave behind when they’re left to do their own thing. Felled trees, debris that entangles the finest birds, and even intentional traps. Once seen, those images never leave you.

Other young cats can’t see the trees for their whiskers. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve heard the stories. My mother’s sister had a litter of eight. There’s two we’ll never see again, but not from natural causes. It’s far worse than that. They’ve intentionally left us behind. They’re not fussy on that side of the family, not with prey or mates or, well, anything. The rumour is they’ve mixed with domestics. It won’t stop there though, the next thing you know, we’ll all be expected to curl up on rugs and and abide by their rules. I don’t know why they can’t see it. There are fewer of us now. I don’t know the numbers, but the old generation still purr of a time when we prowled through these mountain forests, leaving whole vole cities quaking as our paws shuddered the earth. Now they say we face extinction. It’s something I can’t comprehend. All I know, is that I rarely see anyone new in my territory. There’s no need for the legendary battles they used to talk about, whilst we lay curled together in the den. No fighting for the land. It’s all mine if I want it now, for what it’s worth. Even that won’t be much consolation if I don’t find a female to mate with soon. There are a few with a decent set of stripes on them, but bumping into them is getting harder and harder. It’s too late for me this year anyway. A kitten wouldn’t survive the winter. I’ll have to look again after the solstice.

Still, it doesn’t help to be gloomy. The human didn’t hurt me this evening. He didn’t even notice my presence, despite his very existence prickling all of my senses. It was all I could manage to stop my strong tail flicking as it wanted to. I fought the urge, so it wouldn’t give the game away. He finished staring at the midge-speckled sunset as his shadow grew across the fallen twigs. Hauling his home up onto his back, he left. As he did so, he raised one hand up to his ear. It stood out eerily, illuminated with a soft glow in the darkening wood. He mewed quietly to himself, as if he were talking to one of his kind, but he was alone. It will always baffle me how such strange creatures manage to do so well out here, whilst the most stealthy and intelligent of us dwindle on the foothills. I stretched my legs, and stepped out into the night, which was arriving as quickly as he departed.

First published by Scottish Mountaineer, Issue 86, Winter 2020

I will Definitely go for a Walk Tomorrow...

‘If I can just get to my days off, then I can get out and go for a walk.’

This is the lie I’ve been telling myself for several days. Each morning, rattling my way to work with an ever-increasing grumble from the driver’s side rear wheel, I’ve been one day closer to the weekend. The myth that keeps up its pretence is that once I reach these magical days off everything else on the to-do list will disappear and I can spend 48 unadulterated hours roaming in the countryside and writing the next nature writing masterpiece. I’ve always been an optimist.

This morning came without much warning. I was asleep, and then I wasn’t. The clock was ticking before my brain had caught up with my slowly focussing vision, and had a chance to re-join the real world in action. It was already starting to slip by, this precious and mysterious entity.

I thought it wouldn’t hurt to read a little before I got up. It would surely inspire me for my own work. I read for longer than I should have, and half the morning was no longer there. There was still plenty of time to go for a walk though, so I gathered up a bundle of orange, reds and black fabric and stuffed my work uniform into the washing machine. It wouldn’t hurt to clean the bathroom before I went out, so I did that too. Cleaning was thirsty work, so the kettle went on, emails were checked, and before I knew it lunchtime had arrived, expectantly.

One cheese sandwich later and rain lashed the windows, blurring my view of the outside world. It seemed like a good time to do a supermarket run. It would be sunny again by the time I got home, and I could finally put on my boots and get into nature.

As I rounded the first corner, my car reminded me it wasn’t happy. The creaking, clunky rattle from the back of the car couldn’t be heard any more. This would have been a good thing, if it wasn’t for the fact that the little Toyota was now roaring in pain as it produced a noise usually reserved for airport runways.

Having run out of cheese in the house, I insisted it got to the shop and back. Then made my jeans soggy as I knelt to inspect the damage in the rain. The exhaust pipe was now dangling in a theatrical manner and clearly needed attention from someone who knew what they were doing. The garage man said I could bring it straight over, so off we went.

As I caught a lift back home, the sun was preparing to go back to bed, as were the starlings flocking over the A351. They swirled and turned back on themselves, before lifting up and away from the roundabout, almost vanishing as they danced against the darkening sky. I’m sure that most of the rush-hour drivers in the drizzle wouldn’t have even noticed.

I will definitely go for a walk tomorrow.