Myfield in February

I had not been too well for a few days and despite wanting to make a visit on the first of the month, it wasn’t going to happen. When I did get out, on the 3rd, the field was very, very wet. More rain over the previous few days had turned the path in places to small pools. The ditch was running heavily again, the water pouring out of the culverts. The first culvert is a brick tunnel of uncertain age. The opening has lost some of the bricks and at times it can resemble a toothless mouth opening out from the ground. This time of year it is quite visible as the vegetation has yet to grow up, hiding the stream.

On the opposite side of the bank, a bright red fungus clung to a rotting twig. It was a Scarlet Elf Cup (Sarcoscypha austriaca), shining like a beacon amongst the dark, damp greens and browns. Roger Phillips’ book Mushrooms says that it is edible, “but not worthwhile” and only finding the one would probably it would probably not be very filling. It is though, a popular food source for rodents and slugs. As its name suggests, in folklore, wood elves drink the morning dew from these cups. According to the Woodland Trust, elf cups were used to be made into table arrangements along with moss and leaves.

By the 6th, the other mound of snowdrops have caught up with the ones that appeared in late January. On inspection, both lots are doubles and so are not much use for the few solitary and bumble bees taking advantage of the warmer days that have occurred recently. Some days the temperatures have reached double figures though by this day, my second visit of the month, it had dropped to little above freezing on leaving home, with a thick mist. As I got nearer Myfield the sky had cleared a bit and at times large patches of blue brightened everything.

There are, apparently, two sorts of Crimson Elf Cup, those that are attached to pieces of wood, as I saw the other day, and those that are rooted to the ground. I came across the second sort this time on this side of the stream and quite a few examples. Fungi are beginning to show themselves in many places and particularly on the other side of the field, under the hedge by the road. Alas my knowledge is pretty scant but I have learned that the best way to tell what a particular species is, is to use a scalpel and microscope. I think I will restrict myself to taking pictures and hope that those with better knowledge than I can offer suggestions.

The birds have been pretty quiet recently but as the sun got stronger the larks took to the wing. These have been one of the success stories of land management in the fields around here, though the aim is always to have twice the number that you have now. Over the past decade the population has grown and it appears that each field generally has two resident pairs and on lucky days you can stand in one spot and soak in a bath of surround-sound skylark song.

I suppose that we become used to the very changeable weather patterns and February so far has not disappointed us. From a few days of relative dry and warmth, by the 9th there was a light covering of snow over the fields, not enough to wake up to a magical and transformed landscape but enough to bring a chill to a warm body when you look out of the window. Most of the lower path was quite solid underfoot but higher up it was very squishy! There were a few buntings and finches but the main bird activity was a small flock of rooks and jackdaws that squawked and lurched over the bird crop. A magpie flew nearby, purposeful in its avoidance of its cousins, and later a solitary corvid lazily took off from the field radishes, flew low and easy in an arc away from me and then back towards me to go over the trees to the call of its mate. Just across the green lane a scattering of fieldfare sat in the trees and conversed at the top of their voices.

The snowdrops were ironically hidden by snow. The clay pit looked bare from above and having lost a tree or two in recent storms and without its green cover it appeared skeletal.

The snow, for what it was, hung around for a week, the temperature rarely peeking above zero and so the ground became good and hard - and less mud had to be removed from human and dog on returning home. By the 15th, a Monday, the temperature climbed, the rain came and the fields returned to mud. In fact by Wednesday the temperature had reached double figures. Such is the variety and stimulus of our weather systems.

A week later the 23rd was very warm but windy. Overhead the sky broke into large areas of blue with large patches of clouds with scrappy edges. Higher cloud made it look as if we were speeding through the air, heading south to the sun. Underfoot, the mud had dried quite a bit in places but not in others. I walked round the field anti-clockwise for a change. I don’t really know why I prefer the clockwise route but I suppose it seems the natural way to go when you enter on the south side from the public footpath. Up the hill a yellowhammer was demanding his little bit of bread but no cheese and then I saw him in a tree. As the breeding season starts the males are quite dazzling in their yellow and the dark scrappy background of the hedge makes them stand out very clearly. The males are often very bold and perch on the highest part of the hedge or on the edge of a branch so that they are not only easily heard but easily seen.

Over the field one or two crows disturbed by our lurking presence, floated off in the breeze and then settled once again a bit further away. At the northern end of the field a buzzard executed a figure of eight and then drifted off. No one is in any hurry today I thought. The skylarks were out in abundance and at times it proved difficult to get the direction right especially when there are competing choristers.

The roadside plantation remained bare save for the conifers on the field side and there was little to be seen along the top edge. Coming down the long, lower side, the hedgerows were putting a bit of effort into regrowth but it would be some time before shoots were readily apparent. Having been cut it was clear to see the bare bones of the hedge and how little they are now tended. There have been one two places on the estate that have had a laid hedge reinstated after decades of neglect. A laid hedge is a thing of beauty and it is good to know that that particular craft is still practised albeit in a limited fashion. In Myfield this is not the case and lots of spaces exist under the general skeleton that allows the wildlife through. I suppose that if these fields did house stock, then they would be reinforced with wire fencing.

Badgers clearly make ample use of some of these underpasses. Whilst they do not have a sett in Myfield they are close by and there are several pathways across the boundaries that are regularly in use. This year there is a lot of evidence of activity on that western edge with small pits being dug for grubbing out food and I wonder how long it will be before a small family take up residence.

I had recently started to read Richard Jeffries’ Chronicles of the Hedges, a series of essays that were pulled together into a book after his death. The first essay, The Billhook, also starts in February and whilst I had yet to see the if the willow bark was softer or whether the hazel would yield to the thumb nail, there certainly were dead leaves being “lifted and pushed aside by the green pointed roll of the arum”. As the month progressed, these were joined by the first shoots of nettles and hints of other things to come. A distinctive splash of yellow right by the stream was clearly more than a hint. This first Celandine must have been there a few days as it looked a tad battered by the time I saw it but there is more to come from this plant and there is one on the opposite bank full of promise.

Myfield in March

Myfield in January

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