In November we paid the price for our warm, dry autumn: weeks of incessant rain. I drove up to Helsington church to look down on the flooded Lyth valley, with Morecambe Bay to the south, then the levels below awash and backed by the long, wooded slopes of Whitbarrow.
Intersected by field drains and the few causeway roads that bisect the valley, the farmland was almost wholly vanquished by water. What few sheep there were fed on higher ground – swans had taken up residence in their place.
Because of rising costs, the Environment Agency has proposed turning off the pumps that have drained this land for decades. If the plans go ahead, this view illustrates how the valley might appear. The RSPB would be pleased; the restoring of wetlands is seen as crucial for the success of many wading birds.
The day of the first hard frost, I set out for the new hide on Brigsteer wetland. A buzzard lifted from beyond the sheltering line of sedge and rose into the freezing air.
Around 49 hectares previously used for peat cutting and subsequently low lying have been flooded, creating a haven for (today) a vast flock of teal, numerous mallard, coot, wigeon and a family of mute swans with two youngsters. The previous day’s sightings reported a peregrine, four little egrets, a kingfisher and gadwall. In the spring the waders will come in – curlew, lapwing, and snipe – taking advantage of the easy feeding the wet ground provides.
The water was partially frozen. A coot broke cover and ran lightly across the icy surface before disappearing into sedge. I heard the buzzard mew, unseen. Then, rounding from behind trees on Lord’s Plain farm, 10 mute swans, travelling low against the dark hillside, their white forms evanescing in the cold air, and spooking a flock of black-headed gulls that rose as one into the sky and then dispersed.
Leaving the hide, I looked back to see a kestrel glide over the water and land high in a hawthorn, the bird that characteristic red-brown, the last of the berries bright below.
