A morning by the Severn
Having just about worn a groove across the hills and footpaths on our immediate doorstep, we opted for a morning visit to the Severn valley. It was bitingly cold at the water’s edge and progress into the teeth of a particularly spiteful wind was more than difficult at times; it transpired later that we’d both entertained the idea of turning back but had each kept it to ourselves.
Eventually, warmed partly by effort and partly by the most watery of suns, things became a little more comfortable and the river, although it’s never likely to be mistaken for the Tay, was less mucky than it can sometimes be and even rewarded us with the occasional sparkle.
It was a banner day for raptors, particularly buzzards patrolling the skies in groups of seven or eight, and with sufficient élan to suggest that there were updraughts to be found. Unlike the crows, rising like interceptors to greet incoming bombers, kestrels seemed happy enough not to compete for airspace and operated at lower levels, swooping from telegraph lines and bare branches or simply dropping like stones from their hover.
Undergrowth at the waters edge was choked with assorted dreck left behind by passage of flood; mostly rotting vegetation, or so we thought until one clump of debris solidified into the silhouette of a motionless, and apparently well-fed, kingfisher. Silhouette was all we got though, against the bright background of the river, before the bird, concentration disturbed, quickly moved on.