Finding myself to the north-east of Bristol, once again on plant-watering detail for the son who has more holidays than a member of the Royal Family, I decided to walk Cwtch at Golden Valley nature reserve at Wick, a place that was new to us both.
The River Boyd is a tributary of the Bristol Avon, and this section of its valley was once home to a red ochre mining operation.
Although we were there by half past eight in the morning, it was already very hot, so Cwtch and I abandoned the route we'd had planned, which was steep and quite strenuous, and decided just to potter about in the woods instead.
wild cyclamen, a sure sign that autumn is on its way
the weir
buzzard feathers, a jay tail feather, goldfinch and sparrowhawk
Before it got dangerously hot for a fur coat-wearing little collie, we left Golden Valley and headed for our plant-watering job, stopping off on the way for a quick look at the exterior of St James the Great in Abson, which I remembered visiting with my friend Dru many years ago now.
Saxon knotwork
See the tiny figure to the left of the window? A closer look reveals a male sheela-na-gig or exhibitionist. (It was good to see him again.)
Back home Cwtch tried on her eclipse glasses, but we decided it was going to be far too hot for her to watch - a forecast 32°C - so they were donated to my non-holidaying son, who accompanied me up the Field of the Hollowing Oak to watch.
It was the first time I'd been back there since spring of last year, when the neighbouring golf club rented it for five years as a practice field and trashed its assiduous efforts at rewilding itself. It was only the fact it had a fine view westwards, where the partial eclipse would be happening, that prompted me to brave the devastation, and as we walked up the lane to the golf course, I tried to prepare myself for the horror of green striped, close clipped lawn where once there were thickets of bramble and blackthorn, and self-seeded oaklings and dog roses, ant hills and tussocky grass.
It was the first time I'd been back there since spring of last year, when the neighbouring golf club rented it for five years as a practice field and trashed its assiduous efforts at rewilding itself. It was only the fact it had a fine view westwards, where the partial eclipse would be happening, that prompted me to brave the devastation, and as we walked up the lane to the golf course, I tried to prepare myself for the horror of green striped, close clipped lawn where once there were thickets of bramble and blackthorn, and self-seeded oaklings and dog roses, ant hills and tussocky grass.
But the golf course, like everywhere else this summer, was a desiccated yellow, and I decided it mightn't be quite as distressing I'd feared. In fact, when we got there it was clear the field isn't being used for practice at all, as it's mowed to stubble rather than a playing surface.
To be honest, I have mixed feelings about this. If it's not being used, there's a chance the lease won't be extended and the field will be allowed to rewild itself again. But all that damage to what was a haven of bio-diversity in an area where 6,500 new houses are being built for nothing is really upsetting.
To be honest, I have mixed feelings about this. If it's not being used, there's a chance the lease won't be extended and the field will be allowed to rewild itself again. But all that damage to what was a haven of bio-diversity in an area where 6,500 new houses are being built for nothing is really upsetting.
the hollowing oak
looking over to the rookery
I do feel I might be able to walk there every now and then, however.
A very poor photo of the eclipse seen through my eclipse glasses ...
... and through my eyes. (Don't stare too long at the sun, it will think you're creepy.)
As my holidaying son said, it was cool but not as cool as 1999, and I agree. But it was well worth watching, and a great reminder of how amazing the total eclipse was back then - and how much has changed in the intervening years. We were on Holcombe beach that day - a family of six holidaying in our biscuit tin by the sea, which was right at the edge of the path of totality. To our left, Exmouth and lemon-coloured light like dawn; to our right, Torbay in darkness and thousand cameras flashing. The wind rose in a rush and a flock of discombobulated seagulls settled on the sea to sleep.
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