The countryside in July
Sarah Ryan is dazzled by wildlife as she enjoys heady summer days along the riverbank
Mature stinging nettles waver at eye level, and I feel the prick and tingle of their now dull leaves on my bare legs as I sidle past. Even the breeze is warm; the air heavy and sweet. Among the stingers are smaller deadnettles, adorned with white flowers. A bumblebee lands on one, its fuzzy tail dusted with pollen, head thrust deep into the flower seeking a droplet of nectar. With a sudden ‘zub’ it moves to the next, clambering over its petals. I pluck a cabbagey dock leaf, now large and ragged at the edges, and rub it between my fingers as I follow a muddy track to the river’s edge.
edward Thomas, ‘Tall Nettles’
Shared interest
I’m astounded by the intricacy of the wildlife, even here, not so far from town. I have learned that deadnettles look like stinging nettles because they tend to live close together, so can borrow protection from leaf-eating insects. Their flower is shaped to allow the bumblebee’s long proboscis to reach the nectar. Plant and insect have developed together and rely on one another. I pass hedgerows full of loose-petalled dog roses. Long green cleavers stick to my shorts and get tangled in my laces. After I tug them out, the tiny seeds cling on.
By the water
At the riverbank, silver dapples with green where willow and ash trees overhang. I slide off my shoes, sit in a patch of long, soft grass and dip my feet into the water. There is a first, brief refreshing chill, and then my toes detect the cooler depths. Banded demoiselles flit over the slow-moving surface, untrackable sparks of blue, pausing briefly on the rushes. Each of the male’s four delicate, but powerful wings is marked with an inky fingerprint smudge. It is gone in an invisible whirr, too quick to observe. A female settles nearby. She is quite different: a shimmering golden-green, with unmarked wings. Unlike these urgent creatures, I am letting the comfortable weight of high summer settle into my bones. There is no rush. The birds too are still and quiet. A kingfisher waits and watches, ultra-vivid in the thickness of the rushes, and across the water, a heron does the same. He is a stately hunter, hunched in a grey gown with a long yellow bill. The sooty black coot is less dignified, paddling innocently around the
“This corner of the farmyard I like most: As well as any bloom upon a flower I like the dust on the nettles, never lost Except to prove the sweetness of a shower"
riverbank before flapping noisily into the reeds. There’s a plop and quick splash. I look, but am too slow to see the fish leap, so I resolve to pay attention for the next one. Grass snakes are also powerful swimmers, curving swiftly and silently through fresh water, arrow heads held aloft on the lookout for predators and prey. I think they prefer more still water, such as lakes and reservoirs, but I would be delighted to see one. I relax my vision and try to attune my senses to irregular movements and sounds in the hope that one will lead to a sighting. My concentration does not last: I soon get drowsy in the late afternoon, content to let my attention drift and to bask in the pollen-scented sunshine.
Evening fliers
Swallows dip across the river, snipping insects and sipping water on the wing. When the air temperature begins to drop and the light fades, I sit up, dry my feet and pull on a warm jumper. Though I should probably leave soon, I am not inclined to yet. The bats are out, darting with nattering clicks, quicker than sight. They are like shooting stars, the moment the eye comprehends their presence is the same in which they are gone. It is hard to believe that a living thing can move more quickly than my brain can process a thought, but they do it again and again. Out of sight comes the tawny owl’s keen ‘kee-wick’ and answering, echoing ‘hoo’. I pull socks over cold toes, lace my shoes and bid goodnight to the evening river.
“And in better hours and brighter, When I saw thy waters gleam, I have felt my heart beat lighter, And leap onward with thy stream” Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ‘To The River Charles’