NATURE COLUMN: Bill Cawley

MOST of the beeches and sycamores have lost their leaves in the woods in Dimmingsdale which I wandered through recently.

I was told that the prevalence of the later was a consequence of a need for charcoal for foundries established locally in the 18th century.

The sycamores are quick growing and the charcoal burns at a high temperature ideal for smelting iron.

It is hard to imagine how industrialised this area would have been 200 years ago and just about the only proof of the dominance of the iron workings in the area are the remains of kilns like the ones at Consall and Froghall and place names like Foundry Lane offer the only clue to what were the first iron works in North Staffordshire.

Now in the woods, instead of the sounds and smell of heavy industry the only sounds are the smells of decaying vegetation and the sounds of snapping dry wood underfoot as the walkers trample clumsily through the woods.

It was a bright day and the cover from the leaves made for a carpet of yellow, browns and golds in different shapes and in haphazard designs on the woodland floor.

A different colour – a bright red – was also on evident from poppies as a memorial to a Cheadle soldier Tom Beardmore of the Royal Marine Commandoes, who paid the ultimate price for liberty, dying on the slopes of Monte Cassino in Italy in February 1944.

Walking at this time of the year offers a particular delight.

The changes in the light at dusk offer a range of hues of colour that would satisfy any artist’s palette.

In such a time bird watching is rewarding and the shapes of birds can easily be discerned through the bare branches of trees now stripped of their leaves.

I observe a sparrow hawk, its outline silhouetted in the weak light, sitting on a branch in a beech tree waiting for its moment to sweep down on a wretched small bird.

I once saw a hawk fly down and pounce taking a blue tit off a bird table at Yns Hir RSPB reserve in Wales in the blink of an eye. The surrounding fields above the woods were home to clusters of redwings making their presence felt foraging among fallen leaves.

The bird, about the size of a thrush, seems poorly adapted to bear severe weather during the wintry months which did not escape the keen eye of Gilbert White, the 18th century naturalist.

He was the first to point out the redwing suffers in harsh conditions.

But for now the weather is unseasonably mild and I watched as the redwings proclaimed their identity in flight with a metallic “clack clack” informing other birds in the neighbourhood of their presence.