Rye Meads

The weather in Southern England had been unusually pleasant.  I don't even know the last time it's rained, and day after day of blue sky is starting to get disconcerting, and the fact we had a day near 38 last week in which all of London emptied out to occupy the lawns and parks in a sprawl of skin.   

Rye House, a former grand residence 

Not a mud puddle to be found.  In April.  Global Warming is real.

I won't complain.  I've been trying to get out as much as possible, slathered with SPF 50.  I headed out to Rye Meads, an RSBP bird reserve north of the city in Hertfordshire, right near the Lee Valley waterway.  Like most wetland reserves, it's sandwiched in an industrial wasteland.  It's surrounded by an enormous wastewater treatment plant, a rail line, powerlines, a motorway, a go-cart track and a caravan park.

Once you are in though, it's peaceful.  I grabbed a pair of binoculars from the front desk and set off to see what the birds were up to.

They have a whopping 10 hides around the marsh, each giving a surprisingly different view of the habitat and most have completely different birds depending on the depth of the water or the amount of shelter offered.  

Little Grebe

Pochard

Gadwall

The real stars here are the Kingfishers.  They are unmistakable- the most brilliant shades of blue and orange, much like a New York Knickerbocker.  The first time I saw one was at the dumpy canal near Merton Mills on my way to the stables, and I've been looking for them ever since.

Happily, Rye Meads has a pair that are attempting to nest in a bank, with a great hide-view of the action.  They even have a webcam set up in front of the nest site waiting to witness kingfisher fledglings.  With a bit of patience, you can spy on their comings and goings.  I even witnessed some bawdy kingfisher-on-kingfisher action, which means that they aren't sitting on any eggs in the nest at this time.  Hopefully soon.  The world needs more of these beautifully painted fisher kings.

They do seem to like their privacy.  Or, at least the day was hot enough so they were seeking out the shade.

On the northern edge of the reserve, it's more grassland than marshland, and I spied a giant.

She was kind of far off, but it was a Marsh Harrier, a large raptor that flies in almost awkward swoops.

The paths were almost eerily devoid of people once you left the hides.

They also kept a herd of Konig ponies to help manage the grassland.  Without large grazers, marshland would turn to scrub and forest in a hurry.  A lot of places employ fat cattle or horses to do the job for them.

At this point, the heat was getting to my head.  I was happy to sit in the shade at the RSBP info centre with a lemonade and chat with the lovely volunteers there before taking the train back into the city.  

Baxter

I am the black cloud of Sandy Stream.  

I've been there maybe a dozen times over the years and never once saw a moose.  Seriously!  This is the one place in the entire state where you are pretty much guaranteed to have a moose sighting.  People come here on "Moose Tours", Baxter state park has special "Moose Pass" parking spaces, everyone and their mothers come here to see moose.

I've seen them plenty of moose in other places, but never in the one spot where they flock to like moths to a flame: Sandy Stream.

It's a quick walk through the woods from the car park, and then it's elevated walkway to get to the clear, sparkling pond.  There are a few places to duck off the trail and take in the scene, which is just lovely.  A close-up of Katahdin and the knife edge to Hamlin Peak, South Turner mountain, and huge swarths of pine forest creating inky-black patchworks.

I did see plenty though.  Not only is it just a lovely peaceful place to relax in the sun, I saw oogles of critters around the pond:  Beautiful, flashy ceader waxwings-

I love these chipper little birds.  They sit so obviously in the pine-tops and stay there for a while, so I can usually get better than usual shots of them with a normal camera lens.

The squirrels were so frantically putting away pinecones, they were loathe to get off the trail until you almost on top of them.  Little piles of pinecone shavings dotted the walkway.

The water was full of ducks: Goldeneyes, Black Ducks, loons.

An elegantly long-legged spotted sandpiper darted from rock to rock.

More waxwings!

As the sun got lower in the sky, the songbirds made their way out into the open for a drink, and tiny chickadees and warblers flitted their way to a prime spot for drinking.  Across the pond, I saw a kingfisher diving for, um, fish.

Along came a hairy woodpecker to bang his head on a tree for a bit.

And close enough for me to not need a zoom lens, a whitetail doe sauntered on past.  It's really amazing how diverse the fauna is here.  Sitting quietly in one place and soon you become near-invisible.  Well, that is until a large family from New Jersey come by and say "HEY, WHERE ARE THE MOOSE??  HAS ANYONE SEEN A MOOSE?  WERE DO YOU GO TO SEE A REAL MOOSE?  WE CAME ALL THIS WAY TO SEE A MOOSE" and I wanted to cry a bit.

I could have sat there all day, but we did show up to hike.  Despite the rangers warning us that "moose pass" meant to sandy stream and back only, we took a, ahem, detour.  Or, "we got lost, I swear!" and headed up to Whidden Pond.

It was weird to walk in dense forest!  One thing England doesn't have much of is primordial old-growth forest.  So much more dark and fragrant, and there were mushrooms popping up everywhere, with lots of rotting and fallen trees, dense underbrush, and a foreboding sense of certain doom if you ever ventured off the trail.
 
While I do love walking here in Maine, I would never undertake the Appalachian trail.   Not enough to see!  Just endless hundreds of miles of walking in the woods.  

No moose at Whidden, either.

It's a magic place in its own right.

We sheepishly made our way back to the car park in dusk and headed down the long, bumpy tote road back to civilization, peering out into the roadside ponds and bogs, hoping for a chance sighting.  

My record still stands.  There will never be a moose at Sandy Stream as long as I am there.  

Bayeux Market

When we were Bayeux, we stayed at a lovely little inn called Sainte Croix.

Very cute place. I would hesitate to call it Victorian in style (I don't know what they called that frilly and modest period in France).

It sat right on a giant tree-lined parking lot, which served as kind of a town square, where the weekly market takes place.

We found out quickly that they enjoy their sweets in Normandy. Breakfast was lovely and good, but sorely lacking protein. I knew we were in trouble when baskets of bread, croissants, slices of brioche and jam were laid in front of us. Later came the pot du caramel and malty sweet waffels. Enough already! I need an egg! I don't eat that much sugar and carbs in a week, never mind at the breakfast table. Still...it was tasty.

The market had a lot to offer. We enjoyed sampling and chatting to the cider and calvados producer who sent us home with a crate of his goods. Being somewhat in the countryside, they sold livestock!

There was a vendor who sold tiny little songbirds.

There was also the typical food and produce vendors.

The locals line up at the Chevaline stand. You can't usually buy horse steaks from a regular butcher, but they have specialty butchers that are exclusively dealing out Trigger and Flicka.

Afterwards, a nice walk around the town to try to re-establish healthy blood sugar levels.