I try my luck again to get some decent photographs of the Ring Ouzels at Emsworthy Mire. I have a large flask of tea and some patience. There’s always a twig in the way:
They are on a remarkable journey, probably to what we call Morocco. They’ve timed it perfectly for the Mountain Ash berries to be ripe to keep them fuelled for the journey.
Last time I was here the sky was blue:
The Shaggy Parasols are still fruiting their vast mushrooms in the fields:
I won’t be picking and eating these, though.
Not after last time:
I can hear a noisy Wren on the wall. It looks like there are at least two of them. I think it’s a parent and a youngster. Then I see a face staring at me.
It’s a beautiful face. It’s a very frustrated Stoat. It’s trying to catch a Wren but the Wrens are too fast for it.
It ripples off, stops once more to give me a look, and disappears into the stone wall.