There’s quite a risk that anyone reading this blog who also reads the Tablet may conclude that I am trying to emulate Jonathan Tulloch’s charming “Glimpses of Eden” column. Maybe that’s no bad thing – he captures fleeting moments where nature seems laden with meaning and beauty, and even if I don’t have a theological angle when I post things, I’d be very pleased to think that anyone who reads this might get a flavour or an echo of what it is like to observe something special in a seemingly parochial (or at least familiar and unexotic) setting.

Clearly I spend a lot of time staring upwards. Whitethroats flitting from one treetop to another, red kites twisting in the breeze, the elusive Veil nebula on the southern fringe of Cygnus or a hint of noctilucent clouds over the northern horizon on a clear June evening – all these are things that will have me tripping on tree roots or treading in cowpats as I crane my neck up. However, there’s a lot going on at lower levels as well. Today, for example, there were jewel-like insects among the grasses and cow parsley along the edge of barley fields.

They included this group of thick-legged flower beetles, whose thighs are really quite extreme and also extraordinarily polished – you can even see the reflection of the rectangle of my mobile phone!

There’s stuff just in our garden as well. This morning, a certain pervasive social media platform reminded me that it was exactly a year ago that I posted a photograph of one the many scarlet tiger moths in our garden. These insects look oddly tropical and out of place, not least because of the way they flap lazily around in the sunshine, their hind wings flashing red and orange before they alight on the next branch, wall or hand. They seem quite unalarmed by humans and it’s quite easy to invite them to crawl onto a finger for closer inspection.

However, when I saw the couple of moths pictured at the top of the page, I decided to leave them to it, having taken a couple of photos.

Having enjoyed the company of these bugs this weekend, I have two hopes. The first, prompted by the fact that I am seeing more variety than I remember seeing last year, is that their apparent abundance is a positive sign of the wildlife in this area thriving, perhaps with the help of reduced use of pesticides and the setting aside of extensive wildlife strips along field edges. The second is more personal – that with each passing year I will continue to see a greater variety of bugs and add, bit by bit, to my knowledge and understanding of these creatures.

And to cap it all, there seems to be a caddis fly in our bedroom.

It was probably about ten years ago that I first saw the observatory up on the hill near Upper Winchendon. We were visiting family who were at that time living between Watlington and Lewknor and we were heading over to Waddesdon to have a quick look at the garden (we had teenagers in tow, so a detailed visit was not on the cards). As we drove along the A418, little suspecting that this road would become such a major part of our life, we could see the silvery dome of the Colin Hunt Observatory on the ridge.

When we moved to Cuddington nearly 18 months ago, I did go along to a meeting of the Aylesbury Astronomical Society in a scout hut on the far side of Aylesbury after work one Monday, in the hope that this might eventually lead to being able to observe up on the hill oppposite. It was a good meeting, actually more about space flight than about astronomy as such, but no less interesting for that. There was some talk of observing evenings, at which stage I realised that the Society’s functioning observatory is a large shed just to the south of the old observatory building, which has been derelict for decades. Sadly, observing evenings never seemed to materialise.

What did happen a few months later, close to the summer solstice, was a walk, organised by someone who lives just round the corner and starting from the Lower Green at what seemed to me to be a very challenging time in the morning. The plan was to walk up to the observatory to watch the sun rise, have a cup of coffee and a biscuit, and then wander down again. We joined the group and enjoyed a sociable and gentle walk up the hill, actually arriving shortly after sunrise.

This year’s walk will be on 22 June and I’m hoping for a clear morning and also a clear head – the previous night will see us partying in a hotel in Beaconsfield with colleagues.

In the meantime, I still love the idea of using an observatory. I know our garden is really not big enough for the sort of observatory I’d really like (something along the lines of the Griffith Observatory in LA – the first picture above – would be quite nice) but the ability to have a telescope securely set up and polar aligned and ready to roll is very appealing and more fun than having to spend up to an hour hauling stuff out of cupboards, connecting it all up and trying to get it working properly before the clouds roll in.

I’ve even had the pleasure of a bike ride combined with a visit to an observatory. One of the staff at Mill Hill (he of the beard above) organised a group of us to ride from the observatory at Greenwich, visiting various locations of astronomical importance in London such as where Isaac Newton lived (just off Leicester Square) before having a guided tour of the Mill Hill observatory and a chance to look at the moon through a glorious 1860s refractor. And yes, we had to take off our cycling shoes to avoid our cleats damaging the beautiful wooden floors.

Do you remember that my last post here suggested that I was about to go for a bike ride? On Monday I finally summoned up the energy to go out on my bike, and I have to say it was pretty hard going for the first seven or eight miles. I don’t know whether the saddle is not quite right, or perhaps I am just not spending enough time riding, but it was an uncomfortable process and it seemed like hard work as I headed off on the now familar route through Dinton, Ford, Little Meadle, Kimblewick, Marsh and Bishopstone.

Things were made more bearable by the fact that I was very gradually catching up with another cyclist who was clearly teaching himself to ride with no hands – a few tentative sitting up efforts, then a bolder bit of adjusting of the hem of his jersey, before a rather sudden lunge for the handlebars, perhaps as his front wheel hit a bit of gravel.

The descent from Stone to the river in Eythrope Park was, of course, lovely and fast and the climb up to the top of the hill was, of course, slow but actually not as unlovely as I had expected. Instead of heading west from there, I rode north through the Waddesdon estate where the queue for the shuttle bus from the car park to the Manor was a good reminder of why we avoid National Trust properties on bank holiday weekends. Along a bit of A41 (not fun, but fast) to the Quainton turning and I was back on peaceful lanes. I hadn’t realised that Quainton was the origin of the word “quaint”. About as picturesque as you can get, and with nice views to the south. I didn’t visit the steam engines but paused to look at the rather fine windmill.

The thing in the foreground? Oh, that’s a cross, apparently. The Historic England listing says that “There are no records of the original appearance of the cross, nor of the events which led to the shortening of the shaft.”

Onwards on the road to Edgcott, where a pair of roe deer jumped over the road ahead and I paused to read about the major works being undertaken to raise the powerlines over the railway and to provide a power supply for the HS2 line. Quite a lot of damage already inflicted on the landscape, for benefits that I have still not managed to understand.

Poor Calvert. As if HS2 wasn’t enough, this little place has had brick pits, a huge landfill site (which looked to me as though they’ve more than filled the brick pit and have built a hill of rubbish on top) and now a gigantic waste incinerator. This gigantic structure apparently generates enough power to supply 36,000 homes but also produces five tonnes of ash a day which goes into landfill. Please note, I didn’t take the next photo myself.

Actually, I’ve read that the ash can be used in making road surfaces, so perhaps it is fortunate that Calvert is also on the government’s preferred route for an Oxford to Cambridge Expressway which is due to plough through this still mainly peaceful countryside after it has sliced through Otmoor.

After Grendon Underwood, where I was pleased not to be detained, I headed over to Marsh Gibbon. Apart from having a charming name, this village holds a special place in the hearts of many cyclists, specifically those who followed the heroic exploits of Steve Abraham, who set out on 1 January 2015 to attempt to beat the record set by Tommy Godwin in 1939 for the longest distance cycled in a year. With a target of 75,065 miles to beat, he faced having to ride over 205 miles a day, every day, for 365 consecutive days. For more background, visit http://oneyeartimetrial.org.uk/.

His progress was charted and analysed, and we were able to watch a little dot criss-crossing the country. Fairly soon after he started, someone pointed out that many of his routes happened to pass through the village of Marsh Gibbon and, before long, followers would point out to each other, “Steve’s just done a quadruple Marsh Gibbon and it’s not even lunchtime.”

Alas, Steve’s first attempt was to be foiled on 29 March 2015 when he was struck by a motorcyclist, resulting in a broken ankle. Being the hero he is, he took only two weeks off before getting onto an adapted recumbent tricycle which he rode one-legged around a track day after day. But he had lost so much time from his schedule that he was never able to catch up and, much later than anyone else would have done in the circumstances, he put his attempt on pause. Mind you, he’s still clocking up miles like nobody’s business – I’ve just checked and seen that he’s done over 2,000 miles this month. I’ve done 112 miles.

And so to Brill. I saw an attractive turning off the main road that I thought would probably take me there. What I had failed to spot was that it took me up Muswell Hill, where I averaged 4.3mph on the climb. If I hadn’t been wearing carbon-soled shoes it would probably have been easier to walk up. I was overtaken by a friendly cyclist who had enough puff in his lungs (how?) to comment on what a beautiful bike I have. Would you agree?

Having said that, I was rewarded with fabulous views and a lunatic descent towards Brill, where the normally sharp climb to the windmill went past in a blur of momentum. Two windmills in a morning. I thought briefly about other windmills in the area – there’s one at Wheatley, and if I had lunch there I could then go round to the mill at Great Haseley. But alas, I realised I had already done 35 miles and it was lunchtime. I was hungry, my legs were not getting any fresher and I knew I would have plenty of other opportunities for longer rides in the summer. So I headed down off the hill at Brill (with its mill) and enjoyed two more long descents, reaching an entertaining but not scary speed of 37.4mph on the road between Chilton and Chearsley before the final climb back to Cuddington.

Thanks for reading, and sorry about the small number of photos! If you want details of the route, it can be seen at https://strava.app.link/rebmeTpd4W.

My alarm went off at 4.15 this morning and I could hear the rain pattering on the velux window. The last quarter moon was showing through the clouds, so I thought it would still be worth getting up and out.

The usual sort of thing – I wandered down to the river on the off chance of seeing an otter, saw a muntjac instead, and something fishy was swirling noisily by the bridge, probably a chub feeding on hatching mayfly nymphs.

After a brief glimpse of one of those strange water deer running off through the trees, I then headed out across the wheatfield on the north side of the river near the Old Mill, where the farmer has kindly poisoned a wide strip through his crops to make it easier for walkers to cross. Ahead of me I spotted something moving on the path, which turned out to be a lark which seemed to think that the best way to escape from the approaching human would be to walk away, looking over its shoulder occasionally. I took a few photos of this daft thing but it was still not really light and to be honest they’re not worth sharing. But then I spotted something slightly larger heading towards me. Deer? No, those ears are all wrong.

It was a hare, seemingly oblivious to my presence. I think I had been standing still for a little while when it first appeared, and it paused a few times to look around, but kept heading in my direction. Finally it stopped and decided it might be better to head off south along some tractor tracks through the wheat.

On to the reed beds next: the usual medley of wrens, sedge warblers, reed warblers and reed buntings doing their respective things. Sadly the sun never really did push through the clouds as I had hoped it would, so the photo opportunities weren’t great. There was a very bold wren which I think may have been a young one, judging by the prominent beak joint which I seem to remember is to make it easier for exhausted parents to stuff food into the right place.

On the way back I diverted past the medieval fish pond – well, the slight rectangular depression in the field by the river which you can see below – to avoid the cattle that were heading down the hillside in my direction.

I briefly saw what I think was a water vole swimming into a reed bed, very close to where my son and I had previously noted a bit of river bank that had been trodden smooth by something coming and going. I gather that these hideously cute animals (the basis for Kenneth Grahame’s “Ratty” in The Wind in the Willows but thankfully quite unlike rats) are making something of a recovery in those parts of the UK where otters are returning, as the otters drive out the mink that have contributed to the drastic decline in vole numbers (over 95% since 1960 according to some studies). Thankfully I didn’t meet Urk from Cold Comfort Farm.

Two swans were pottering around by the bridge and they wandered upstream, eventually deciding that swimming was going to impress me more than their ungainly waddle across the field.

I then plodded back home along the bridleway, past the Oxford sandy and black pigs and along Frog Lane, picking up my bike on the way, for I must now head out for a ride to get my legs in shape for my ride to Ypres in September!

Following my previous post, I thought people might like to know that there were lots of delightful things to see and hear on my walk on Sunday morning. As usual, there was a dense chorus of birdsong in the village which gradually thinned out as I headed across the fields. Blackbirds were replaced by whitethroats and wrens, and of course the now customary cuckoo was around as well.

Down by the river, the sedge warblers were being quite noisy and doing their little display flights where they fly up, seem to hover for a second or two and then drop quickly back into the reed beds. But among the sedge warblers there were other “little brown jobs” (apparently this is the technical term for certain sorts of bird that it takes too much time to learn to identify) making various different noises.

There was also a pair of reed buntings, flitting to and fro between the river and a big oak tree nearby and gathering caterpillars. Mr Bunting took occasional breaks to do a bit of singing, as you do. Each time he sang, he tipped his head right back, letting out a short passage of notes. Not squeaks, not whistles, but that particular noise that I think is determined by the fact that birds don’t use their larynx to sing, but have a further voice organ down where the bronchi meet to form the trachea and that they use this to sing. It’s been known as a “syrinx” since 1872, I am told. That’s also the word for pan-pipes. According to Denis Duboule, a geneticist at the University of Geneva, “There is nothing that looks like a syrinx in any related animal groups in vertebrates. This is very bizarre.”

Here are some photos of little brown jobs.

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As if to test my belief that early morning walks are best, I set my alarm for 4.15 this morning (apologies to anyone who was woken by the sound of digital ducks quacking in the dark) and headed out. It looked as though I was going to be treated to a glorious sunrise, as there was a clear sky with a hint of low mist, and Jupiter was shining brightly to the left of the setting moon.

I am scared of cattle. So my choice of footpaths is often dictated by where I think I am least likely to have to cross a field full of defensive cows with young calves, or a bunch of enthusiastic bullocks who probably mean no harm but could probably squash me quite quickly. So I resisted the temptation to head down to the nearest bridge on the Thame, where I once saw an otter at about this time of day, and headed across the tractor field and the lark field. I paused to record the song of a whitethroat in the hedgerow and crossed the field with the friendly horses, only to find that the next field, which previously held several dozen sheeps, now held cows with calves, at last giving some real threat to the signs that warn that they can be aggressive. I took a long diversion to get to the next bridge on the Thame, where I was hoping to see a glorious sunrise, scheduled for 5.04am.

Having collected dozens of buttercup petals on my boots on my way to the river, I waited for the sun to put in an appearance. It didn’t. The mist had become fog, it was getting darker and I was beginning to feel a bit cold. The wildlife was a bit on the damp side.

Slugs – big black ones, medium sized reddish-brown ones, and those hideous washed out little flesh-coloured ones were enjoying the dew-soaked vegetation, and my jeans were getting quite drenched as I walked through long grass alongside the river. The snails were out in their thousands, lots of lovely striped ones and many other elegant and delicate molluscs creeping up and down the stems of last summer’s reeds.

Spiders had been busy, and the dew highlighted their handiwork (leggiwork?) rather nicely. Quite a few webs had mayflies caught in them, some still struggling. Crossing one of the wider fields, I struggled to work out which direction I should walk in, as the fog was hiding the gate on the far side of the filed, and I had also been distracted by finding a jawbone, picked clean by the local crows,

There were some really good things about this walk, and I’ll report on them soon, but I got home after about four hours, cold, tired and very wet. Judging by the state of my left sock, one of those slugs had taken a tumble down inside my left boot.

Most of my walks are in the morning, as that is when I think I am most likely to meet interesting wildlife and see the countryside in its least disturbed state, before many other humans (and their dogs) have been out and about. There are drawbacks – sleep deprivation, getting cold and damp in the dew – but I think I like morning walks the best.

But on Sunday, after a day in London and a lovely family lunch in the restaurant at level 9 of the Tate Modern (no, I’m not on commission, it’s just a very very nice place to eat on a special occasion such as the 25th birthday of our twins) I was ready for some countryside again.

Along the lane to Ridgebarn Farm I saw no piglets, but met a friendly pony. At least I think that is the technical term for a horse that is not frighteningly tall.

I also met, in the field opposite the pony, a relaxed-looking hare nibbling grass in the last bit of sunshine. It really didn’t seem troubled by my presence. Further along my walk, a yellowhammer and a whitethroat provided some musical accompaniment. Down by the Thame, the lambs were doing their crazy stampeding and seemingly having too much fun.

And finally back across towards the tractor field, taking in a post-sunset panorama. The point of this? Well, the end of the day can be good too.

It was never a major factor in deciding where to live (honest!) but the existence of dark skies here has been a real bonus. Instead of being limited to looking at brighter planets and the International Space Station from a light-polluted garden in London, I’ve got a Milky Way to play with, and a chance to observe and photograph some of the “faint fuzzies” that are scattered across the sky.

I’m still struggling to find the time to take this seriously, and maybe that won’t happen until I retire, but with fairly basic gear (including a mount that tracks to counteract the rotation of the earth on its axis) it’s been possible to capture a few shots that give a hint of what’s up there.

I don’t (yet) have clearance to build an observatory. That really would change things, as I currently have to spend quite a long time setting up and getting the mount accurately aligned before I can start photographing anything.

The Thame may now be a bit cloudy again after a couple of days of rain, but the other day the water was looking clear and the vegetation in the river was looking healthy. I’m already looking forward to the warmer months to come, when banded demoiselles and emerald damselflies will be flitting about over the water.

Dragonflies are impressive, but they move too fast for me most of the time. Damselflies seem to have more time on their hands (all six of them?) and are easier to photograph.

Like many people of my age, I “studied” Great Expectations as a teenager and some expressions used by Dickens have stuck in my mind, as well as the scary scenes from the marshes at the beginning of the novel. We are now “Aged Ps”, for example. But Joe Gargery’s words to Pip are perhaps the most poignant in the whole book.

Moving on a few years, I got used to seeing larks over the fields of Kent and Surrey when out on my bike. Sometimes I would see them parachute down to the ground, still singing madly.

More recently I have been able to watch them more closely. In the winter they live in flocks among the remains of last year’s crops in the field next to the tractor field, which I’ve started calling the lark field. If you walk through the field you hear their twittering and then a whole load of them will lift up and circle around the field, waiting for me to move on. At this time of year they are noisier and more visible, rising and singing above the ankle-high wheat that will soon hide their nests.