Brimstone Butterflies and a Horse called Derv

Disaster has fallen upon local town society with the temporary closure of Colonel Sanders' fried chicken emporium.

For one day this coincided with the closure of the Golden Arches burger bar where all entries were barred and some sort of "deep cleaning" operation seemed to be underway with pressure washers very much to the fore, there was talk of Rattus Norvegicus, and thank you for that Hugh Cornwell.

The food shortage even made the local news with reporters filing copy from the epicentre of the crisis and interviewing people who were clearly struggling. Subsequently in supermarkets vegetables were handled and viewed with a quizzical eye, stocks of deep pan pizza were swiftly depleted and an electrical surge, when many ovens were turned on for the very first time, stretched the local electrical grid to limits not previously envisaged. Aid convoys have clogged up the Highway to the Sun and there is talk of an open air concert to raise funds for those affected by the disaster.

The impact of these international fast food giants shutting their doors in town for the day was deeply felt and the masses (including women and children) currently walk the streets with empty buckets desperately seeking buffalo wings with slaw.

Thank you Kate Adie on the front line,

here's Tom with the weather.

Weather: See previous guff regarding a continued requirement for rain and winterbournes and spring ditches remaining dry.

situation remains the same, more rain please.

Where did all these big trout come from?

Grayling fishermen in recent weeks have been tormented by somebody else's trout that seem to have turned up, including one substantial fish of six to seven pound that has taken up residence on one of the upper bends and noses at an increasing number of olives putting in an appearance in the afternoon. The river remains remarkably clear with some surprisingly verdant weed growth.

We've cut down a couple of ash trees this week that had contracted the dreaded dieback.

It's a slow disease to take hold and is characterised by unusual patterns of growth and prolonged arboreal death throes, with the first symptoms showing fairly evenly in the extremities of the tree's crown.

It's a one step forward two steps back demise for the poor old ash, with diminished abnormal new growth each summer that dies back the following year and breaks like a breadstick.

This one was fairly substantial and when it hit the ground the entire trunk split in half with rot set in throughout its' length.
In Private Frasier parlance it was "doomed" which is a shame, as only five years ago it was developing some fine lines with prospects of assuming the status of a fine senior ash tree.

Quite the Bug Hunter, here's one of a Brimstone Butterfly that Lord Ludg bothered with his chainsaw. He pursued a soporific shrew among hazel for many minutes too but unfortunately we have no footage available.

We've also had the winch out (pictures courtesy of Lord Ludg) and have returned some of the substantial Christmas tree roots and stumps to the hole from which they were levered.

It is steady old job and no two stumps are the same.

Hawsers and haulage straps are very much to the fore and some stumps flip over with ease, while others are a little reluctant to return to the hole from whence they came.

It appears that this house has made the latest edition of Country Life magazine and thank you very much for not putting my age after my name as is the wont of some publications. Only too happy to be quoted in such a well written piece but what a shame they didn't fit in the word "nincompoopery" as it's currently one of my favourites and often used when drawn on this subject.








Oh yes the Winter Olympics,

Tremendous!

and when will the BBC wake up to the fact that Hazel Irvine is one of the best sport anchors around?

And there we have it.

Our work in the wood is all but done.

It has been a jolly few months with awkward silences few and far between.




The armoured quad bike in the picture is the principle steed of The English,

Lord Ludgershall and myself form a more stately procession of two on the amber caravan to the right.

Not quite Plum's "Galleon in full sail" but more of a mud river chugger sallying forth to make passage to camp.

Myself astride a horse called Derv,

Lord Ludgershall in the carriage behind, eschewing the diesel fumes and all it's particulates to regally wave at anyone/anything (his peepers ain't what they were) we pass.

Thank you both for all your help this winter with chainsaw work. We seem to have achieved an awful lot this winter with a lot of laughs along the way.

Make ready for the end of term party and be sure to press those chainsaw trousers as it'll be a high end do!

The trout fishing season is rushing towards us and there is much more to be done. The fifty foot walkway downstream from the fishing hut must be replaced as it is twenty three years old and starting to sag a little, an opinion it would probably reciprocate with if only it could give voice. The fishing hut needs a little attention, there are reed beds to be burned. Two duck hides to construct, silt to be shifted a small bridge to be constructed and quite a few trees to be planted and the way the weed is currently growing I could be swishing the scythe in April for the first time in a long time.

There are some who are already heralding the onset of spring,

which is nuts

and others, tabloid newspapers brim full of enlightenment mostly, who trumpet the onset of an ice age sometime next week,

which is also nuts

February has been all that one would expect and has flown by as always, focusing even this addled mind on the fact that there is much to be done and a decreasing amount of time in which to do it.