Emergence of spring makes me long for sights and sounds of summer

I WAKE up, as usual, at about 7am as the sun warms my face with a gentle caress.

A flood of light spreads across my bed. I get up, dress and get ready myself for the day.

Last night was rather curious as a male tawny owl kept me awake with regular but not unwelcome loud hooting.

It is an interesting species as the female’s utterances sound like “kvicks” and she is distinctly larger than the male, something known as sexual dimorphism.

These birds sleep by day disguised among tree trunks but unfortunately are sometimes spotted and consequently mobbed by blackbirds, jays and other birds.

I was partially roused after the owl’s antics by the sound of a blue tit tapping on the entrance to its ancestral home, a wooden nesting box placed on a side of my parents’ house in the shade of an ornamental cherry tree that stood for some 45 years until its demise and felling.

How many generations have been hatched and flown from that old box is anyone’s guess but it cheers me to think that we gave a helping hand to these small, charming noisome birds.

Shortly after sunrise it turns gloomy. A threatening darkness descends as rain rattles down and the wind whips up with unusual ferocity. Carrion crows caw loudly.

The sunlight returns as if at my will as I need to pick up some medication for my mother so off I go across the local park towards the pharmacy. At my feet lesser celandines are bursting into flower, a striking, acidic yellow, sweet violets cover short turf under a hazel and lords-and-ladies and cow parsley march on.

Way above a pair of red kites wrangle, talons entangled. It’s obviously a kind of pairing-up ritual but nonetheless enchanting.

Dunnocks sing a sparing but strong, plaintive song and wrens — a trifle agitated — rattle away, belying their tiny size.

Even smaller goldcrests are building a mossy, spider-web strengthened nest deep in the lee of a dense yew, oblivious to my presence.

The local tribe of house sparrows make a racket in the bushes off Hemdean Road.

Nature is moving at its own, steady pace.

Later on I’m off out with my long-time pal Matthew Coome once more. We’re heading to Dunsden Green just north and uphill from Playhatch.

After leaving Emmer Green and the main road (the B481), Matt drives along Kiln Road. After passing Clayfield Copse, we meet the flooded bend in the road by Briant’s Farm to arrive at an historic crossroads.

We turn right down Row Lane and pass haggard, weather-beaten oaks before taking a sharp left by the church of All Saints.

The car park is closed so we head back and leave the car tight to the churchyard’s brick-and-flint wall on a small space in the corner of the lane.

Getting out of Matt’s car, we are greeted by a cold, fierce breeze. This is exposed land but not without charm.

To the west is ancient Blackhouse Wood with its towering oak and beech (the trees’ leaf buds turning a crimson-copper) and to the north-east is Binfield Heath with its numerous ponds.

We are alerted by the song of skylarks (Alauda arvensis) above and a lone yellowhammer (Emberiza citrinella) somewhere nearby.

I have not heard these cheery notes for a long while and I feel exhilarated.

Let’s hope they have successful broods as the local populations of both species have been, in my experience, in rapid decline. On my rambles as a youth they were common birds.

Famous for being the residence of the young war poet Wilfred Owen from 1911 until 1913, Dunsden Green is a charming but loosely stretched hamlet, where my great grandparents, James and Gertrude Waterman, settled down to retire after selling their grocery shop in Caversham.

I wonder if they are interred here. Alas, there are far too many headstones to count and examine — many obscured by lichen and natural erosion.

At the roadside, native, mixed-species hedgerows are looking good — trimmed to perfection and with a depth to last. These important components of the English countryside provide good cover for nesting birds and corridors for all kinds of wildlife. They will be a joy to see in the months to come when in leaf.

I spot some cowslips on the verge across the narrow road from the churchyard.

We then enter through some sturdy iron gates. Neither of us has been here before and are interested as to what we may find.

The church is solid and well-built with what appear to be local bricks. Matt points out leaden sills under the stained-glass windows.

We open a heavy, wooden door where I pick up a leaflet entitled “The Wilfred Owen trail, Dunsden”. Useful and informative — I recommend it.

I leave my friend temporarily as he reads the notice board to explore part of the churchyard.

As usual there are yew trees, one of the Irish variety, accompanied by common limes and other broadleaves.

The ground is filled with daffodils, other narcissi, primroses, red dead-nettles, common mouse-ear, snowdrops and forget-me-nots. Another little haven. We leave this treasure and move on towards Binfield Heath as there is a small chapel opposite Dragon Cottage, which I assume to have once been a pub.

On our way we pass some wonderful countryside, part of the Phillimore estate, with a wood full of old Scots pines.

Unfortunately, the road is being dug up and there is nowhere to park near the quaint turreted chapel so we simply move on towards the village centre with its corner shop and playground.

Having time to spare, we turn left towards Sonning Common past Coppid Hall, Crowsley Park and on through Blounts Court Road.

As we pass Widmore pond, Matt comments on the design of the Butcher’s Arms pub and its architect A E Hobbs. How many of his mock-Tudor visions came to fruition? We can think of five but there must be others.

We drift towards Peppard Hill, reminiscing like two old buffers (don’t say anything!) and turn down Wyfold Lane.

Maybe once a drover’s road, it is certainly topsy-turvy with the deepest potholes that I have ever encountered.

Somehow Matt steers around these craters but having to concentrate means he misses the beautiful landscape.

We pass the neolithic contours of Wyfold Grange. Suicidal blackbirds and chaffinches dodge the car bonnet. Magpies dance around puddles.

We arrive at one of my favourite crossroads, a very special place for me. About four years ago I introduced my late wife Rosemary to this magical spot. An old stand of very rare large-leaved limes (Tilia platyphyllos) dominate two sides of the way that leads north to Stoke Row.

One of the trees I have always referred to as “grandfather”. Underneath his broad trunk a circle of wild daffodils (Narcissus pseudonarcissus) are growing. The flowers are about to open.

Much of the ground is covered in dog’s mercury (Mercurialis perennis), which is also about to come into flower.

This spot is host to violet helleborines (Epipactis purpurata), a rare orchid that will flower in August.

Matt drives me home and we agree to meet up again soon.

After supper, I look out through the stark, delineated fenestrations of budding sycamore branches and see promising hints of deep blue skies to come before the emergent leaves close in like green, sneaky gloves.

I look forward to the months to come — the screams of swifts, the grace of swallows, the deft acrobatics of house martins over water, the distinct and unforgettable notes of cleverly-hidden male cuckoos, the threnody of a nightingale and, above all, the promise of a warm summer full of butterflies. Bring it on.

P.S. Thank you to readers for enlightening me about the meaning of the Ordnance Survey sign at All Saints’ Church in Peppard which I wrote about a couple of weeks ago.

vincent.ruane@hotmail.com